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 school-yard 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.
9 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 kyth-ing. 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.”