flame burned her hand and was rapidly withdrawn. She coughed and then sucked the burned place on her hand. But all she wanted was to put her arms around Proginoskes as she would around Charles Wallace. “Very lovable,” she said.
“But you don’t love me the way you love that skinny Calvin?”
“That’s different.”
“I thought so. That’s the confusing kind. Not the kind you have to have in order to Name Mr. Jenkins.”
“I hate Mr. Jenkins.”
“Meg, it’s the test. You have to Name the real Mr. Jenkins, and I have to help you. If you fail, I fail too.”
“Then what would happen?”
“It’s your first time with a Teacher. And it would be your last.”
“And you?”
“When one has been with the Teachers as often as I have, one is given a choice. I could throw in my lot with the Echthroi—”
“What!”
“Quite a few of those who fail do.”
“But the Echthroi are—”
“You know what they are. Sky tearers. Light snuffers. Planet darkeners. The dragons. The worms. Those who hate.”
“Progo, you couldn’t.”
“I hope I couldn’t. But others have. It’s not an easy choice.”
“If you don’t go to the Echthroi—”
All Proginoskes’s eyes were shielded by his wings. “I am a Namer. The Echthroi would un-Name. If I do not go with them, then I must X myself.”
“What!?”
“I’ll ask you a riddle. What do you have the more of, the more of it you give away?”
“Oh, love, I suppose.”
“So, if I care more about Naming than anything else, then maybe I have to give myself away, if it’s the only way to show my love. All the way away. To X myself.”
“If you do it—X yourself—does it last forever?” Meg asked apprehensively.
“Nobody knows. Nobody will know till the end of time.”
“Do I have that choice, too, if—if we fail?” She turned away from the school building, towards the early-morning shouts and whistles, and pressed her face against the soft feathers of one great pinion.
“It is not an option given to mortals, earthling.”
“All that happens to me is that I go home?”
“If you can call it all. There would be rejoicing in hell. But perhaps you don’t believe in hell?”
Meg pushed this aside. “But if we fail, then you—”
“I must choose. It’s better to X myself than to be Xed by the Echthroi.”
“What you took me to see—it was what Mother talked about at the dinner table, what Father’s gone to Brookhaven about—it doesn’t seem to have much to do with Mr. Jenkins. It’s all so cosmic, so big—”
“It isn’t size that matters, Meg. Right now it’s Charles Wallace. The Echthroi would annihilate Charles Wallace.”
“A little boy!”
“You’ve said yourself that he’s a special little boy.”
“He is, oh, he is.” She gave a startled jump as the first bell went off inside the school building, strident, demanding. “Progo, I don’t understand any of it, but if you think Naming Mr. Jenkins is going to help Charles Wallace, I’ll do my best. You will help me?”
“I’ll try.” But Proginoskes did not sound confident.
From all around them came the usual schoolday din. Then the door to the cafeteria/gym opened, and a Mr. Jenkins came out. Which Mr. Jenkins? There was no telling them apart. Meg looked to the cherubim, but he had dematerialized again, leaving only a shimmer to show where he was.
Mr. Jenkins came to her. She checked his shoulders. There was the dandruff. She went closer: smelled: yes, he had the Mr. Jenkins smell of old hair cream and what she always thought of as rancid deodorant. But all three
of the Mr. Jenkinses could manage that much, she was sure. It was not going to be that easy.
He looked at her coldly in the usual way, down one side of his slightly crooked nose. “I assume that you are as confused by all this as I am, Margaret. Why two strange men should wish to impersonate me I have no idea. It is most inconvenient, just at the beginning of school, when I am already
“But you don’t love me the way you love that skinny Calvin?”
“That’s different.”
“I thought so. That’s the confusing kind. Not the kind you have to have in order to Name Mr. Jenkins.”
“I hate Mr. Jenkins.”
“Meg, it’s the test. You have to Name the real Mr. Jenkins, and I have to help you. If you fail, I fail too.”
“Then what would happen?”
“It’s your first time with a Teacher. And it would be your last.”
“And you?”
“When one has been with the Teachers as often as I have, one is given a choice. I could throw in my lot with the Echthroi—”
“What!”
“Quite a few of those who fail do.”
“But the Echthroi are—”
“You know what they are. Sky tearers. Light snuffers. Planet darkeners. The dragons. The worms. Those who hate.”
“Progo, you couldn’t.”
“I hope I couldn’t. But others have. It’s not an easy choice.”
“If you don’t go to the Echthroi—”
All Proginoskes’s eyes were shielded by his wings. “I am a Namer. The Echthroi would un-Name. If I do not go with them, then I must X myself.”
“What!?”
“I’ll ask you a riddle. What do you have the more of, the more of it you give away?”
“Oh, love, I suppose.”
“So, if I care more about Naming than anything else, then maybe I have to give myself away, if it’s the only way to show my love. All the way away. To X myself.”
“If you do it—X yourself—does it last forever?” Meg asked apprehensively.
“Nobody knows. Nobody will know till the end of time.”
“Do I have that choice, too, if—if we fail?” She turned away from the school building, towards the early-morning shouts and whistles, and pressed her face against the soft feathers of one great pinion.
“It is not an option given to mortals, earthling.”
“All that happens to me is that I go home?”
“If you can call it all. There would be rejoicing in hell. But perhaps you don’t believe in hell?”
Meg pushed this aside. “But if we fail, then you—”
“I must choose. It’s better to X myself than to be Xed by the Echthroi.”
“What you took me to see—it was what Mother talked about at the dinner table, what Father’s gone to Brookhaven about—it doesn’t seem to have much to do with Mr. Jenkins. It’s all so cosmic, so big—”
“It isn’t size that matters, Meg. Right now it’s Charles Wallace. The Echthroi would annihilate Charles Wallace.”
“A little boy!”
“You’ve said yourself that he’s a special little boy.”
“He is, oh, he is.” She gave a startled jump as the first bell went off inside the school building, strident, demanding. “Progo, I don’t understand any of it, but if you think Naming Mr. Jenkins is going to help Charles Wallace, I’ll do my best. You will help me?”
“I’ll try.” But Proginoskes did not sound confident.
From all around them came the usual schoolday din. Then the door to the cafeteria/gym opened, and a Mr. Jenkins came out. Which Mr. Jenkins? There was no telling them apart. Meg looked to the cherubim, but he had dematerialized again, leaving only a shimmer to show where he was.
Mr. Jenkins came to her. She checked his shoulders. There was the dandruff. She went closer: smelled: yes, he had the Mr. Jenkins smell of old hair cream and what she always thought of as rancid deodorant. But all three
of the Mr. Jenkinses could manage that much, she was sure. It was not going to be that easy.
He looked at her coldly in the usual way, down one side of his slightly crooked nose. “I assume that you are as confused by all this as I am, Margaret. Why two strange men should wish to impersonate me I have no idea. It is most inconvenient, just at the beginning of school, when I am already
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