The Map of the Sky

by Félix J Palma

  “We made it, Miss Harlow, we made it,” he stammered between gasps.

  The girl sat up straight, a look of shock on her face. Gazing through the window, she saw that indeed they had succeeded in passing under the machine, which had given up pursuit and was moving in the opposite direction toward Woking.

  “Are you all right in there?” they heard Murray ask.

  “Yes, you bloody lunatic, we’re all right!” Wells shouted, unsure whether to explode with rage or give in to the hysterical laughter threatening to rise from his throat.

  Instead, he simply fell back in his seat, his heart still pounding, and tried to calm himself. They had been on the point of dying, he said to himself, yet they were alive. This was a reason to rejoice. Or it ought to have been. He looked over at Inspector Clayton, who was still sprawled on the seat opposite wearing the peaceful expression of someone having a pleasant dream, oblivious to the vicissitudes suffered by his body. Wells sighed and gazed at the girl, who, like he, was attempting to recover from the shock. They remained like this for a few moments, silent, and grateful, as though they had just been reunited with their souls, which had almost escaped from their chests like scared birds. The carriage continued on its way, much more slowly now that it was no longer being pursued by the machine.

  Yet before either of them could break the silence they were struck dumb by the devastation that began to emerge around them. With a mixture of horror and fascination, they contemplated a patchwork of pine forests reduced to ashes and half-burnt woods still smoldering in places, with tiny fires scattered throughout, filling the air with a resinous odor. Plumes of smoke rose from a succession of collapsed houses along the roadside. Among them, an occasional dwelling, surprisingly intact, stood out, spared from destruction by a mysterious whim of the tripod. After several minutes of utter devastation, they came across a derailed locomotive, which looked like a gigantic fiery snake stretched out across the grass. Around it were several smoking craters, and even in the dimness they could make out the bodies of passengers mown down as they tried to flee.

  Scarcely had they left this sinister spectacle behind when they heard distant cannons firing at regular intervals, and they assumed the tripod that had been pursuing them had encountered an artillery battalion. Wells wondered which side had the advantage as he looked out of the window at the ruins that bore witness to the cruelty or indifference this enemy from outer space showed toward the human race.

  They circled Chobham and headed once more toward London as the pale dawn began to unveil the contours of the world. There was no evidence of any destruction along this part of the route, Wells realized in relief, for it meant that for the time being London was safe. Presently, when they glimpsed a farmhouse on the road to Addlestone, Murray suggested they make a stop to give the horses a rest before they ended up collapsing unexpectedly on the road. They all needed some sleep, and the farmhouse seemed like a good place for it. The others agreed, and so the millionaire pulled up outside the house. They realized the owners had fled when they discovered two abandoned, horseless carts next to a small barn and at the entrance to the farmhouse a trail of utensils and personal effects: shoes, teaspoons, a wall clock, and a couple of flattened hats that suggested a hasty departure. Leaving Emma to watch over Clayton’s inopportune slumber, Wells and Murray went inside to explore the farmhouse. It was a modest two-floor dwelling, poorly furnished, and with three upstairs bedrooms. They inspected each room and found no signs of life. This spared them the onerous task of asking to stay and even rubbing elbows with the family living there, who would doubtless be eager to exchange stories about the invasion or share their fears, a prospect that daunted the exhausted Wells. After the inspection, they gave the horses water and carried Clayton into the main bedroom, where they laid him on the double bed. It was decided that Wells would sleep beside the inspector in case he suddenly woke up, while Emma and Murray would occupy the other two rooms. Once they had deposited the inspector, they went down to the kitchen to satisfy the hunger that had begun to assail them. Sadly, the fleeing family had also plundered the pantry, and after an exhaustive search all they could find was a stale crust of bread and some moldy cheese, which none of them deigned to taste, for it would have meant accepting that the situation they were in was totally desperate. Following this disappointment, each retired to his or her improvised bedroom to try to rest for at least a couple of hours before resuming their journey.

  Wells went into his allotted chamber, took Clayton’s pulse to make sure he was still alive, and then lay down beside him. He had forgotten to take the precaution of drawing the curtains, and a dim light filtered through the windows. He was too exhausted to get up again and so resigned himself to sleeping in the bothersome glare that was beginning to illuminate every corner of the modest room. As he waited for sleep to come, he studied the meager possessions the house’s owners had been forced to leave behind: the rickety wardrobe, the small chest of drawers, the shabby mirror, the small lamp and candles beside the bed. Those forlorn objects had so little in common with those of his own world that he was surprised they were able to offer comfort to anyone. And yet there were those who lived with such possessions, who journeyed toward death surrounded by objects emanating ugliness. Wells kept to his side of the mattress, arms tightly by his sides, not wishing to touch the sheets any more than he could help it, for he was convinced that if he came into contact with them, or with any of the other hastily abandoned objects, his fingers would break out in an unpleasant rash. As he lay there, besieged by that respectable poverty, the author was forced to acknowledge that it was one thing to imagine the privations of the lower classes in a general, almost abstract way, but quite another to witness at first hand the hideous drabness surrounding their lives, which was something he had never alluded to in the few articles he had written in support of their rights.

