--Or is it just that I'm afraid to talk about it, even to Mother? Meg wondered, as she took sugar, cocoa, milk, and a saucepan from the kitchen and returned to the pantry.
Dr. Colubra was saying, "That stuff about cosmic screams and rips in distant galaxies offends every bit of the rational part of me."
Mrs. Murry leaned against the counter. "You didn't believe in farandolae, either, until I proved them to you."
"You haven't proven them to me," Dr. Louise said. "Yet." She looked slightly ruffled, like a little grey bird. Her short, curly hair was grey; her eyes were grey above a small beak of a nose; she wore a grey flannel suit. "The main reason I think you may be right is that you go to that idiot machine--" she pointed at the micro-electron microscope--"the way my husband used to go to his violin. It was always like a lovers' meeting."
Mrs. Murry turned away from her "idiot machine." "I think I wish I'd never heard of farandolae, much less come to the conclusions--" She stopped abruptly, then said, "By the way, kids, I was rather surprised, just before you all barged into the lab, to have Mr. Jenkins call to suggest that we give Charles Wallace lessons in selfdefense."
Mr. Jenkins? Meg wondered. Aloud she said, "But Mr. Jenkins never calls parents. Parents have to go to him." She almost asked, "Are you sure it was Mr. Jenkins?" And stopped herself as she remembered that she had not told Blajeny about the horrible Mr. Jenkins-not-Mr. Jenkins who had turned into a bird of nothingness, the Mr. Jenkins Louise had resented so fiercely. She should have told Blajeny; she would tell him first thing in the morning.
Charles Wallace climbed up onto one of the lab stools and perched close to his mother. "What I really need are lessons in adaptation. I've been reading Darwin, but he hasn't helped me much."
"See what we mean?" Calvin asked Dr. Louise. "That's hardly what one expects from a six-year-old."
"He really does read Darwin," Meg assured the doctor.
"And I still haven't learned how to adapt," Charles Wallace added.
Dr. Louise was making a paste of cocoa, sugar, and a little hot water from one of Mrs. Murry's retorts. "This is just water, isn't it?" she asked.
"From our artesian well. The very best water."
Dr. Louise added milk, little by little. "You kids are too young to remember, and your mother is a good ten years younger than I am, but I'll never forget, a great many years ago, when the first astronauts went to the moon, and I sat up all night to watch them."
"I remember it all right," Mrs. Murry said. "I wasn't that young."
Dr. Louise stirred the cocoa which was heating over a Bunsen burner. "Do you remember those first steps on the moon, so tentative to begin with, on that strange, airless, alien terrain? And then, in a short time, Armstrong and Aldrin were striding about confidently, and the commentator remarked on this as an extraordinary example of man's remarkable ability to adapt."
"But all they had to adapt to was the moon's surface!" Meg objected. "It wasn't inhabited. I'll bet when our astronauts reach some place with inhabitants it won't be so easy. It's a lot simpler to adapt to low gravity, or no atmosphere, or even sandstorms, than it is to hostile inhabitants."
Fortinbras, who had an uncanine fondness for cocoa, came padding out to the lab, his nose twitching in anticipation. He stood on his hind legs and put his front paws on Charles Wallace's shoulders.
Dr. Colubra asked Meg, "Do you think the first-graders in the village school are hostile inhabitants, then?"
"Of course! Charles isn't like them, and so they're hostile towards him. People are always hostile to anybody who's different."
"Until they get used to him," the doctor said.
"They're not getting used to Charles."
Charles Wallace, fondling the big dog, said, "Don't forget to give Fort a saucer--he likes cocoa."
"You have the strangest pets," Dr. Louise said, but she poured a small dish of cocoa for Fortinbras. "I'll let it cool a bit before I put it on the floor. Meg, we need mugs."
"Okay." Meg hurried off to the kitchen, collected a stack of mugs, and returned to the laboratory.
Dr. Louise lined them up and poured the cocoa. "Speaking of pets, how's my namesake?"
