An Acceptable Time by Madeleine L'Engle Page A

the great cathedrals in England—were on ground that was already considered holy before even the first pagan temples were built? And the interesting thing is that under most of these holy places is an underground river. This house, and the pool, are on a holy place. That’s why Anaral was able to come to the pool.”
    “Nonsense—” Mrs. Murry started.
    Mr. Murry sighed, as though in frustration. “We love the house and our land,” he said, “but it’s a bit farfetched to call it holy.”
    “This house is—what?—” the bishop asked, “well over two hundred years old?”
    “Parts of it, yes.”
    “But the Ogam stones indicate that there were people here three thousand years ago.”
    “Nason, I’ve seen the stone. I believe you that there is Ogam writing on them. I take them seriously. But I don’t want Polly involved in any of your—your—” Mr. Murry pushed up from his place so abruptly that he overturned his chair, righted it with an irritated grunt. The phone rang, making them all jump. Mr. Murry went to it. “Polly, it’s for you.”
    This was no time for an interruption. She wanted her grandparents to put everything into perspective. If they could believe what happened, it would be less frightening.
    “Sounds like Zachary.” Her grandfather handed her the phone.
    “Good morning, sweet Pol. I just wanted to tell you how good it was to see you yesterday, and I look forward to seeing you on Thursday.”
    “Thanks, Zach. I look forward to it, too.”
    “Okay, see you then. Just wanted to double-check.”
    She went back to the table. “Yes. It was Zachary, to confirm getting together on Thursday.”
    “Something nice and normal,” her grandfather said.
    “Is it?” Polly asked. “He did see someone from three thousand years ago.”
    “All Hallows’ Eve,” the bishop murmured.
    “At least he’ll get you away from here,” her grandmother said. “Strange, isn’t it, that he should know about the Ogam stones.”
    Polly nodded. “Zachary tends to know all kinds of odd things. But what happened this morning is beyond me.”
    The bishop said gently, “Three thousand years beyond you, Polly. And, somehow or other, I seem to be responsible for it.”
    Mr. Murry went to the dresser and picked up one of the Ogam stones. “Nason, one reason I’ve tended to disbelieve you is that, if what you say is true, then you, a theologian and not a scientist, have made a discovery which it has taken me a lifetime to work out.”
    “Blundered into it inadvertently,” the bishop said.
    Mr. Murry sighed. “I thought I understood it. Now I’m not sure.”
    “Granddad. Please explain.”
    Mr. Murry sat down again, creakily. “It’s a theory of time, Polly. You know something about my work.”
    “A little.”
    “More than Nase, at any rate. You have a much better science background. Sorry, Nase, but—”
    “I know,” the bishop said. “This is no time for niceties.” He looked at Mrs. Murry. “Would it be possible for me to have another helping of pancakes?” Then, back to Mr. Murry: “This tesseract theory of yours—”
    Mrs. Murry put another stack of pancakes on the bishop’s plate.
    Mr. Murry said, “Tessering, moving through space without the restrictions of time, is, as you know, a mind thing. One can’t make a machine for it. That would be to distort it, disturb the space/time continuum, in a vain effort to relegate something full of blazing glory to the limits of technology. And of course that’s what’s happening, abortive attempts at spaceships designed to break the speed of light and warp time. It works well in the movies and on TV but not in the reality of the created universe.”
    “What you ask is too difficult,” the bishop said. “How many people are willing to take lightning into their bodies?”
    Mr. Murry smiled, and to Polly it was one of the saddest smiles she had ever seen. “You are,” her grandfather said.
    The bishop said softly, “It was as if lightning