“Sort of,” Meg said.
“Now think of a mitochondrion. Think of the mitochondria which live in the cells of all living things, and how much smaller a mitochondrion is than you.”
Mr. Jenkins said, to himself, “I thought Charles Wallace was making them up to show off.”
Blajeny continued, “Now consider that a farandola is as much smaller than a mitochondrion as a mitochondrion is smaller than you are.”
“This time,” Calvin said, “the problem is that our minds can’t comprehend anything that microcosmic.”
Blajeny said, “Another way of putting it would be to say that a farandola is as much smaller than you are as your galaxy is larger than you are.”
Calvin whistled. “Then, to a farandola, any of us would be as big as a galaxy?”
“More or less. You are a galaxy for your farandolae.”
“Then how can we possibly meet one?”
Blajeny’s voice was patient. “I have just told you that in Metron Ariston we can almost do away with variations in size, which are, in reality, quite unimportant.” He turned his head and looked in the direction of the great glacial rocks.
“The rocks,” Meg asked, “are they really there?”
“Nothing is anywhere in Metron Ariston,” Blajeny said. “I am trying to make things as easy for you as I can by giving you a familiar visual setting. You must try to understand things not only with your little human minds, which are not a great deal of use in the problems which confront us.”
At last Mr. Jenkins sat, crouching uncomfortably on the rock. “With what can I understand, then? I don’t have very much intuition.”
“You must understand with your hearts. With the whole of yourselves, not just a fragment.”
Mr. Jenkins groaned. “I am too old to be educable. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. I have lived beyond my time.”
Meg cried, “Oh, no, you haven’t, Mr. Jenkins, you’re just beginning!”
Mr. Jenkins shook his head in mournful negation. “Maybe it would have been better if you’d never Named me. Why did I ever have to see you this way? Or your little brother? Or that frightful beast?”
Proginoskes made what seemed like a minor volcanic upheaval.
Mr. Jenkins stiffened a little, though he could hardly become paler. “Are there any more like you?”
“There are a goodly number of cherubim,” Proginoskes replied, “but none exactly alike.”
“That’s it,” Mr. Jenkins said. “That’s precisely it.” Absentmindedly he brushed at the dandruff and lint on the shoulders of his dark suit.
Blajeny, listening carefully, bowed his great head courteously. “Precisely what, Mr. Jenkins?”
“Nobody should be exactly like anybody else.”
“Is anybody?”
“Those—those—imitation Mr. Jenkinses—to see myself doubled and trebled—there’s nothing left to hold on to.”
Impulsively Meg got up and ran to the principal. “But they aren’t like you, Mr. Jenkins! Nobody is! You are unique. I Named you, didn’t I?”
Mr. Jenkins’s eyes looked blurred and bewildered through the lenses of his spectacles. “Yes. Yes, you did. I suppose that’s why I’m here—wherever here is.” He turned to Blajeny. “Those other Mr. Jenkinses—you called them Echthroi?”
“Yes. The Echthroi are those who hate, those who would keep you from being Named, who would un-Name you. It is the nature of love to create. It is the nature of hate to destroy.”
Mr. Jenkins said, heavily, “I fear I have not been a loving person.”
Meg felt a flash of intuition as sharp and brilliant as the cherubim’s flame; like flame, it burned. “Oh, Mr. Jenkins, don’t you see? Every time I was in your office, being awful and hating you, I was really hating myself more than you. Mother was right. She told me that you underestimate yourself.”
Mr. Jenkins responded in a strange voice she had never heard from him before, completely unlike his usual, nasal, shrill asperity. “We both do, don’t we, Margaret? When I thought your parents were looking down on me, I was really looking down on myself. But I don’t see any other way to look at myself.”
Now at last Meg glimpsed the Mr. Jenkins who had bought shoes for Calvin, who had clumsily tried to make those shoes look worn.
Mr. Jenkins turned to Blajeny. “These Echth—”
“Echthroi. Singular, Echthros.”
“These Echthroi who took on—who took on my likeness,” Mr. Jenkins said, “can they cause more trouble?”
“Yes.”
