The Map of the Sky (70 page)

I rose unsteadily to my feet, trying to overcome my dizziness, and stumbled toward the door, the swirling smoke blurring everything around me. Outside, it felt as though I had arrived at the theater after the start of the performance: Captain Shackleton was laying out one of the Martian guards with a fearsome blow. A few yards away, Murray was sitting astride the other, crushing him under his weight. He must have followed Clayton’s advice and jumped on him by surprise, and now both of them were wrestling frantically, and aiming clumsy blows at each other. But just then, before the creature was able to transform itself, Murray seized the Martian’s head and twisted it sharply, producing a snapping sound. Murray stood up, his back to us, gasping and reeling from the exertion. Flattened against one of the walls, Wells and the two women contemplated the scene, terribly pale, shocked by this dreadful display of violence. A quick glance told me there were no other guards, and I could only thank Heaven the priest had thought it enough to leave only two of them at the door.

“Quick!” I cried, running toward them. “We have to get out of here.”

We all fled back down the tunnel that had brought us there, Shackleton once more leading the way, afraid that at any moment we would hear the terrible explosion that would blow us into the air, hurling us against the walls like so many rag dolls. But instead, what we heard was a deafening animal roar filled with savage hate, and alarmingly close. I glanced over my right shoulder and saw the Envoy’s monstrous figure emerging through the doorway. Despite the dim lighting and the haze from the smoke, I was able to confirm the truly terrifying nature of his appearance. The powerful creature pursuing us looked like a dragon from a medieval bestiary: its skin was an iridescent green, it had a ridge of spikes along its back, and its
mouth was crammed with huge fangs, from which hung shreds of bloody flesh.

“Run, run!” I cried, panic-stricken, turning again to look straight ahead.

“Run!” Clayton’s voice repeated, to my surprise.

He overtook me on my left. I gasped, running after him, as we followed the others down a fork in the tunnel. “Inspector Clayton! What about your plan to detonate the bomb?”

“I’ve had a much better idea, Mr. Winslow! One that will solve everything! But I need Mr. Wells’s help, and I didn’t think I’d be able to ask him for it if I perished in there!”

Wells and Murray, who were scurrying ahead of us, turned around and looked at Clayton in astonishment.

“My help?” Wells managed to splutter, gasping for breath. “And you think now is the right time to start telling me this?”

“I’m only sorry I didn’t think of it before, Mr. Wells!” replied the inspector, still running along with ease.

“Well, I’m afraid it’ll have to wait, Inspector: we can’t stop now, as I’m sure you can appreciate!” shouted Murray, who was clutching his stomach as he ran. “Hurry! Hurry!” he urged the women, who were a few yards ahead. “Keep running and don’t look back!”

That was enough for me to turn around instinctively, to see the creature thirty yards behind us, advancing with great strides, followed by one of the guards, who had also begun metamorphosing into the same hideous species of dragon. I regretted Shackleton hadn’t been as radical as Murray in dispatching him. It was obvious these creatures would catch up with us in no time. Would we all perish like Harold, ripped to shreds by their teeth and claws? The truth is I couldn’t imagine a more grisly way to die. We turned a bend and came to a place where the tunnel branched into four. We hesitated, out of breath, and looked questioningly at the captain, hoping he would know which way to go, but Shackleton seemed as confused as we.

“Down here!” a voice said suddenly.

Emerging from the darkness of one of the tunnels, we made out the priest beckoning to us. We exchanged glances, unsure whether to trust him or if he was leading us into a trap. But what trap could be worse than the terrible fate that awaited us if the Envoy caught up with us? Then again, there wasn’t much time to debate the matter: the sound of our pursuers leaping through the tunnel grew louder and louder, while their huge, misshapen shadows projected onto the tunnel wall warned us they would soon appear around the bend.

“Follow me!” Shackleton cried, darting into the tunnel from which the priest was beckoning.

We all ran after him, trap or no trap.

“Go straight down the tunnel,” I heard the priest say as I ran past him. “It’ll take you to the river, and it’s clear, I’ve checked. Hurry, you’ve no time to lose! I’ll hold them up while you flee,” he murmured, glancing toward the bend.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked him in amazement, stopping automatically beside him.

