Meg looked upwards and indeed the mountains seemed to be reaching into infinity.
They left the fertile fields and flew across a plateau of granite-like rock shaped into enormous monoliths. These had a definite, rhythmic form, but they were not statues; they were like nothing Meg had ever seen before, and she wondered if they had been made by wind and weather, by the formation of this earth, or if they were a creation of beings like the one on which she rode.
They left the great granite plain and flew over a garden. In it were gathered many of the creatures like the one Mrs Whatsit had become, some lying among the flowers, some swimming in a broad, crystal river, some flying in what Meg was sure must be a kind of dance, moving in and out above the trees. They were making music, music that came not only from their throats but from the movement of their great wings as well.
‘What are they singing?’ Meg asked excitedly.
Mrs Whatsit shook her beautiful head. ‘It won’t go into your words. I can’t possibly transfer it to your words. Are you getting any of it, Charles?’
Charles Wallace sat very still on the broad back, on his face an intently listening look, the look he had when he delved into Meg or his mother. ‘A little. Just a very little. But I think I could get more in time.’
‘Yes. You could learn it, Charles. But there isn’t time. We can only stay here long enough to rest up and make a few preparations.’
Meg hardly listened to her. ‘I want to know what they’re saying! I want to know what it means.’
‘Try, Charles,’ Mrs Whatsit urged. ‘Try to translate. You can let yourself go, now. You don’t have to hold back.’
‘But I can’t!’ Charles Wallace cried in an anguished voice. ‘I don’t know enough! Not yet!’
‘Then try to work with me and I’ll see if I can’t verbalize it a little for them.’
Charles Wallace got his look of probing, of listening.
I know that look! Meg thought suddenly. – Now I think I know what it means! Because I’ve had it myself, sometimes, doing math with father, when a problem is just about to come clear –
Mrs Whatsit seemed to be listening to Charles’s thoughts. ‘Well, yes, that’s an idea. I can try. Too bad you don’t really know it so you can give it to me direct, Charles. It’s so much more work this way.’
‘Don’t be lazy,’ Charles said.
Mrs Whatsit did not take offence. She explained, ‘Oh, it’s my favourite kind of work, Charles. That’s why they chose me to go along, even though I’m so much younger. It’s my one real talent. But it takes a tremendous amount of energy, and we’re going to need every ounce of energy for what’s ahead of us. But I’ll try. For Calvin and Meg I’ll try.’ She was silent; the great wings almost stopped moving. ‘Listen, then,’ Mrs Whatsit said. The resonant voice rose and the words seemed to be all round them so that Meg felt that she could almost reach out and touch them: ‘Sing unto the Lord a new song, and his praise from the end of the earth, ye that go down to the sea, and all that is therein; the isles, and the inhabitants thereof. Let the wilderness and the cities thereof lift their voice; let the inhabitants of the rock sing, let them shout from the top of the mountains. Let them give glory unto the Lord!’
When Mrs Whatsit sighed it seemed completely incomprehensible that through this bliss could come the faintest whisper of doubt.
‘We must go now, children.’ Mrs Whatsit’s voice was deep with sadness, and Meg could not understand. Raising her head, Mrs Whatsit gave a call that seemed to be a command, and one of the creatures flying above the trees nearest them raised its head to listen, and then flew off and picked three flowers from a tree growing near the river and brought them over. ‘Each of you take one,’ Mrs Whatsit said. ‘I’ll tell you how to use them later.’
As Meg took her flower she realized that it was not a single blossom, but hundreds of tiny flowerets forming a kind of hollow bell.
‘Where are we going?’ Calvin asked.
‘Up.’
The wings moved steadily, swiftly. The garden was left behind, the stretch of granite, the mighty shapes, and then Mrs Whatsit was flying upwards. Below them the trees of the mountain dwindled, became sparse, were replaced by bushes and then small, dry grasses, and then vegetation ceased entirely and there were only rocks, points and peaks of rock, sharp and dangerous. ‘Hold on tight,’ Mrs Whatsit said. ‘Don’t slip.’
Meg felt Calvin’s arm circle her waist in a secure hold.
Still they moved upwards.
Now they were in clouds. They could see nothing but drifting whiteness, and the moisture clung to them and condensed in icy drops. As Meg shivered, Calvin’s grip tightened. In front of her Charles Wallace sat quietly. Once he turned just long enough to give her a swift glance of tenderness and concern. But Meg felt as each moment passed that he was growing farther away, that he was becoming less her adored baby brother and more one with whatever kind of being Mrs Whatsit, Mrs Who, and Mrs Which in actuality were.
Abruptly they burst out of the clouds into a shaft of light. Below them there were still rocks; above them the rocks continued to reach up into the sky, but now, though it seemed miles upwards, Meg could see where the mountain at last came to an end.
Mrs Whatsit continued to climb, her wings straining a little. Meg felt her heart racing; cold sweat began to gather on her face and her lips as though they were turning blue. She began to gasp.
‘All right, children, use your flowers now,’ Mrs Whatsit said. ‘The atmosphere will continue to get thinner. Hold the flowers up to your face and breathe through them and they will give you enough oxygen. It won’t be as much as you’re used to, but it will be enough.’
Meg had almost forgotten the flowers, and was grateful that she hadn’t let them fall from her fingers. She pressed her face into the blossoms and breathed deeply.
Calvin still held her with one arm, but he, too, held the flowers to his face.
Charles Wallace moved the hand with the flowers slowly, almost as though he were in a dream.
Mrs Whatsit’s wings strained against the thinness of the atmosphere. The summit was only a little way above them, and then they were there. Mrs Whatsit came to rest on a small plateau of smooth silvery rock. There ahead of them was a great white disc.
‘One of Uriel’s moons,’ Mrs Whatsit told them, her mighty voice faintly breathless.
‘Oh, it’s beautiful!’ Meg cried. ‘It’s beautiful!’
The silver light from the enormous moon, blending with the golden quality of the day, flowed over the children, over Mrs Whatsit, over the mountain peak.
‘Now we will turn around,’ Mrs Whatsit said, and at the quality of her voice, Meg was again afraid.
But when they turned she saw nothing. Ahead of them was the thin clear blue of sky, below them the rocks thrusting out of the shifting sea of white clouds.
‘Now we will wait,’ Mrs Whatsit said, ‘for sunset and moonset.’ Almost as she spoke the light began to darken.