“They would harm Charles Wallace?”
“They would X—extinguish him,” the cherubim said.
Meg reached out in longing and fear towards her brother. “We shouldn’t have left him—” she started, then closed her mouth. She felt the cherubim moving gently within her, helping her, giving her little shoves of thought, and then she seemed to be with Charles Wallace, not in actuality, not in person, but in her heart. In her heart’s sight she saw their mother carrying him up the stairs, Charles limp in his mother’s arms, legs dangling. Mrs. Murry went into his room, a small, paneled room with a little fireplace, and one wall papered in a blue and white snowflake pattern, a safe, comfortable room. The window looked out onto the pine woods behind the house; the light which came in was gentle, and kind.
Mrs. Murry laid Charles Wallace down on his bed, and began to undress him. The child barely had the strength to help her; he made an effort to smile and said, “I’ll be better soon. Meg will …”
“Meg will be home from school in a couple of hours,” their mother said. “She’ll be right up to see you. And Dr. Louise is on her way.”
“Meg isn’t—in school.” Speaking was almost too great an effort.
Mrs. Murry did not contradict him, as perhaps she might have normally, but helped him into his pajamas.
“I’m cold, Mother.”
She pulled the covers up over him. “I’ll get another blanket.”
A sound of feet pounding up the stairs, and the twins burst in:
“What’s this? What’s the matter?”
“Is Charles sick?”
Mrs. Murry answered quietly, “He’s not feeling very well.”
“Bad enough to go to bed?”
“Did he have trouble in school again?”
“School was fine. He took Louise and she made a great hit, evidently.”
“Our Louise?”
“Louise the Larger?”
“Yes.”
“Bully for you, Charles!”
“That’s telling them!”
Charles Wallace managed a reasonably good smile.
“Sandy,” Mrs. Murry said, “please bring up some wood for a fire. It’s a little chilly. Dennys, if you’d please go to the cedar closet and get another blanket …”
“Okay. Sure. Right away.”
“And Meg’ll read to you or something when she gets home, Charles.”
Meg thought she heard Charles Wallace saying once again that Meg was not in school, but it was as though a mist swept over the vivid scene, and Charles Wallace’s room was gone, and Meg was standing, pressed close against the cherubim, who had one wing strongly about her.
Blajeny said, “Now, my children, we must have a lesson. Let us make believe that it is daytime. You can, you know. Believing takes practice, but neither you, Calvin, nor you, Meg, is old enough to have forgotten completely how to do it. You must make believe for yourselves and for Mr. Jenkins. This may seem a trivial task, in view of the gravity of the circumstances, but it is practice for what is to come. Now. Make believe. Turn night to day.”
The cherubim withdrew his wing and Meg put her hand in Blajeny’s. Her own hand was very small in comparison, as small as it had been when she was younger than Charles Wallace and had held her father’s hand in complete love and trust. She looked up at Blajeny’s grave, black face, looked into the strange amber eyes which sometimes seemed to hold the cold light of the moon, and which now glowed with the warmth o
f the sun. Color flooded the imaged sky of Metron Ariston, a vast, arching blue canopy, cloudless, and shimmering with warmth. About the rock the green grasses of summer rippled in the breeze; a bird sang, was joined by another, others, until melody was all around them. The grass was brightened by field flowers, daisies, black-eyed Susans, Indian paintbrushes, butter-and-eggs, purple thistles, all the summer flowers blooming abundantly and brilliantly.
Colors blazed more brightly than normal. Calvin’s hair, the shade of an Indian paintbrush, burned like sunlight. His freckles seemed larger and more profuse than ever. The faded blue of his jacket had deepened to meet the gentian blue of his eyes. He had on one red sock and one purple sock.
Meg’s old kilt, faded from countless washings, looked bright and new, but her hair, she thought, was probably as mouse-brown as ever; and Mr. Jenkins was still pasty and colorless. Louise the Larger, however, looked even larger than usual, and her coils shone with purple and gold.
Meg looked towards Proginoskes and the shining of the cherubim was so brilliant it almost blinded her; she had to look away.