Without looking at me, his face glowing with a kind of inner illumination, the priest said, “I am a priest. My name is Father Nathaniel Wrayburn, and I’ve never known anything else. I was born old, and I’m far too old to change now. Go in peace, my son. Go in peace.” He stepped into the center of the tunnel, his back to me, and started to pray, projecting his voice loudly: “The thief cometh not, but for to steal and to kill and to destroy . . . I am the good shepherd: the good shepherd giveth his life for the sheep.”

Clayton grabbed my arm, dragging me with him even as I yelled a brief “Thank you, Father.” While I ran after the inspector, I looked back at the old man standing like a frail tree, trying to make his voice heard above the clamor of footsteps coming from the other tunnel. Then he opened his arms slowly, and his hands began to sprout claws, the prelude to the metamorphosis that would soon
spread to the rest of his body. In the distance, the immense figures of his two fellow Martians bounded out of the other tunnel. I didn’t want to see more. I turned round and followed my companions, splashing through the puddles of water on the tunnel floor. The deafening, otherworldly roars echoing ominously down the tunnel behind us announced the beginning of a fight to the death between these monsters from outer space. For a few minutes we ran for our lives, as the din of the combat grew fainter, gradually dying out. There was no way of knowing what was happening, although I don’t think any of us would have wagered on the priest. Then Murray appeared to stumble and came to a halt, propping himself up against one of the walls. We all turned to look at him.

“What’s the matter, Gilliam?” Wells asked between gasps.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop . . . I’ll catch up . . . I just need to rest for a moment,” Murray said, deathly white, grimacing as he tried to smile and clasping his stomach, almost doubled over.

“Are you mad, Gilliam? We’re not leaving you here!” Emma declared, alarmed. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s nothing, Emma. I’m fine. I just need to rest for a few—,” he began to say, but suddenly lost his strength and slumped to his knees.

Murray gazed up at us almost apologetically and to our surprise began unbuttoning his jacket, revealing the deep gash across his stomach, while he grinned sheepishly, as if he had just spilled wine down his front. Emma raised her hands to her mouth, stifling a scream. Through the awful wound a few bloody lumps protruded, which could only be part of his intestines. Blood was oozing copiously from the gaping wound, drenching his trousers. Only someone who was desperate to stay alive could have managed to run for so long in this state, I reflected.

“Unfortunately, the Martian I killed had time to transform one of his hands,” he apologized, resting his faltering gaze on the girl. “I
was afraid to look before, I didn’t want to see how serious it was . . . I didn’t want to leave you, Emma, forgive me.”

Emma fell to her knees beside him, her horrified eyes fixed on the terrible gash, reluctant to believe it was real. Her hands fluttered around the mortal wound that had exposed Murray’s intestines, then she placed them over the wound, trying to cover it, as if she believed this simple gesture could dissuade Murray from his silly notion of dying. But his life went on trickling out of him through her fingers. Emma gave a guttural cry of pain and rage and impotence. Then she clutched hold of him desperately, in an embrace like none I had ever seen before.

“No, Gilliam, don’t die . . . You can’t die!” she sobbed, frantically pummeling his chest. She would have killed him if by doing so she could have brought him back to life.

All of a sudden, we heard a thunderous roar of triumph in the distance, which made us raise our heads, even as the blood curdled in our veins. A few seconds later, thudding footsteps echoed down the tunnel as the huge creatures bounded toward us. It didn’t take much intelligence to realize who had won the fight. In a matter of minutes, the victors would be upon us. And it seemed there were more of them, many more than two. I think we all knew we were going to die at the hands of this frenzied pack.

“Inspector Clayton,” Murray managed to splutter, blood streaming from the corners of his mouth and falling onto the hair of the girl, who was still clasping him in her arms, “I don’t know what your new plan is, but there’s only one way you’ll have time to carry it out. I’ll stay here and when the Martians arrive I’ll detonate your accursed hand. That’ll take care of a few of them for you, and at the same time I suppose the tunnel will collapse, forcing them to find another way through. It’ll give you a chance to escape—”

“No, Gilliam, no!” the girl cried.

“Emma,” Murray whispered with difficulty, “you know I
love to argue with you, but now isn’t the time. Go, go with them, please . . .”

“I’m not going anywhere, Gilliam. I’m staying right here with you,” the girl declared resolutely.

“No, Emma, save yourself, you must . . .”

“As you yourself said: now isn’t the time—and I don’t intend to argue. I’m staying here with you. Nothing you say will make me change my mind.”

