Wind in the Door Read online

  “Be a fara,” he told her. “Make believe. Do the inhabitants of Yadah seem more limited than human beings because once they have taken root they can’t move from their Deepening Place? But human beings need Deepening Places, too. And far too many never have any. Think about your Deepening Places, Meg. Open yourself into kything. Open.”

  She returned to the strange world which was below light, below sound, penetrated only by the rhythm of tides pulled by the moon, by the sun, by the rhythm of the earth itself. She became one with the kything, Deepened creatures moving in the intricate pattern of song, of the loveliness of rhythm, of joy.

  Then a coldness came, a horrible, blood-freezing chill. Tendrils were drawn back, pulled away from her, isolating themselves, isolating Meg, Proginoskes, each other. The song jerked, out of rhythm, out of tune, rejecting her—

  Something was wrong, horrifyingly wrong—

  She felt Proginoskes hurling himself at her, into her. “Meg! That’s enough for now. We must be with the others, Calvin, Mr. Jenkins, Sporos, before—”

  “Before what?”

  “Before the second test. We must all be together. Open. Kythe to Calvin.”

  “Where is he?”

  “It doesn’t matter where he is, Meg. You’ve got to get it through your head that where doesn’t make any difference in a mitochondrion. It’s why. And how. And who.”

  “Calvin—” She seemed to feel every muscle in her body straining, and protesting at the strain.

  “You’re trying too hard,” the cherubim said. “Relax, Megling. You kythe with me without all that effort. You and Calvin often kythe without realizing it. And when Charles Wallace knows when something’s upset you at school, knows it even before you come home, that’s kything. Just be Meg. Open. Be. Kythe.”

  Through the darkness of under-sea she kythed. “Calvin—”

  “Meg!”

  “Where are you?”

  Proginoskes flicked sharply at her. “Forget where.”

  “How are you?”

  “All right. A little confused by everything. Sporos—”

  “Where—no, how is Sporos?”

  “Meg, he doesn’t want to kythe or be with me. He doesn’t want to share his world. He says that human beings are unworthy, and that may be so, but—”

  She felt a swirling of kything all around her, as though the words and images of the kything were the drops of water which go to make up the ocean, drops of water which are not separate one from the other as human beings are separate. Within the flowing of the deep tides images flashed by, many little creatures like Sporos, scampering about, carefree, merry, always in the protection of the great kelp-fern-trees, the Deepened Ones, about which they flitted and fluttered.

  “Are you translating for Mr. Jenkins?”

  “I’m trying, Progo, but I’m not sure I really feel him. I know that I’m with you, and with Calvin, but Mr. Jenkins—”

  “Be with him, Meg. He needs you. He’s frightened.”

  “If Blajeny wanted him along, there must be a reason for it. But it seems to me he’s an awful liability.”

  She thought she felt a thin, distant “I am aware of that.”

  She stretched herself towards that faint response. “Mr. Jenkins—”

  “That’s right,” Proginoskes said. “Remember, he hasn’t much imagination. Or, rather, it’s been frozen for a long while and hasn’t had time to thaw. You’ll have to kythe your whole self to him; you’ll have to hold his hand, tightly, so that he can feel you and return your kythe. Can you feel his hand?”

  “I—I imagine so.”

  “Can he feel you?”

  “Mr. Jenkins! Mr. Jenkins?” she kythed questioningly. “Wait a minute, Progo, Cal, I’m not sure, something’s wrong—” She broke off, gasped, “Calvin! Progo! Pro—” With every particle of herself she screamed, not a scream made with her voice, but with all of her, a scream of pain that was beyond terror.

  It was the same pain that had torn across a galaxy when Proginoskes had shown her the Xing of the Echthroi; it was the pain which had slashed across the sky in the schoolyard when she had Named Mr. Jenkins; it was the pain which had almost annihilated her when Proginoskes took her the strange journey through his eye to Yadah.

  She was being Xed.

  NINE

  Farandolae and Mitochondria

  This was the end of Meg. There was to be no more anything. Ever. Exit Meg. Ex-Meg. X-Meg.