Meg nearly spilled the cocoa she was handing to her mother. She looked closely at Dr. Louise, but though the question had seemed pointed, the little bird face showed nothing more than amused interest; as Charles Wallace said, Dr. Louise was very good at talking on one level and thinking on another.
Charles Wallace answered the question. "Louise the Larger is a magnificent snake. I wonder if she'd like some cocoa? Snakes like milk, don't they?"
Mrs. Murry said firmly, "You are not going back out tonight to find if the snake, magnificent though she be, likes cocoa. Save your experimental zeal for daylight. Louise is undoubtedly sound asleep."
Dr. Louise carefully poured out the last of the cocoa into her own mug. "Some snakes are very sociable at night. Many years ago when I was working in a hospital in the Philippines I had a boa constrictor for a pet; we had a problem with rats in the ward, and my boa constrictor did a thorough job of keeping the rodent population down. He also liked cream-of-mushroom soup, though I never tried him on cocoa, and he was a delightful companion in the evenings, affectionate and cuddly."
Meg did not think that she would enjoy cuddling with a snake, even Louise.
"He also had impeccable judgment about human nature. He was naturally a friendly creature, and if he showed me that he disliked or distrusted somebody, I took him seriously. We had a man brought to the men's ward who seemed to have nothing more seriously wrong with him than a slightly inflamed appendix, but my boa constrictor took a dislike to him the moment he was admitted. That night he tried to kill the man in the next bed--fortunately we got to him in time. But the snake knew. After that, I listened to his warnings immediately."
"Fortinbras has the same instinct about people," Mrs. Murry said. "Too bad we human beings have lost it."
Meg wanted to say, "So does Louise the Larger," but her mother or the doctor would have asked her on what experience she based such a remark; it would have sounded more likely coming from the twins.
Charles Wallace regarded Dr. Colubra, who had returned to the red leather chair and was sipping cocoa, her legs tucked under her like a child; as a matter of fact, she was considerably smaller than Meg. Charles said, "We take Louise very seriously, Dr. Louise. Very seriously."
Dr. Louise nodded. Her voice was light and high. "That was what I had in mind."
Calvin finished his cocoa. "Thank you very much. I'd better get on home now. See you in school tomorrow, Meg. Thanks again, Mrs. Murry and Dr. Colubra. Good night."
When he had gone, Mrs. Murry said, "All right, Charles. The twins have been in bed for an hour. Meg, it's time for you, too. Charles, I'll come check on you in a few minutes."
As they left the lab, Meg could see her mother turning back to the micro-electron microscope.
Meg undressed slowly, standing by her attic window, wondering if Dr. Louise's talk about snakes had been entirely casual chat over a cup of cocoa; perhaps it was only the strange events of the evening which caused her to look for meanings under the surface of what might well be unimportant conversation. She turned out the lights and looked out the window. She could see across the vegetable garden to the orchard, but the trees still held enough leaves so that she could not see into the north pasture.
Was there really a cherubim waiting at the star-watching rock, curled up into a great feathery ball, all those eyes closed in sleep?
Was he real?
What is real?
FOUR
Proginoskes
Meg woke up before dawn, suddenly and completely, as though something had jerked her out of sleep. She listened: only the usual noises of the sleeping house. She turned on the light and looked at her clock; she had set the alarm for six, as usual. It was now five. She had another whole hour in which she could curl up under the covers, and luxuriate in warmth and comfort, and doze--
&n
bsp; Then she remembered.
She tried to reassure herself that she was remembering a dream, although it was not the way that a dream is remembered. It must have been a dream, obviously it must have been a dream--
The only way to prove that it was nothing but a dream, without waking Charles Wallace and asking him, was to get dressed and go out to the star-watching rock and make sure that there was no cherubim there. And--if by some slim chance it had not been a dream, she had promised the cherubim that she would come to him before breakfast.
Had it not been for the horrible moments with Mr. Jenkins screeching across the sky, she would not have wanted it to be a dream. She desperately wanted Blajeny to be real, to take care of everything. But the unreality of Mr. Jenkins, who had always been disagreeably predictable, was far more difficult for her to accept than the Teacher, or even a cherubim who looked like a drive of dragons.