  Then his eye fell on a photograph atop the chest of drawers. It showed a couple and their two sons wearing the suspicious expression of those who still believe the devil has a hand in the workings of the camera. The couple, with their coarse features and simple clothes, had placed their hands on their sons’ shoulders, as if showing off the prize fruits of their orchard. Those poor lads could have been born anywhere, but the roulette wheel of life had decided it would be to that family, condemned to toil in the same fields as their parents before them. They would accept their fate as a matter of course, and their souls would never burn with a curiosity that would force them to question the order of things. But, looking on the bright side, Wells said to himself, their lack of imagination was an excellent insurance against life’s many disappointments, which happily they would never experience. If they were content with their lot, they would have no urge to migrate to the city, where they would doubtless have a much harder life, for at least in the countryside the air was pure and the sun was warm. In the city they would have been crammed together with others like them in a rented room in some filthy East End backstreet, easy prey to tuberculosis, bronchitis, and typhus. And the healthy, robust glow they brought with them from the countryside would fade in some factory, as would their will to live, all for a miserable wage that would afford them no greater happiness than a drunken spree in a seedy tavern. Luckily for them, those two able-bodied lads had got the best of a bad deal, for surely it was they who had occupied the two other bedrooms. Wells looked away from the photograph, wondering what had made the family abandon their house, which was certainly their only home. Had they been scared by the rumors they had heard, perhaps encouraged by their neighbors? And how would their simple minds have reacted to the news that the enemies attacking their country came from outer space, from that starry sky they had never seen as anything but a decorative backdrop? Now though, regardless of the fate to which each had been allotted or the possessions they had managed to accumulate, all the inhabitants of the Earth were reduced to the same level: that of fleeing rats.

  Wells fell asleep thinking of Jane.

  • • • />
  WHEN HE AWOKE, HE sat up slowly, his muscles aching, and glanced at his pocket watch. He had been asleep for nearly three hours, although he did not feel as rested as he had hoped, no doubt because he had not managed to drift into a pleasant slumber but rather a kind of half sleep that he could only describe as fitful. His recent experiences had seeped into his dreams, turning them into a merry-go-round of disturbing images. He could not recall any of them, and yet his mind was still darkened by a terrifying, familiar sensation of falling. One thing he did remember hearing was Inspector Clayton’s voice, urging him to wake up. This was why he found it so odd that the young man was still asleep alongside him. He looked at Clayton with a mixture of pity and annoyance, wondering whether they would have to cart him around for much longer. He even considered forcibly waking him up but then decided this was unwise. If the inspector’s sleeping fits were an illness, it might not be a good idea to interfere. He left Clayton on the bed, smoothed down his unruly locks in front of the grimy mirror, and walked out into the corridor.

  The doors to the other rooms were open, so that Wells could see they were empty. He went downstairs in search of his companions, but they were not in the sitting room either. Embarrassed about having slept the longest, something that gossips like Murray might attribute to his lack of concern about the grave events unfurling around them, Wells approached the kitchen, which was also deserted. Suddenly, it occurred to him that the damned millionaire might have managed to persuade the girl to leave him and Clayton behind. But this fear was soon erased from his suggestible mind when he glimpsed Murray’s carriage through the window, standing exactly where they had left it. Unless they had decided to travel on foot, his companions must still be around somewhere. Wells reproached himself for his suspicions: though the millionaire was petty-minded and untrustworthy, he appeared willing to set aside their differences given the circumstances. They were a team, now, whether he liked it or not. Baffled as to their whereabouts, the author left the house and surveyed the balmy morning that had spread over the world. The day was as calm as any other, save for the distant rumble of cannon fire from the southeast, telling him that somewhere the British artillery was doing battle with a tripod. In the other direction, a thick plume of smoke was rising beyond the distant hills that hid Epsom from view. Wells wondered how many tripods were positioned around London. Clayton had told him that other cylinders besides the one at Horsell had appeared on a golf course in Byfleet and near to Sevenoaks. However, if this was a proper invasion, there would certainly be more.

  Suddenly, Wells heard his companions’ voices coming from the barn. As he headed for the door, Wells heard Emma exclaim in a frustrated voice, “This is much harder than I thought!”

  “I believe rhythm is the key, Miss Harlow,” Murray replied to her calmly. “Try using short, sharp movements.”

  Wells stopped in his tracks, disconcerted by the conversation.