  Then she realized that if she could think this, if she could think at all, then it was not happening. One who is Xed cannot think. The pain still burned like ice, but she could think through it. She still was.

  With all of her she kythed away from the Xness. “Progo! Calvin! Help me!”

  Through her cries she felt the cherubim. “Meg! I Name you! You are!”

  And then numbers, numbers moving as strong and steady and rhythmic as tide.

  Calvin. He was sending numbers to her, Calvin was sending back to her those first trigonometry problems they had done together. She held on to the strength of numbers as to a lifeline, until the Echthroi-pain was gone and she was free to move back into the realm of words again, human words which were much easier for Calvin than numbers.

  “Calvin,” she called. “Oh, Calvin.” And then her kything was an anguished longing for her parents. Where was her father? Had Dr. Louise or her mother called Brookhaven? What had they told her father? Was he on his way home? And her mother���she wanted to retreat, reverse, revert, to climb back into her mother’s lap as she had done when she was Charles Wallace’s age and needed healing from some small hurt …

  No, Meg.

  She felt as though gentle fingers were pushing her down, forcing her to walk alone. She tried to kythe, to get her mind’s voice into focus, sent its beam at last to Proginoskes and Calvin. “What happened?”

  She felt a series of major earthquakes before Proginoskes managed words for her. Whatever it was that had happened, it had certainly upset the cherubim. He kythed at last, “As though once weren’t enough, when you reached out for Mr. Jenkins’s hand you got an Echthros-Mr. Jenkins. Now we know that at least one of them followed us here.”

  “How?”

  “Not through Mr. Jenkins, though it’s still using a Jenkins-body. Perhaps Sporos—”

  “Sporos!”

  “Pride has always been the downfall of the Deepening Ones. Sporos may have listened to an Echthros—we aren’t sure.”

  “What did you do? How did you get me away from it? It hurt—it hurt more than I knew anything could hurt. And then I felt you Naming me, Progo, and you, Cal, you were sending numbers to me, and the pain went and I was back into myself again.”

  Calvin kythed, “Proginoskes got a lot of little farandolae to rush up and tickle the Echthros-Mr. Jenkins. It was so startled, it let you go.”

  “Where is it now—the Echthros-Mr. Jenkins?”

  Proginoskes was sharp. “It doesn’t matter where, Meg. It’s here. It’s with us in Yadah.”

  “Then we’re still in danger from it?”

  “All Yadah is in danger. Every mitochondrion in this human host is in danger.”

  “This human host?”

  Proginoskes did not reply. This human host was Charles Wallace.

  “What are we going to do?”

  There was another volcanic upheaval before Proginoskes replied, “We must not give way to panic.”

  She kythed Calvinwards and felt him returning the kything. She asked, “Did you know what was happening to me?”

  “Not at first. Then Progo told me.” There was a terrible quietness to Calvin’s reply. She felt that he was holding something back from her.

  “The little farandolae—the ones who saved me—are they all right?”

  There was silence.

  “Are they all right, the little farandolae who startled the Echthros and saved me?”

  “No.” The kything came reluctantly from both Calvin and Proginoskes.

  “What happened to
them?”

  “To surprise an Echthros is not a safe thing to do.”

  “The Echthros Xed them?”

  “No, Meg. They Xed themselves. That’s a very different matter.”

  “What will happen to them now?”

  Proginoskes kythed slowly, “I’ve never seen it happen before. I’ve heard about it, but I’ve never seen it. Now I understand more than I used to. The farandolae are known by name just as the stars are. That’s all I need to know.”

  “You haven’t told me anything! Where are the little farandolae who saved me? If they Xed themselves, then where are they?”

  She heard a faint “Where doesn’t matter. Meg, you must get in touch with Mr. Jenkins. The real Mr. Jenkins.”

  Instinctively she withdrew her kything. “I don’t dare try again. Do you have any idea how much that hurt?”

  “Your scream shook the entire mitochondrion. I only hope it didn’t hurt Charles Wallace.”