She dressed hurriedly, putting on her kilt and a clean blouse. She tiptoed downstairs as quietly and carefully as she had the night before, through the kitchen and into the pantry, where she put on her heaviest jacket, and a multicolored knitted tam o'shanter, one of her mother's rare successful ventures into domesticity.
This time no wind blew, no doors slammed. She turned on the flashlight to guide her. It was a still, chill pre-dawn. The grass was white with spider-web tracings of dew and light frost. A thin vapor moved delicately across the lawn. The mountains were curtained by ground fog, although in the sky she could see stars. She ran across the garden, looking warily about her. But there was no Mr. Jenkins, of course there was no Mr. Jenkins. At the stone wall she looked carefully for Louise, but there was no sign of the big snake. She crossed the orchard, climbed the wall again--still no Louise, it was much too early and much too cold for snakes, anyhow--and ran across the north pasture, past the two glacial rocks, and to the star-watching rock.
There was nothing there except the mist whirling gently in the faint breeze.
So it had all been a dream.
Then the mist seemed to solidify, to become moving wings, eyes opening and shutting, tiny flickers of fire, small puffs of misty smoke ...
"You're real," she said loudly. "You're not something I dreamed after all."
Proginoskes delicately stretched one huge wing skywards, then folded it. "I have been told that human beings seldom dream about cherubim. Thank you for being prompt. It is in the nature of cherubim to dislike tardiness."
Meg sighed, in resignation, in fear, and, surprisingly, in relief. "Okay, Progo, I guess you're not a figment of my imagination. What do we do now? I've got just about an hour before breakfast."
"Are you hungry?"
"No, I'm much too excited to be hungry, but if I don't turn up on time, it won't go down very well if I explain that I was late because I was talking with a cherubim. My mother doesn't like tardiness, either."
Proginoskes said, "Much can be accomplished in an hour. We have to find out what our first ordeal is."
"Don't you know?"
"Why would I know?"
"You're a cherubim."
"Even a cherubim has limits. When three ordeals are planned, then nobody knows ahead of time what they are; even the Teacher may not know."
"Then what do we do? How do we find out?"
Proginoskes waved several wings slowly back and forth in thought, which would have felt very pleasant on a hot day, but which, on a cold morning, made Meg turn up the collar of her jacket. The cherubim did not notice; he continued waving and thinking. Then she could feel his words moving slowly, tentatively, within her mind. "If you've been assigned to me, I suppose you must be some kind of a Namer, too, even if a primitive one."
"A what?"
"A Namer. For instance, the last time I was with a Teacher--or at school, as you call it--my assignment was to memorize the names of the stars."
"Which stars?"
"All of them."
"You mean all the stars, in all the galaxies?"
"Yes. If he calls for one of them, someone has to know which one he means. Anyhow, they like it; there aren't many who know them all by name, and if your name isn't known, then it's a very lonely feeling."
"Am I supposed to learn the names of all the stars, too?" It was an appalling thought.
"Good galaxy, no!"
"Then what am I supposed to do?"
Proginoskes waved several wings, which, Meg was learning, was more or less his way of expressing "I haven't the faintest idea."
"Well, then, if I'm a Namer, what does that mean? What does a Namer do?"
The wings drew together, the eyes closed, singly, and in groups, until all were shut. Small puffs of mist-like smoke rose, swirled about him. "When I was memorizing the names of the stars, part of the purpose was to help them each to be more particularly the particular star each one was supposed to be. That's basically a Namer's job. Maybe you're supposed to make earthlings feel more human."
"What's that supposed to mean?" She sat down on the rock beside him; she was somehow no longer afraid of his wildness, his size, his spurts of fire.
He asked, "How do I make you feel?"
She hesitated, not wanting to be rude, forgetting that the cherubim, far more than Charles Wallace, did not need her outward words to know what was being said within. But she answered truthfully, "Confused."
Several puffs of smoke went up. "Well, we don't know each other very well yet. Who makes you least confused?"