“Now, my children,” Blajeny said, and he included Mr. Jenkins in the appellation, “we will welcome the other member of this class.”
From behind the smaller of the two glacial rocks a tiny creature appeared and scampered over to them. It looked rather like a small, silver-blue mouse, and yet it seemed to Meg to be a sea creature rather than a land creature. Its ears were large and velvety, the fur shading off into lavender fringes at the tips, blowing gently in the breeze like sea plants moving in the currents of the ocean. Its whiskers were unusually long; its eyes were large and milky and had no visible pupil or iris, but there was nothing dulled about them; they shone like moonstones.
It spoke, but with neither a mouse’s squeak nor a human voice. The sound was like harp strings being plucked under water, and the long whiskers vibrated almost as though they were being played. It did not give forth words, and yet it was quite plain that it was saying something like “Hello, are you my classmates?”
Blajeny spoke in the mouse-creature’s language; words did not issue from his mouth; his granite lips were closed; and yet the children heard the lovely rippling harp sound.
The mouse-creature did not seem pleased, and made sounds which conveyed a good deal of doubt. Meg understood it to be complaining that if it had to pass even the most preliminary of examinations with an earthling, it was dubious that it could do so. A cherubim might be of some help, but surely earthlings were nothing but—
Proginoskes said, “I, too, had misgivings about earthlings. But the girl earthling and I have just come through the first ordeal, and it was the girl who did it.”
The mouse-creature’s whiskers twingled. “It can’t have been much of an ordeal. Can we please get going, Blajeny? We have only a parsec before I make my preliminary report. And I can see I have a great deal to teach whomever I’m unfortunate enough to have as a partner—even if it’s the cherubim.” Its long, lavender tail, which had a fish-like fan at the tip, switched, and its whiskers bristled in Meg’s direction.
Meg bristled, too. “Perhaps when I’m as old as you are I’ll have learned a few things to teach you!”
Mouse-creature’s whiskers vibrated wildly. “Age is immaterial. In any case, it so happens that I was born only yesterday.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
Mouse-creature drew itself up; now it reminded Meg not so much of a mouse as of a small shrimp with antennae waving wildly. “There’s only one of us farandolae born every generation or so nowadays, and we start our schooling the moment we’re born.”
“You’re a farandola!”
“Naturally. What did you expect me to be? What else could I possibly be? Everybody knows that the farandolae—”
She interrupted. “Everybody doesn’t. The existence of farandolae wasn’t even guessed at until a few years ago when we began to learn more about mitochondria, and my mother has just now isolated the effect of farandolae on mitochondria with her micro-sonarscope. And even with the micro-electron microscope, farandolae can just be proved to exist, they can’t really be seen.”
The mouse-creature’s, the farandola’s, whiskers twanged. “It’s a very stupid breed of creature that doesn’t know its own inhabitants. Especially if it’s fortunate enough to be inhabited by farandolae. We are extremely important and getting more so.”
Past the farandola, behind Proginoskes and Louise the Larger, the shape of a Mr. Jenkins blew rapidly across the horizon.
Mr. Jenkins, standing near Meg and Calvin, quivered.
Blajeny looked grim. “Echthroi at work.”
The mouse-creature-farandola paid no attention. “My quercus, my tree, hasn’t had an offspring for a hundred years—our years, of course. It will take me that long to become full-grown myself, and this is only my second phase.”
Meg spoke in her most ungracious manner. “You’re going to tell us about your first phase whether we want you to or not. So go ahead.” The glimpse of Charles Wallace, followed by the sight of another Echthros-Mr. Jenkins, had forced her to realize that the successful passing of the first test did not mean that everything was going to be all right.
Mouse-shrimp-farandola reacted by an intensified trembling of feelers. “Yesterday morning I was still contained inside the single golden fruit hanging on my tree. At noon it burst and fell open, and there was I, newly hatched. In my tadpole stage I was delivered to Metron Ariston and transmogrified, and here am I. My name is Sporos, by the way, and I do not like your thinking names like mouse-creature and shrimp-thing at me. Sporos. When I have finished this phase of my education—if I finish—with one of you for a partner, I will root myself, and Deepen. After an aeon I’ll send up a small green shoot out of my kelp bed, and start growing into an aqueous deciduous spore-reproducing fruit-bearing coniferous farandola.”