  She flinched, then held on to something, she wasn’t sure what, but it felt like a lifeline. After a moment she knew that it was coming from the cherubim, an outflowing of love, love so tangible that she could hold on to it.

  “Reach for Mr. Jenkins,” Proginoskes urged. “Name him for himself again. See how much you’ve been able to kythe to him. And remember, you have to go at his speed, not your own.”

  “Why! He’s holding us back!”

  “Hush, Meg.” Calvin kythed. “Adults take longer at this kind of thing than we do, particularly adults like Mr. Jenkins who hasn’t tried new thoughts for a long time.”

  “But we don’t have time! Charles Wallace—”

  “I said he takes longer than we do, and that’s true. But sometimes adults can go deeper than we can, if we’re patient.”

  “We don’t have time to be patient!”

  “Meg, trust Blajeny. Mr. Jenkins must be with us for a reason. Help him. Do what Progo says.”

  Proginoskes kythed urgently, “We may need Mr. Jenkins to get Sporos to Deepen. Blajeny wouldn’t have sent him unless—oh, Meg, a Teacher never does anything without reason. Try to reach Mr. Jenkins, Meg.”

  She pushed her terror aside and opened herself to kything and she was with Charles Wallace,

  not within him,

  not without him,

  but with him,

  part of his exhaustion,

  his terrifying energy loss,

  his struggle to breathe.

  Oh, fight, Charles,

  don’t stop struggling,

  breathe,

  breathe,

  I’ll try to help,

  I’ll do anything I can to help, even

  then

  She was with the twins. Charles Wallace, she thought, had sent her.

  The twins were in the garden, digging, grimly spading up and turning under the old tomato plants, the frost-blackened zinnias, the lettuce gone to seed, turning them under to enrich the earth for the next spring, the next planting, with set faces working silently, taking out their anxiety over Charles Wallace in physical labor.

  Sandy broke the silence. “Where’s Meg?”

  Dennys paused, his foot on his pitchfork as he pressed it into the earth. “She should be getting home from school soon.”

  “Charles Wallace said she isn’t in school. He said that Meg is in him. I heard him.”

  “Charles Wallace is delirious.”

  “Have you ever seen anyone die?”

  “Only animals.”

  “I wish Meg would come home.”

  “So do I.”

  They went on with their preparation of the garden for the winter cold and snow.

  —If the twins’ job is simply to take care of their garden—Meg told herself,—your job is to reach Mr. Jenkins. Where? Nowhere. Just Mr. Jenkins.

  “Mr. Jenkins. Mr. Jenkins. You are you and nobody else and I Named you. I’m kything, Mr. Jenkins. Here I am. Me. Meg. You know me and I know you.”

  She thought she heard a sniff, a Mr. Jenkins sniff. Then he seemed to recede again. This minuscule under-sea world was totally beyond his comprehension. She tried to kythe to him once more all the images in earth equivalents which she had received, but he responded with nothing beyond anxious blankness.

  “Name him,” Proginoskes urged. “He is afraid to be. When you Named him in the schoolyard, that was kything, that was how you knew him from the two Echthroi-Mr. Jenkinses, how you must know him this time.”

  Mr. Jenkins. Unique, as every star in the sky is unique, every leaf on every tree, every snowflake, every farandola, every cherubim, unique: Named.

  He gave Calvin shoes. And he didn’t have to come with us to this danger and horribleness, but he did. He chose to throw in his lot with us when he could have gone back to school and his safe life as a failure.

  Yes, but for an unimaginative man to come with them into the unimaginably infinitesimal unknown isn’t the kind of thing a failure does.

  Nevertheless, Mr. Jenkins had done it, was doing it.

  “Mr. Jenkins, I love you!”

  She did.

  Without stopping to think she put her imagined hand into his. His fingers were slightly damp and chill, just as clammy as she had always thought Mr. Jenkins’s hand would be.

  And real.

  TEN

  Yadah

  Of course Mr. Jenkins’s hand would be damp. He’d be scared out of his wits. He was years away from games of Make Believe and Let’s Pretend.