"Calvin." There was no hesitation here. "When I'm with Calvin, I don't mind being me."
"You mean he makes you more you, don't you?"
"I guess you could put it that way."
"Who makes you feel the least you?"
"Mr. Jenkins."
Proginoskes probed sharply, "Why are you suddenly upset and frightened?"
"He's the principal of the grade school in the village this year. But he was in my school last year, and I was always getting sent to his office. He never understands anything, and everything I do is automatically wrong. Charles Wallace would probably be better off if he weren't my brother. That's enough to finish him with Mr. Jenkins."
"Is that all?"
"What do you mean?"
"When you say Mr. Jenkins, I feel such a cold wave of terror wash over you that I feel chilly myself."
"Progo--something happened last night--before we met you and Blajeny--when I was all alone in the garden--" Her voice tailed off.
"What happened, earthling? Tell me. I have a feeling this may be important."
Why should it be difficult to tell Proginoskes? The cherubim himself was just as unbelievable. But the cherubim was himself, was Proginoskes, while Mr. Jenkins had not been Mr. Jenkins.
As she tried to explain to Proginoskes she could sense him pulling away, and suddenly he flung all his wings about himself in a frantic reflex of self-preservation. Then two eyes looked out at her under one wing. "Echthroi." It was an ugly word. As Proginoskes uttered it the morning seemed colder.
"What did you say?" Meg asked.
"Your Mr. Jenkins--the real one--could he do anything like the one you just told me about? Could he fly into a nothingness in the sky? This is not a thing that human beings can do, is it?"
"No."
"You say he was like a dark bird, but a bird that was nothingness, and that he tore the sky?"
"Well--that's how I remember it. It was all quick and unexpected and I was terrified and I couldn't really believe that it had happened."
"It sounds like the Echthroi." He covered his eyes again.
"The what?"
Slowly, as though with a great effort, he uncovered several eyes. "The Echthroi. Oh, earthling, if you do not know Echthroi--"
"I don't want to. Not if they're like what I saw last night."
Proginoskes agitated his wings. "I think we must go see this Mr. Jenkins, the one you say is at your little brother's school."
"Why?"
Proginoskes withdrew into all his wings again. Meg could feel him thinking grumpi
ly,--They told me it was going to be difficult ... Why couldn't they have sent me off some place quiet to recite the stars again? ... Or I'm even willing to memorize farandolae ... I've never been to Earth before, I'm too young, I'm scared of the shadowed planets, what kind of a star has this planet got, anyhow?
Then he emerged, slowly, one pair of eyes at a time. "Megling, I think you have seen an Echthros. If we are dealing with Echthroi, then--I just know with every feather on my wings (and you might try counting my feathers, sometime) that we have to go see this Mr. Jenkins. It must be part of the trial."
"Mr. Jenkins? Part of our first test? But that's--it doesn't make sense."
"It does to me."
"Progo," she objected, "it's impossible. I can slip off my school bus and then walk to the grade school the way I did when I went to talk to Mr. Jenkins about Charles Wallace--and a fat lot of good that did--"
"If you have seen an Echthros, everything is different," Proginoskes said.
"Okay, I can get to the grade school all right, but I can't possibly take you with me. You're so big you wouldn't even fit into the school bus. Anyhow, you'd terrify everybody." At the thought she smiled, but Proginoskes was not in a laughing mood.
"Not everybody is able to see me," he told her. "I'm real, and most earthlings can bear very little reality. But if it will relieve your mind, I'll dematerialize." He waved a few wings gracefully. "It's really more comfortable for me not to be burdened with matter, but I thought it would be easier for you if you could converse with someone you could see."
The cherubim was there in front of her, covering most of the star-watching rock, and then he was not there. She thought she saw a faint shimmer in the air, but it might have been the approach of dawn. She could feel him, however, moving within her mind. "Are you feeling extremely brave, Megling?"
"No." A faint light defined the eastern horizon. The stars were dim, almost extinguished.
"I think we're going to have to be brave, earth child, but it will be easier because we're together. I wonder if the Teacher knows."
A Wind in the Door Page 6
