Wild nights are my glory.

It was a dark and stormy night.

L’Engle opens with this cliche line (I’m pretty sure it was first used in the 1800’s), but proceeds to situate the scene (and her main character) more fully.

In her attic bedroom Margaret Murry, wrapped in an old patchwork quilt, sat on the foot of her bed and watched the trees tossing in the frenzied lashing of the wind. Behind the trees clouds scudded frantically across the sky. Every few moments the moon ripped through them, creating wraithlike shadows that raced along the ground.

The house shook.

Wrapped in her quilt, Meg shook.

She wasn’t usually afraid of weather. – It’s not just the weather, she thought. – It’s the weather on top of everything else. On top of me. On top of Meg Murry doing everything wrong.

It turns out this isn’t just a storm – it’s an Atlantic hurricane. And it also turns out that Meg is struggling in school, both in terms of grades and socially, being something of an odd duck and also very protective of her little brother, so she gets into semifrequent scraps on his behalf. And the fact that her parents are both famous scientists only increases the amount of scrutiny on her actions.

-A delinquent, that’s what I am, she thought grimly. – That’s what they’ll be saying next. Not Mother. But Them. Everybody Else. I wish Father –

But it was still not possible to think about her father without the danger of tears. Only her mother could talk about him in a natural way, saying, “When your father gets back-“

Gets back from where? And when? Surely her mother must know what people were saying, must be aware of the smugly vicious gossip. Surely it must hurt her as it did Meg. But if it did she gave no outward sign. Nothing ruffled the serenity of her expression.

-Why can’t I hide it, too? Meg thought. Why do I always have to show everything?

Unfortunately, that’s the sort of skill you just have to learn – and it’s particularly hard at her age (thirteen) when the hormones are starting to kick in. Honestly, considering how much crap you often have go though for open expressions of feeling to be beat out of you, I’d say she’s better off like this.

“Just be glad you’re a kitten and not a monster like me.” She looked at herself in the wardrobe mirror and made a horrible face, baring a mouthful of teeth covered with braces. Automatically she pushed her glasses into position, ran her fingers through her mouse-brown hair, so that it stood wildly on end, and let out a sigh almost as noisy as the wind.

She opts to venture downstairs, preferring the temporary discomfort of the cold to spending the whole night in a rickety attic.

In the kitchen a light was already on, and Charles Wallace was sitting at the table drinking milk and eating bread and jam. He looked very small and vulnerable sitting there alone in the big old-fashioned kitchen, a blonde little boy in faded blue Dr. Denton’s, his feet swinging a good six inches above the floor.

Evidently Dr. Denton’s was a brand of onesie pajamas (although they’ve long since gone out of business).

How did Charles Wallace always know about her? How could he always tell? He never knew – or seemed to care – what Dennys or Sandy were thinking. It was his mother’s mind, and Meg’s, that he probed with frightening accuracy.

Was it because people were a little afraid of him that they whispered about the Murrys’ youngest child, who was rumored to be not quite bright? “I’ve heard that clever people often have subnormal children,” Meg had once overheard. “The two boys seem to be nice, regular children, but that unattractive girl and the baby boy certainly aren’t all there.”

It was true that Charles Wallace seldom spoke when anybody was around, so that many people thought he’d never learned to talk. And it was true that he hadn’t talked at all until he was almost four. Meg would turn white with fury when people looked at him and clucked, shaking their heads sadly.

[…]

“I don’t want him to grow up dumb like me,” Meg had said.

“Oh, my darling, you’re not dumb,” her father answered. “You’re like Charles Wallace. Your development has to go at its own pace. It just doesn’t happen to be the usual pace.”

And her father proceeded to explain that they did IQ tests on all their children, and Meg and Charles Wallace clearly scored high.

I really appreciate the stab at neurodiversity in a book from the 60’s, even if Madeleine didn’t know exactly what she was talking about. I, too, started speaking late, and started speaking in complete sentences. I even have a sense for the feelings of others in my family (although that probably has more to do with trauma from what I can gather). I’ve yet to receive an official diagnosis, but I suspect it’s autism. We’ll get into the characterization of Charles Wallace as a possibly autistic kid later.

