The Map of the Sky (66 page)

“Near? You mean they’re down here?”

Curly nodded, and Emma exchanged surprised looks with us.

“There are other people hiding down here . . . ,” I heard Murray murmur beside me.

“It would seem so,” I said eagerly.

“We must make contact, see how many there are,” Clayton whispered to us, excited, I assumed, at the prospect of meeting up with
other people to form a larger group and pool information about the invasion.

Clayton stepped away from us and approached the children, keeping his artificial hand out of view in his jacket pocket.

“That’s wonderful, children, wonderful,” he said, gently pushing Emma aside. “So, your parents are nearby. Can you take us to them?”

The children glanced at one another. Then Curly said, “We can.”

Clayton turned to us, raising his eyebrows in amazement. “They can.”

He turned back to the children with a satisfied smile; for a few moments everyone exchanged looks again in silence.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Clayton said at last in a tone of theatrical enthusiasm, as though nothing in the world could have given the children greater pleasure.

The children began conferring amongst themselves with surprising seriousness, until, with an imperceptible gesture, Curly motioned to them to start walking. They filed higgledy-piggledy into one of the side tunnels. He then invited us to follow them with a nod of his head, which Clayton replicated, like an image in a hall of mirrors. We all obeyed, and for several minutes we walked four or five yards behind the children, who were skipping and hopping and singing songs, as though being guides bored them so much they had to amuse themselves somehow. Their shrill voices ricocheted off the walls of the tunnel, producing a babble as incongruous as it was soothing, a kind of charm evoking the world from which the Martians had evicted us, a world of bustling streets teeming with carriages and parks full of children laughing. Our world. A world we never imagined anyone might covet from outer space, let alone fly across the Cosmos to snatch from us. I tried to cheer myself up with the thought that they hadn’t succeeded yet, that there were many more of us hiding in the sewers, ready to defend ourselves, perhaps
waiting for a man who could show us how to fight, and I looked at Shackleton, who was walking glumly beside me.

“Isn’t it exciting, Captain?” I said, trying to cheer him up, too. “There are people hiding in the sewers, exactly as you did—I mean
will do
in the future.”

Shackleton nodded unenthusiastically but said nothing, and I did not insist. We continued walking in silence until, suddenly, the children told us to stop beside the entrance to a small side tunnel in the wall. To our horror they began filing into it, and we had no choice but to follow, stooping so as not to bang our heads. It seemed like a disused pipe from the old sewer network and turned at right angles, as in a maze. At last, just when we were beginning to think it would never end, we came out in a large storeroom, filled with building materials. At the far end of it, concealed behind some bundles, was a vertical ladder descending into the darkness. The children began clambering down it fearlessly, giggling at their own jokes.

“Where the devil are they taking us?” I muttered, tired of the endless walking and beginning to feel increasingly sweaty and grimy.

But no one had the answer. Presently, we came to a dank, cold hall with a vaulted ceiling. The room was lit by a few lamps hanging from the walls and pillars, but they scarcely made a dent in the darkness, and it was difficult to see exactly how big it was.

“We’re here,” Curly announced.

We surveyed the gloomy catacomb uneasily. It appeared to be deserted.

“But . . . where are your parents?” I asked Curly.

“Here,” the child said, pointing to our surroundings.

“But there isn’t anyone else here, Curly, just us,” Emma protested gently, gazing uneasily after the child’s hand.

“They’re here,” Curly insisted stubbornly. “They’ve been here a long time.”

Somewhat bewildered by Curly’s insistence, we studied the vast
chamber once more, peering into the shadows, but as far as we could see we were alone in there. I was about to ask Curly to explain himself when all of a sudden, Wells and Clayton, as though acting on a shared intuition, unhooked a pair of lanterns from the nearest column and edged their way cautiously toward the far wall. Intrigued, we all followed them, forming a kind of procession, while the children remained in the middle of the chamber. When the author and the inspector reached the wall, they each headed for a different corner. They raised their lanterns and began to examine it closely. As the lamplight shone onto the surface, we could see that it was divided into squares, like a checkerboard, each decorated with strange, vaguely oriental-looking symbols. Wells moved his lamp along the wall, revealing it to be covered in these chiseled boxes with their peculiar signs, which gave off a coppery glow, while Clayton did the same at the other end.