Calvin looked horrified. “You’re mad. I’ve studied biology. You’re not possible.”
“Neither are you,” Sporos replied indignantly. “Nothing important is. Blajeny, is it my misfortune to be paired with one of these earthlings?”
Louise the Larger lifted her head out of her coils and looked at Sporos, her heavy lids met and closed.
Blajeny said, “You are hardly making yourself popular, Sporos.”
“I’m not a mere earthling. Earthlings are important only because they are inhabited by farandolae. Popularity is immaterial to farandolae.”
Blajeny turned away from Sporos in quiet rebuff. “Calvin. You and Sporos are to work together.”
“Oh, well, you can’t win them all,” was more or less the effect of what Sporos was vibrating, and Meg thought it would have been a more appropriate response coming from Calvin.
Mr. Jenkins said, “Blajeny, if I may presume—”
“Yes?”
“That other—I did see another copy of myself just a few moments ago, did I not?”
“Yes. I am afraid you did.”
“What does it mean?”
Blajeny said, “It means nothing good.”
Proginoskes added, “You see, we aren’t any place. We’re in Metron Ariston. We’re simply in an idea which Blajeny happens to be having in the middle of the Mondrion solar system in Veganuel galaxy. An Echthros-Mr. Jenkins oughtn’t to be able to follow us here. It means—”
“What?” Meg demanded.
Like Blajeny, Proginoskes said, “Nothing good.”
Sporos twingled his whiskers. “Need we stand around chittering? When are we going?”
“Very soon.”
“Where?” Meg demanded. She felt prickles of foreboding.
“To a far place, Meg.”
“But Mother and Father—Charles Wallace—the twins—we can’t just go off this way with Charles Wallace so ill and—”
“That is why we are going, Meg,” Blajeny said.
Sporos rippled his undulating notes, and Meg translated something like: “Can’t you just call home, or just reach out and
talk to each other when you want to?” and then a horrified, “Oh, my goodness, I don’t see how anybody as ignorant as you three earthlings seem to be can possibly manage. Do you mean on your earth host you never communicate with each other and with other planets? You mean your planet revolves about all isolated in space? Aren’t you terribly lonely? Isn’t he?”
“He?”
“Or she. Your planet. Aren’t you lonely?”
“Maybe we are, a little,” Calvin conceded. “But it’s a beautiful planet.”
“That,” Sporos said, “is as it may be. Since I was only born yesterday and came right into Metron Ariston and to Blajeny, I don’t know the planets except the ones in the Mondrion solar system, and they talk back and forth all the time; they chatter too much, if you ask me.”
“We didn’t,” Meg tried to interrupt, but Sporos twingled on.
“I do hope I wasn’t born in some dreadful mitochondrion which lives in some horrible isolated human host on a lonely planet like yours. You are all from the same planet? I thought so. Oh dear, oh dear, I can see you aren’t going to be the least help to me in passing any of the trials. I’d better see what time it is.”
“How do you tell time?” Calvin asked curiously.
“By the leaves, of course. You mean to say you don’t even know the time of day?”
“Of course I do. With my watch.”
“What’s a watch?”
Calvin extended his wrist. He was very proud of his watch, which had been a prize at school, and gave the date as well as the hour, had a sweep hand, and was a stop watch as well.
“What a peculiar object.” Sporos regarded it with a certain contempt. “Does it work just for your time, or for time in general?”
“Just for our time, I guess.”
“You mean, if you want to know what time it is anywhere here in Blajeny’s galaxy, or in a distant mitochondrion, your watch thing won’t tell you?”
“Well—no. It just tells the time for whatever time zone I’m in.”
“Mighty Yadah! How confused everything must be on your planet. I only hope my human host isn’t in your planet.”
Mr. Jenkins said plaintively, “If someone would just explain to me what is going on—”
A Wrinkle in Time Quintet Page 27