  “Mr. Jenkins, are you all right?”

  She felt a fumbling kything, a frightened inability to accept that they were actually in a mitochondrion, a mitochondrion within one of Charles Wallace’s cells. “How long have we been here?”

  “I’m not sure. So much has happened. Progo—you’re sure we’re in farandola time, not earth time?”

  “Farandola time.”

  “Whew!” she told Mr. Jenkins in relief. “That means that time on earth is passing much more slowly than time is for us—aeons more slowly. Charles Wallace’s heart beats only once every decade or so.”

  “Even so,” Proginoskes warned, “there’s no time to waste.”

  Another flash of Charles Wallace’s face, ashen, eyes closed, breathing labored; of her mother’s face, tight with pain; of Dr. Louise, watchful, waiting. She stood with her small hand lightly against Charles Wallace’s wrist.

  “I know,” Meg answered the cherubim. A cold wind seemed to blow through the interstices of her ribs. She must be strong for Charles Wallace now, so that he could draw on that strength. She held her mind quiet and steady until it calmed.

  Then she opened herself again to Mr. Jenkins. Muddied thoughts which could hardly qualify as kything moved about her like sluggish water, and yet she understood that Mr. Jenkins was being more open with her than he had ever been before, or than he ever was able to be with most people. His mind shuddered into Meg’s as he tried to grasp the extraordinary fact that he was still himself, still Mr. Jenkins, at the same time that he was a minuscule part of the child who had been one of his most baffling and irritating problems at school.

  Meg tried to let him know, in as unalarming a way as possible, that at least one of the Echthroid-Mr. Jenkinses was with them on Yadah. She did not want to recall her terror during her encounter with one of them, but she had to help Mr. Jenkins understand.

  He sent her a response, first of bafflement, then fear, then a strange tenderness towards her. “You should not be asked to endure such things, Margaret.”

  “There’s more,” she told him. This more was hardest of all, to make him understand that some of the little farandolae, some of the playful, dancing creatures, had saved her from the Echthros-Mr. Jenkins, and had sacrificed themselves in doing so.

  Mr. Jenkins groaned.

  From Proginoskes Meg relayed to the principal, “It was better than letting the Echthroi X them. They’re still—they’re still part of Creation this way.” She turned her kything to Proginoskes. “If the Echthroi X something, or if something Xs
itself, is it forever?”

  The cherubim surrounded her with the darkness of his unknowing. “But we don’t need to know, Meg,” he told her firmly, and the darkness began to blow away. “I am a cherubim. All I need to know is that all the galaxies, all the stars, all creatures, cherubic, human, farandolan, all, all, are known by Name.” He seemed almost to be crooning to himself.

  Meg kythed at him sharply. “You’re Progo. I’m Meg. He’s Mr. Jenkins. Now what are we supposed to do?”

  Proginoskes came back into focus. “Mr. Jenkins does not want to understand what a farandola is.”

  “Evil is evil,” Mr. Jenkins sent fumblingly Megwards. She felt his mind balking at the idea of communication where distance was no barrier. “Mice talk by squeaking, and shrimp by—I don’t know much marine biology but they must make some sound. But trees!” he expostulated. “Mice who put down roots and turn into trees—you did say trees?”

  “No.” Meg was impatient, not so much at Mr. Jenkins as at her own ineptitude in communicating with him. “The farae—well, they aren’t unlike trees, sort of primordial ones, and they aren’t unlike coral and underwater things like that.”

  “Trees cannot talk with each other.”

  “Farae can. And as for trees—don’t they?”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Mr. Jenkins, when you walk through the woods at home, and the wind moves in the trees, don’t you ever have the feeling that if you knew how, you’d be able to understand what they were saying?”

  “Never.” It had been a long time since he had walked in the woods. He moved from his lodgings to the school, from the school to his lodgings, driving himself both ways. He did not have time to go for walks in the woods …

  She felt a dim regret in his kything, so she tried to make him hear the sound of wind in the pine woods. “If you close your eyes it sounds like ocean waves, even though we’re not anywhere near the ocean.”