  “Are you sure?” Emma asked. “Won’t it hurt?”

  “Such delicate hands as yours would be incapable of causing any pain, Miss Harlow,” was the millionaire’s reply.

  “Very well, I shall try doing as you say,” the girl said resolutely.

  A silence followed lasting several seconds, during which Wells stood motionless.

  “Well?” he heard Murray ask.

  “That doesn’t seem to work either,” the girl replied, somewhat dismayed.

  “Maybe you’re pulling too hard,” Murray hazarded.

  “Is that so?” Emma bridled. “Why don’t you do it yourself, then, instead of telling me what to do!”

  “I didn’t mean to, Miss Harlow, I was merely suggesting—” Murray began apologizing, stopping in midsentence, as though the remaining words had stuck in his throat.

  A fresh silence followed. Wells stood rooted to the spot, wondering whether or not to go in. They couldn’t possibly be . . .

  “Perhaps we ought to tell Mr. Wells?” he heard Emma suggest. “He might be more experienced than us.”

  Hearing his name, Wells blushed. Tell him?

  “I doubt it somehow, Miss Harlow,” Murray replied hurriedly.

  It piqued Wells that the millionaire should be so convinced of his lack of experience, even though he was unsure in what.

  “Why not try placing your hand farther up,” he heard Murray propose.

  “That’s it, I’ve had enough!” Emma flared. “Do it yourself!”

  “All right, all right.” Murray tried to calm her. “But please don’t be upset, Miss Harlow. I only let you do it because I thought you liked trying new things.”

  There followed another, lengthier silence. Wells resolved once and for all to go into the barn as he had originally planned. Uncertain what he might stumble upon, he approached the half-open door almost on tiptoe. When he reached it, he peeped inside apprehensively. The scene taking place inside came as a great relief. His two companions had their backs to the door and so were unaware of his presence. Murray was sitting on a milking stool, hunched forward, while a very large cow grudgingly allowed him to grope its teats with his big paws. The girl stood beside him, arms folded, viewing with a critical eye his feeble attempts to squeeze a few drops of milk from the creature.

  “Well, Mr. Murray?” the author heard her say in a sarcastic voice. “Are you getting anywhere? Perhaps you should try using short, sharp movements?”

  Wells grinned, and deciding that by barging in he would certainly spoil the scene, he was content to wait noiselessly beside the door, observing the millionaire’s laughable attempts to show the woman he loved that he could tackle even the most unexpected situations life threw at him.

  “Cows are supremely generous creatures, Miss Harlow,” Wells heard him pontificate. “This animal, for example, is only too willing to quench our thirst with her milk, and this is where skill comes in, for we must treat her udders with care and respect—”

  As he spoke, the millionaire must have done something amiss, for the creature swung round so abruptly that it knocked him clean off the stool, causing him to utter a curse. Emma gave the prettiest laugh Wells had ever heard.

  “Well, I’ve discovered another thing I do as badly as reenacting a Martian invasion,” the millionaire murmured, standing up with an embarrassed grin.

  The air rippled once more with the sound of Emma’s mirth. Murray, too, began to laugh, and for a moment, which to Wells seemed magical, the two of them appeared to forget they were fleeing death, doubtless protected by that enveloping joy that had arisen from nowhere. Before one of them had time to turn round, the author moved quietly away from the door, walking back the way he had come. This was a shared moment that was exclusively theirs, and he did not want them to know he had witnessed it. As he walked back into the house, Wells felt envious of the millionaire, for he knew that making a girl laugh was the surest way to gain her affections.

  Once in the kitchen, Wells was content to wait patiently for them to return, watching the barn door through the window. He was astonished to see two strange men walk past. They were shabbily dressed and were heading toward the barn in the same stealthy way that he himself had only moments before, but with far less innocent intentions, for both were armed with what looked like sharp blades. After his momentary incredulity, Wells bolted up and took a few hesitant steps. Were they the owners of the house? he wondered, then instantly ruled out the idea, because the men’s clothes were not those of country but of town folk. They could only be marauders, the kind of opportunists who use any type of social unrest to their own ends. And it was clear they were planning to surprise his companions, unaware that he in turn was watching them. This gave him an advantage over them, which any man more determined and brave would exploit. But Wells was not such a man. He was incapable of calming his nerves sufficiently to confront the situation, to grab anything he could use as a weapon and attack from behind, knocking out the intruders with a pair of swift blows. His heart began thumping wildly, and, seized with panic, he found himself hurtling out of the house
recklessly, noisily even, with the aim of yelling to alert his companions and thereby get himself off the hook. However, before he was able to make a sound, he felt a cold, sharp object pressing against his throat.

  “Calm down, my friend,” a gruff voice whispered in his ear. “You wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise for your companions.”