“You don’t know the meaning of moderation, do you, darling?” Mrs. Murry asked. “A happy medium is something I wonder if you’ll ever learn. That’s a nasty bruise the Henderson boy gave you. By the way, shortly after you’d gone to bed his mother called up to complain about how badly you’d hurt him. I told her that since he’s a year and at least twenty-five pounds heavier than you are, I thought I was the one who ought to be doing the complaining. But she seemed to think it was all your fault.”

“I suppose that depends on how you look at it,” Meg said. “Usually no matter what happens people think it’s my fault, even if I have nothing to do with it at all. But I’m sorry I tried to fight him. It’s just been an awful week. And I’m full of bad feeling.”

[…]

“I hate being an oddball,” Meg said. “It’s hard on Sandy and Dennys, too. I don’t know if they’re really like everybody else, or if they’re just able to pretend they are. I try to pretend, but it isn’t any help.”

“You’re much too straightforward to be able to pretend to be what you aren’t,” Mrs. Murry said. “I’m sorry, Meglet. Maybe if Father were here he could help you, but I don’t think I can do anything till you’ve managed to plow through some more time. Then things will be easier for you. But that isn’t much help right now, is it?”

And this is a big reason why I love the Murrys: Even in painful times, Mrs. Murry (and presumably Mr. Murry, too, when he’s there) takes time to communicate with her children.

Then the dog starts to growl, and Mrs. Murry goes to investigate.

“Mother can take care of herself,” Charles said. “Physically, that is.” But he sat in his father’s chair at the table and his legs kicked at the rungs; and Charles Wallace, unlike most small children, had the ability to sit still.

And this is where his characterization begins to look not “autistic” so much as “miniature adult”. Autistic people can be very intelligent, but they have more trouble than normal with staying still. Again, 1962.

Anyhow, Mrs. Murry discovers the titular character of the chapter.

“Mrs Whatsit,” Charles said suspiciously, “what are you doing here? And at this time of night, too?”

“Now don’t you be worried, my honey.” A voice emerged from among turned-up coat collar, stole, scarves, and hat, a voice like an unoiled gate, but somehow not unpleasant.

She then proceeds to accurately describe all of the contents of their fridge/pantry, as per usual with magical people.

Mrs. Murry takes it all in stride, and of course Charles has met her before and hit it off, but Meg’s still suspicious (even more so because the rest of them aren’t).

“Tell your sister I’m all right,” Mrs Whatsit said to Charles. “Tell her my intentions are good.”

“The road to hell is paved with good intentions,” Charles intoned.

“My, but isn’t he cunning.” Mrs Whatsit beamed at him fondly. “It’s lucky he has someone to understand him.”

“But I’m afraid he doesn’t,” Mrs. Murry said. “None of us are quite up to Charles.”

“But at least you aren’t trying to squash him down.” Mrs Whatsit nodded her head vigorously. “You’re letting him be himself.”

At this point, Mrs Whatsit has obviously won over Meg with her respect for her brother and (implicitly) her parents.

“Don’t you think you’d better stay till morning?” Mrs. Murry asked.

“Oh, thank you, dearie, but there’s so much to do I just can’t waste time sitting around frivoling.”

“It’s much too wild a night to travel in.”

“Wild nights are my glory,” Mrs Whatsit said. “I just got caught in a down draft and blown off course.”

[…]

“I shall just sit down for a moment and pop on my boots and then I’ll be on my way. Speaking of ways, pet, by the way, there is such a thing as a tesseract.”

Mrs. Murry went very white and with one hand reached backward and clutched at a chair for support. Her voice trembled. “What did you say?”

Mrs Whatsit tugged at her second boot. “I said,” she grunted, shoving her foot down in, “that there is” – shove – “such a thing” – shove – “as a tesseract.”

And then she just leaves!

“Mother, what’s the matter!” Meg cried. “What did she say? What is it?”

“The tesseract -” Mrs. Murry whispered. “What did she mean? How could she have known?”

In case you’re wondering, no, it has nothing to do with the Mind Stone from the MCU (probably).

Until next time…