“Good God . . . ,” gasped the author.

“Good Lord . . . ,” Clayton’s voice echoed.

“What is it?” I asked, unable to fathom what was going on.

Wells wheeled round to face us, then looked nervously at the children, who were clustered together in the center of the chamber.

“They’ve brought us to see their parents—only their parents are their ancestors,” the author murmured in amazement.

“What do you mean, Mr. Wells?” I said, still puzzled.

“Look, Mr. Winslow.” Clayton beckoned me over. “What do you think each of these squares is?”

“I’ve no idea,” I avowed with irritation, in no mood to play guessing games.

“So you don’t know,” he replied disappointedly. Then he turned to the author. “But you know, don’t you, Mr. Wells?”

Wells nodded solemnly. They were the same as the ones he had seen on the spaceship hidden in the Chamber of Marvels.

“They are Martian symbols,” he said. “And these squares on the wall, Mr. Winslow, are tombs.”

Tombs? Wells’s words startled me, as they did the others. And as he spoke we wheeled around with a mixture of confusion and unease, taking in the rest of the walls in the vast chamber, which we could now see was a shimmering mosaic of tombstones, marking hundreds of niches dug into the rock.

“Are we in a Martian cemetery?” Murray asked.

“It looks like it, sir,” Harold replied despondently.

But in my profound bewilderment, I scarcely heard what they were saying. I was still having difficulty accepting the bizarre notion that the Martians had not arrived on Earth hours before as I had thought, but had been living among us for who knew how long. Yet if this was some kind of Martian burial ground, then these children were . . . Oh, God . . . I contemplated them in disbelief. They were still standing in a huddle in the center of the crypt, a few yards away from us, regarding us with faint curiosity. They had done what we’d asked and seemed to be waiting with indifference to see what our next whim would be, perhaps hoping we would let them get back to their games. And to me they looked just like ordinary children, with their skin still smooth and unblemished and their young, miniature bodies. Children like ours: fragile, innocent, human. But they weren’t. They only had the appearance of human children. And although I found this difficult to take in, doubtless because no Martian had yet mutated in front of my eyes, I noticed my companions were having the same difficulty: they were all staring solemnly at the children, trying to conceal the look of fear creeping over their faces.

“One of the children is missing,” I heard Emma say beside me.

“Yes,” Jane confirmed.

“Right,” Clayton murmured in an imperious tone, ignoring Emma and Jane. “Let’s not panic. We’ll take advantage of the situation. Yes, that’s what we’ll do. Wipe that look of terror off your faces, we don’t want to make these delightful Martians suspicious. I want to see calm smiles, everyone.”

He said these last words in a gruff whisper that sounded like a
threat. Then, clearing his throat, like a tenor preparing to go onstage, he sauntered over to the children. The Martian children, I should clarify.

“Hey, Curly,” he called out, crouching down in front of them. “Do you live here?”

Curly looked away from us, turning his ringleted head toward Clayton.

“No, of course not. What a silly idea!” the child declared. “We live up there. But he told us we couldn’t play up there today, because it would be dangerous, that’s why we came down here.”

“Of course, of course, that way you could play safely,” Clayton calmed the child. Then he gave us a sly smile before resuming his conversation with the boy. “And who told you that, Curly? Who is ‘he’?”

“He’s the Envoy, sir. The one we’ve been waiting for. The one they’ve been waiting for, too,” said the child, pointing at the tombs.

“Oh, I see. And have you been waiting for him for a long time?”

“Yes, sir, a very long time. We almost thought he wasn’t going to come.”

“I see . . .” Clayton moistened his lips and exchanged a meaningful look with Wells, as though they shared some secret information. “And is he down here, too, Curly?”

“Yes.”

Clayton swallowed hard.

“Good, good.” He smiled. “And could you take us to him?”

“Why?” Curly looked at the inspector askance. “Do you want to kill him because of what he’s doing to you?”

“Kill him? Why of course not, Curly,” the inspector replied with a casual wave of his hand. “How could you think such a thing?”

“Why then?”

