‘Who was that man Skinner?’ Rosalind and I inquired anxiously and simultaneously.
Sally answered: ‘He’s fairly new here. My father knows him. He has a farm bordering on the woods near where you were. It was just bad luck his seeing us, and of course he wondered why we were making for the trees at a gallop.’
‘He seemed very suspicious. Why?’ asked Rosalind. ‘Does he know anything about thought-shapes? I didn’t think any of them did.’
‘He can’t make them, or receive them himself – I tried him hard,’ Sally told her.
Michael’s distinctive pattern came in, inquiring what it was all about. We explained. He commented:
‘ Some of them do have an idea that something of the kind may be possible – but only very roughly of the kind – a sort of emotional transfer of mental impressions. They call it telepathy – at least, those who believe in it do. Most of them are pretty doubtful whether it exists at all.’
‘Do they think it’s deviational, those who do believe it exists, I mean?’ I asked.
‘ It’s difficult to say. I don’t know that the question has ever been straightly put. But academically, there’s the point that since God is able to read men’s minds, the true image ought to be able to do so, too. It might be argued that it is a power that men have temporarily lost as a punishment, part of Tribulation – but I’d not like to risk myself on that argument in front of a tribunal.’
‘ This man had the air of smelling a rat,’ Rosalind told him. ‘ Has anybody else been inquisitive?’
They all gave her a ‘No’ to that.
‘Good,’ she replied. ‘But we must be careful this doesn’t happen again. David will have to explain to Petra in words and try to teach her to use some self-control. If this distress of hers does occur, you must all of you ignore it, or, anyway, not answer it. Just leave it to David and me. If it is compulsive, like it was the first time, whoever reaches her first will have to try to make her unconscious somehow, and the moment the compulsion breaks you must turn back and cover up as best you can. We have to make sure we are not drawn together into a group again. We could easily be a lot less lucky than we were today. Does everybody understand and agree?’
Their assents came in, then presently the rest of them withdrew, leaving Rosalind and me to discuss how I could best tackle Petra.
I woke early the next morning, and the first thing I was aware of was Petra’s distress once more. But it was different in quality now; her alarm had quite subsided, but given way to a lament for the dead pony. Nor did it have anything like the intensity of the previous day.
I tried to make contact with her, and, though she did not understand, there was a perceptible check and a trace of puzzlement for some seconds. I got out of bed, and went along to her room. She was glad to have company; the distress-pattern faded a lot as we chatted. Before I left I promised to take her fishing that afternoon.
It is not at all easy to explain in words how one can make intelligible thought-shapes. All of us had first found out for ourselves; a very crude fumbling to begin with, but then more skilful when we had discovered one another and begun to learn by practice. With Petra it was different. Already, at six and a half, she had had a power of projection in a different class from ours, and quite overwhelming – but without realization, and therefore with no control whatever. I did my best to explain to her, but even at her present age of almost eight the necessity of putting it in words that were simple enough presented a difficulty. After an hour of trying to make it clear to her while we sat on the river-bank watching our floats, I still had not got anywhere much, and she was growing too bored to try to understand what I said. Another kind of approach seemed to be required.
‘Let’s play a game,’ I suggested. ‘You shut your eyes. Keep them shut tight, and pretend you’re looking down a deep, deep well. There’s nothing but dark to see. Right?’
‘Yes,’ she said, eyelids tightly clenched.
‘Good. Now, don’t think of anything at all except how dark it is and how far, far away the bottom is. Just think of that, but look at the dark. Understand that?’
‘Yes,’ she said again.
‘Now, watch,’ I told her.
I thought a rabbit for her, and made it twitch its nose. She chuckled. Well, that was one good thing: at least, it made sure that she could receive. I abolished the rabbit, and thought a puppy, then some chickens, and then a horse and cart. After a minute or two she opened her eyes, and looked bewildered.
“Where are they?’ she asked, looking round.
‘They aren’t anywhere. They were just think-things,’ I told her. ‘That’s the game. Now I’ll shut my eyes, too. We’ll both look down the well and think of nothing but how dark it is. Then it’s your turn to think a picture at the bottom of the well, so that I can see it.’
I played my part conscientiously and opened my mind to its most sensitive. That was a mistake. There was a flash and a glare and a general impression that I had been struck by a thunderbolt. I staggered in a mental daze, with no idea what her picture had been. The others came in, protesting bitterly. I explained what was going on.
‘Well, for heaven’s sake be careful, and don’t let her do it again. I damned near put an axe through my foot,’ came aggrievedly from Michael.
‘ I’ve scalded my hand with the kettle,’ from Katherine.
‘Lull her. Soothe her down somehow,’ advised Rosalind.
‘She isn’t unsoothed. She’s perfectly tranquil. That seems to be just the way it is with her,’ I told them.
‘Maybe, but it’s a way it can’t stay,’ Michael answered. ‘She must cut it down.’
‘ I know – I’m doing my best. Perhaps you’ve got some ideas on how to tackle it?’ I suggested.
‘Well, next time warn us before she tries,’ Rosalind told me.
I pulled myself together and turned my attention to Petra again.
‘You’re too rough,’ I said. ‘This time make a little think-picture; a really little one ever so far away, in soft pretty colours. Do it slowly and gently, as if you were making it out of cobwebs.’
Petra nodded, and closed her eyes again.
‘Here it comes!’ I warned the others, and waited, wishing it were the kind of thing one could take cover from.
It was not much worse than a minor explosion this time. It was dazzling, but I did manage to catch the shape of it.
‘A fish!’ I said. ‘A fish with a droopy tail.’
Petra chuckled delightedly.
‘Undoubtedly a fish,’ came from Michael. ‘You’re doing fine. All you want to do now is to cut her down to about one per cent of the power in that last one before she burns our brains out.’
‘Now you show me,’ demanded Petra, and the lesson proceeded.
The following afternoon we had another session. It was a rather violent and exhausting business, but there was progress. Petra was beginning to grasp the idea of forming thought-shapes – in a childish way, as was only to be expected – but frequently recognizable in spite of distortions. The main trouble still was to keep the strength down: when she became excited one was almost stunned by the impact. The rest complained that they could get no work done while we were at it: it was like trying to ignore sudden hammer-bangs inside one’s head. Towards the end of the lesson I told Petra:
‘Now I’m going to tell Rosalind to give you a think-picture. Just shut your eyes, like before.’
‘Where’s Rosalind?’ she asked, looking round. ‘ She’s not here, but that doesn’t matter with think-pictures. Now, look at the dark and think of nothing.’
‘And you others,’ I added mentally for the benefit of the rest. ‘just lay off, will you? Keep it all clear for Rosalind, and don’t interrupt. Go ahead, Rosalind, strong and clear.’ We sat silent and receptive.
Rosalind made a pond with reeds round it. She put in several ducks, friendly, humorous-looking ducks of various colours. They swam a kind of ballet, except for one chunky, earnestly-trying duck who was always a little late and a little wrong. Petra loved it. She gurgled with enjoyment. Then, abruptly, she projected her delight; it wiped out the whole thing and dazed us all again. It was wearing for everyone, but her progress was encouraging.
In the fourth lesson she learnt the trick of clearing one’s mind without closing one’s eyes, which was quite a step. By the end of the week we were really getting on. Her thought-shapes were still crude and unstable, but they would improve with practice; her reception of simple forms was good, though as yet she could catch little of our projections to one another.