The Map of the Sky

by Félix J Palma

  “Good,” said the inspector. “You must be wondering, Mr. Wells, why I’m showing you all this, and even revealing aspects of my work to you, which my code of ethics prohibits me from discussing with anyone. And yet I’ve made an exception in your case. Have you any idea why?”

  “If we assume it has nothing to do with my irresistible charm,” Wells said sarcastically, “all I can think of is that nothing matters to you now we are about to die.”

  The author’s quip elicited a loud guffaw from Clayton.

  When he had finished laughing, he said, “I assure you, even that would not induce me to breach the rules. We are only authorized to do so when in the presence of a magical being.”

  With this, he fell silent, simply observing Wells, who quickly lost his temper.

  “What are you getting at, Inspector?” he exclaimed. “Are you suggesting I’m a vampire? I assure you my sacrum is perfectly normal. Don’t make me undress in order to prove it to you.”

  “I need no such proof,” the inspector said, without returning his smile. “I saw your reflection in the mirror in the chamber.”

  “Good. Well, what am I, then?”

  “You are a time traveler,” Clayton declared solemnly.

  Wells looked at him uneasily, then burst out laughing.

  “What the devil makes you think that? Is it because I wrote The Time Machine? You’ve been reading too many of my novels, Inspector.”

  Clayton gave a chilly smile.

  “As I told you, in my work I come across the impossible,” he retorted.

  “And have you come across people who travel from the future in machines like the one I invented?” Wells chortled.

  “Yes and no,” Clayton said enigmatically. “I’ve come across a few time travelers. Except that they prefer traveling by other means. The machine you described may be quite plausible, but I’m afraid all future scientific attempts to travel in time will fail,” he avowed. “In the future people will travel in time using their minds.”

  “Their minds?”

  “Yes. And I have had what we might call . . . contact with some of these future time travelers, enough at any rate to discover that in the future the human brain will be found to possess a kind of button, which when pressed, enables movement in any direction along the time spectrum, although, unfortunately, it is not possible to choose a destination.”

  The author gazed at him in silent disbelief.

  “Naturally, I’ve given you a very simplified explanation,” Clayton added. “But that is what it boils down to.”

  “Assuming what you say is true,” Wells said, “what makes you think I can do it?”

  “Because I saw you, Mr. Wells,” the young man replied.

  “This isn’t funny, Inspector Clayton!” The author was becoming incensed. “I’m getting fed up with—”

  The inspector interrupted him. “Do you remember our eventful stay at the farm?”

  “Of course,” Wells muttered. “I shan’t forget that in a hurry.”

  “Good. As you know, I woke up at a crucial time for all concerned. However, what you don’t know is that while I was up in the bedroom trying to listen in to what was happening below, you materialized asleep on the bed, despite being a captive of the intruders downstairs. That’s to say, you were in two places at once.”

  “W-what . . . ?” Wells stammered.

  “You can imagine how startled I was,” Clayton explained. “And from the way you tossed and turned on the bed, it was clear you were having a nightmare. It took me several minutes to realize what was happening, that you were traveling in time before my very eyes! I went over to the bed and tried to wake you by calling your name. But at that moment, you disappeared. And then there was only one Wells in the house.”

  “I don’t understand,” the author said, shaking his head.

  “I appreciate your confusion, Mr. Wells, but it is quite simple. As far as I know, time travelers can accidentally activate the button I referred to during moments of extreme tension. This is the usual way most people discover their, er . . . peculiar gift. I assume that while you were asleep on the bed next to me you must have had a disturbing nightmare, which caused you to press that button and travel at least four hours forward in time. That would explain why you appeared in the room while I was glued to the door, giving me the fright of my life because at that moment your future self was downstairs. Then you must have accidentally activated the mechanism once more, this time propelling yourself back into the past, back to the bed where I was still lying unconscious, probably only a few minutes after you had left it. There you went on sleeping, and when you woke up you had no memory of traveling in time, because it had happened while you were asleep, as I said, probably due to tension. Of course, the future time travelers I have come across don’t need to experience tension in order to travel in time: they have perfected their technique and are able to travel at will. The government of the future has set up a training program to help time travelers develop their skill. Unfortunately, you have no one to help you master yours. In fact, you’re the oldest time traveler I’ve ever met. But in the end, of course, that is logical . . .”