The dying Murray stroked her hair with an increasingly limp, trembling hand.

“I’m the most exasperating man on the planet with whom to survive a Martian invasion, but it’s all right to die with me?”

“My good manners prevent me from answering that, Mr. Gilmore, and my honesty from lying. Draw your own conclusions,” she replied with a catch in her voice.

Murray gave her a smile of infinite tenderness, and their lips met, his great paws sliding down the curve of her back, too weak to embrace her. We all looked away respectfully, moved by the scene. Unfortunately, there was no time for anything more: the monsters’ thundering footsteps were drawing closer and closer. This time it wouldn’t be the celebrated author or Inspector Clayton who interrupted their embrace.

“Inspector Clayton,” we heard Murray say, his voice scarcely more than a rasping, urgent hiss as he separated his lips from those of the girl, who clung to him sobbing. “Don’t get the wrong idea, but I’m going to ask for your hand.”

The inspector smiled for the first time since I had met him. He swiftly unscrewed his artificial limb and gave it to Murray.

“Press this when you think the time is right,” he explained, pointing to a button inside.

“Count on me, Inspector,” Murray assured him with forced enthusiasm. He then bade us farewell, casting a feeble glance over the
group before resting his gaze on Shackleton. “Take care of them, Captain. I know you’ll get them out of here alive.”

Shackleton nodded with an air of pained composure.

“I’m sorry I didn’t reply to your letter, Gilliam,” Wells apologized. “If I received it now, I assure you I would.”

Murray smiled at him, astonished. “Thank you, George.”

Wells stepped toward Murray and, with an abruptness that startled us, proffered his hand.

“It’s been a pleasure to know you, Gilliam,” he blurted out, in the tone of one who feels ridiculous when showing his emotions.

Gilliam shook his hand, relieved perhaps that his own anguished expression allowed him to conceal how moved he was by Wells’s unexpected show of compassion. Then he turned once more to Emma in a final attempt to persuade her.

“Now go, my love, please. Live . . .”

“Not without you,” the girl replied with anguished defiance.

“You won’t have to, Emma,” Murray assured her, stroking her hair with a trembling hand, controlled now by the strings of death. “I promise you, you won’t be alone, because somehow I’ll come back. I did it once, and I’ll do it again, my love. I’ll come back to you. You’ll feel me embrace you, smile at you, watch over you each moment of your life . . .”

But his words only made Emma clasp the dying man even more tightly. Murray gave us an imploring look. He had done his best, but there was nothing more he could say to persuade her to flee with us. We all looked at one another, none of us daring to step forward and prise her away from him. Clayton glanced toward the end of the tunnel, where the monsters were bearing down on us. I suppose he must have figured that we had another two to three minutes at least. To our surprise, he knelt beside the couple.

“Miss Harlow,” he said gently, “allow me to say that isn’t just a metaphor. As you know, my department deals with all those things
that defy reason, and so you have to believe me when I tell you that in some cases what Mr. Murray says is true. There have been loves so powerful they have even transcended death.”

Emma turned and looked straight at the inspector in silence. Then she said, “If you’d ever been in love yourself you’d know this gives me no comfort, Inspector. And so, with all due respect, go to Hell.”

For a few moments, the inspector gazed at her with an expression of sorrow and pain, an almost human expression I would never have expected from a man like Clayton. I didn’t know whether he’d been telling the truth, whether he actually knew of loves that had transcended the frontiers of death, or had simply said the only thing he could think of to convince the girl to flee with us, a beautiful lie to save her life. Be that as it may, it clearly made no impression on Emma. Finally, Clayton stood up and gazed at Murray, as though asking permission to resort to force. But Murray shook his head with a smile of resigned defeat and clasped the girl to him with the last of his strength. At this, there was nothing more to say. Then, as if we were no longer there, Murray began whispering something in his beloved’s ear in a lilting voice, like a lullaby, and although we couldn’t make out his words, we all saw how the girl’s sobs suddenly stopped. Her head still resting on his chest, Emma smiled as Murray kept whispering to her, calmly nestling in his embrace, lost in thought, oblivious to the closeness of death hurtling toward us, like a little girl smiling blissfully as she listens to a fairy tale. Because, from the snatches I could overhear, Murray was telling her a children’s story, one I didn’t know, about colored balloons floating through galaxies made of vanilla meringue, of orange herons and men with forked tails.