“Just to talk to him, Curly.” The inspector shrugged, playing it down.

“Talk to him about what?”

“Er . . . well, about grown-up things, you know,” Clayton vacillated. “Nothing very interesting, in any case.”

“Do you think we wouldn’t understand?” the boy asked in a faintly menacing tone, which struck me as all the more threatening for being cloaked in that innocent childlike voice.

“I didn’t say that, Curly.”

“Because I think we would.”

“One of the children is missing,” I heard Emma whisper again behind me, in a low, quavering voice.

I studied the group of children standing motionless, listening to the conversation between Curly and the inspector. There was something so malevolent and inhuman about their concentration that it sent a shiver down my spine.

“Of course, of course,” I heard Clayton reassuring Curly. “I don’t doubt it, but—”

“We’re cleverer than you think,” Curly insisted quietly, fixing his dark, terribly empty eyes on the inspector, who appeared to totter slightly, as if he was about to lose his balance, “and we understand things you could never comprehend.”

“Oh for God’s sake! That’s enough!” Murray cried. He plunged his hand into my pocket and snatched my pistol. Before I had time to react, he leapt in front of Curly, placing the barrel against his head, and said, “Listen to me, kid: I don’t know what you understand, or even what you are, and, frankly, I don’t care. All we want to know is who is responsible for this damned invasion, and where to find him. And you, my dear little children, are going to help us do that. Otherwise, you can be sure I’ll shoot you. If there’s one thing I detest more than Martians, it’s children.”

We heard a laugh ring out from somewhere in the room. And a voice said, “Would you be capable of taking the most sacred life of all, that of an innocent child? Is it not written in your Holy Scriptures,
‘Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of God’?”

As one, we peered into the dense surrounding gloom, trying to make out who had spoken. Then, the shadows seemed to congeal and we instantly discovered more than twenty people encircling us. For the most part, they were middle-aged men, who, judging from their apparel, came from every conceivable social class. Before we could react, the children scurried behind them, and Murray found himself pointing his pistol at air. The one who had spoken was standing a few steps closer than the others. He was an elderly, dignified-looking gentleman wearing a black cassock and a collar. Unlike the others, who were glaring at us menacingly, the old priest wore a smile of amused satisfaction. I noticed then that he was holding the hand of little Hobo, who must have gone to warn them while the others kept us occupied. Skipping and singing gaily, the children had led us into a trap. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Murray aim his gun at the man who had spoken. Clayton, Harold, and Shackleton immediately followed suit. I simply piled close behind them with the others, cursing the fact that, stupidly, I had no weapon and was therefore unable to act.

“Oh, what a proud gesture, so touchingly human,” the old man declared when he saw all our pistols pointing at him. “But do you really think shooting us will get you anywhere?”

Those brandishing the guns stared at one another, unsure what to do next, but they continued pointing at the Martians. Our pigheadedness amused the old man, who spread his wrinkled hands in a gesture of peace.

“Gentlemen, please. Don’t make us kill you; you know how easy that would be. Put down your weapons and surrender,” he urged in his melodious voice. “Those who do will receive His mercy: ‘Be still and know that I am God,’ Psalm Forty-Six, verse ten,” he recited, with a smile of infinite compassion. “After all, I only want to
take you where you want to go: He wishes to meet you as much as you wish to meet Him. One of you, in particular . . .” He stepped forward, stretching out his hands, palms upturned. “Let us go to Him in peace, brothers: ‘My times are in thy hand: deliver me from the hand of mine enemies, and from them that persecute me.
Make thy face to shine upon thy servant,
’ ” he intoned, gazing at Wells with a strange look of tenderness, before adding in a whisper: “Psalm Thirty-One, verses fifteen and sixteen.”

XXXVI

C
HARLES AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING, HIS FACE IN A
pool of blood. From the taste of blood in his mouth, he assumed he had hemorrhaged from the nose during the night. When he tried to wipe the blood off with the sleeve of his jacket, two of his remaining teeth came out. He pulled himself up laboriously, sweating and shivering at the same time. The simple act of breathing had become a torment: his throat burned and his lungs felt as if they were filled with hot coals. This was proof enough that he had little time left, perhaps even less than he had thought.