  The author opened his mouth to blurt out the hundred questions that had formulated in his head, but this meant accepting that what Clayton said was true: that time travelers existed, and he was one of them. And in the first instance this was something he was not prepared to believe.

  “I don’t believe you,” he said.

  “Very well.” Clayton shrugged, as though what Wells chose to believe was of no consequence to him. “There’s no reason why you should. I’ve done my duty, which was to inform you. Confidentially.”

  With this, the inspector left the room and headed back toward the chamber. Wells followed him, on the one hand perturbed by Clayton’s revelation (which had reduced his own confession about the Chamber of Marvels to a mere sensational turn), and on the other annoyed at his arrogant indifference. But suddenly he remembered the bad dream he had had when he dozed off at the farm. When he awoke, Wells had remembered nothing of the dream. His only recollection was Clayton’s voice whispering to him, “Wake up, Mr. Wells, wake up.” But Clayton had not come round until at least four hours later, so how could he have possibly heard Clayton’s voice? Wells remembered the words of Clayton’s superior, Captain Sinclair: “Read this carefully and tell me what conclusions you draw from it, no matter how far-fetched.” Wells sighed; he had to acknowledge that, impossible though it seemed, this could be an explanation, perhaps the only explanation. And what was the other thing Sinclair had told Clayton? “The impossible is sometimes the only solution.” Wells massaged the bridge of his nose, trying to dispel the headache growing behind his eyes. For the love of God, how could he possibly believe such a thing! Especially coming from that crank? He had written The Time Machine and then discovered he was a time traveler? He had written The War of the Worlds only to find himself fleeing from Martians? Would he become invisible next?

  Fortunately, these thoughts that threatened to unhinge him subsided as they reached the chamber. There he beheld a scene for which he was unprepared. Had Captain Sinclair been present, Wells might have cited this as a far-fetched possibility. Yet love, too, was a magical sphere in which the impossible could happen. Ensconced in an armchair, a bandage round his wounded shoulder, Murray’s face was tilted toward the girl, who, her eyes gently closed, was perched on another seat waiting for their lips to touch.

  Murray sat up abruptly in his chair, cleared his throat, and greeted Wells and Clayton in an irritated manner, trying to hide his embarrassment, while Emma did the same. Was Wells bent on foiling his every attempt to kiss the girl? Was this his way of getting back at Murray, by preserving his bachelorhood, making sure he remained chaste?

  Oblivious to the romantic tableau he had just interrupted, the inspector glanced at his watch and announced, “It’s almost dawn. Mr. Wells and I will make our way to Primrose Hill in search of his wife. I think it’s best if we go
through Regent’s Park.”

  “Ahem . . . there’s no need for you to come with me, Clayton,” Wells said, unused to involving others in his private life.

  “Are you joking?” the inspector declared. “God only knows what’s waiting out there. I don’t intend to let you go alone.”

  “We’ll all go with you, George,” said Murray, rising to his feet. “Isn’t that so, Emma?”

  “Of course, Mr. Wells,” said the girl. “We’ll all help you find your beloved.”

  Wells gazed at them in astonishment. Very seldom in his life had he been on the receiving end of such a touching and selfless display of friendship, and it must be said he had not practiced it much himself either. So, was it true that the worst situations brought out the best in people? No, this sentiment couldn’t be genuine, he told himself. If he delved a little deeper, he would discover the real reason why each of them was willing to risk his or her life to accompany him. And there had to be another reason, he reflected, otherwise it made no sense, for it was inconceivable to Wells that someone could be capable of such an unselfish act, above all because he himself could never do so. But what if he was mistaken? What if they truly wanted to help him? Wells considered them one by one. He contemplated the arrogant Inspector Cornelius Clayton, who was willing to protect his makeshift flock with his life. He looked at Emma Harlow, who was confronting the situation with admirable fortitude: her eyes seemed to sparkle with a special intensity, like those dewdrops that sit patiently on leaves, waiting for the sun to make them glisten. Finally he contemplated Gilliam Murray, the Master of Time, the person he despised most in the world, whom a woman’s love had changed so utterly that even that man was now prepared to help him. Or perhaps he was right, he reflected. Perhaps none of them really cared whether he found Jane or not, but was it not wonderful to think they might?

  “T-thank you,” he stammered, a catch in his voice.

  At that moment, Cornelius Clayton collapsed on the floor. They all looked with irritation at the crumpled figure lying at their feet.

  “I hate it when he does that,” said Murray.

  XXX

  DAWN MATERIALIZED WITH EXASPERATING SLOWNESS. And beneath its fitful light, London awoke confused and in pain, like a dog after its first beating. The tripods had marched down the Euston Road, demolishing buildings as they went, including Clayton’s house, although happily the debris had not buried the trapdoor. Around them, all was devastation: many of the buildings had been reduced to mounds of smoking rubble, and all over the place lay half-crushed or upturned carriages. The only one that seemed to have survived miraculously intact was Murray’s, his horses standing obligingly where he had left them, planted amid this orgy of destruction. But what convinced them this was the beginning of the end were the bodies strewn about, cinder dolls that looked vaguely human, gradually dispersed by the breeze. They were forced to step around them on their way to the carriage with the ornate “G” as they carried the unconscious Clayton, whom they had scarcely managed to get through the trapdoor.

  The decision as to what to do with the inspector had been hastened by the approaching dawn. It seemed most practical to leave him behind in the safety of his lair, comfortably stretched out on a couch, with a note beside him explaining that he had fainted and promising to return for him once they had resolved the matter of Wells’s potential widowerhood. But the few hours they had spent together, each moment of which seemed to conceal an unexpected turn of events that changed the course of their lives, had made nonsense of their ideas about what was practical. They had no notion what might become of them during their excursion to Primrose Hill, and whether or not they would be able to return to Clayton’s cellar, and so they finally resolved to take the inspector with them. It was perfectly clear to them: they were in this together. And so, eschewing the common sense with which most of them had led their lives until the arrival of the Martians, they hauled the inspector from his refuge, even remembering to bring his hat.

  Although the tripods had already passed through, and a strange calm had settled over the street, they could still hear shots and blasts coming from the surrounding neighborhoods, which made them realize the invasion was far from over. With Murray once more grasping the reins, they set off for Regent’s Park. Wells gave an anguished sigh. In a few moments—the time it took to cross the park—they would find out whether or not Jane had survived the invasion. Whenever their eyes met, Emma, who had the air of a weary, worldly Madonna as she sat opposite Wells cradling the inspector’s head in her lap, gave him a reassuring look. But it was obvious she knew as well as he did that the likelihood of Jane still being alive was slight. Jane could have been dead for hours, Wells told himself, she could be lying under a mound of rubble or have been transformed into one of those baleful cinder figures strewn up and down the Euston Road, and he had not yet shed a single tear for her. Yes, perhaps she was dead and he still believed her alive. But could that have happened without his somehow knowing it? How could she have died without his sensing it physically, or without the universe having made him aware of it? And shouldn’t sacred love be like a spider’s web that not only encircled them but, with a tremor of its threads, informed each of them when the other had abandoned the web? The author took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the rattle of the coach in order to concentrate on the inner music of his being, lest with a discordant note it had been trying to inform him for hours that Jane was dead. Yet his body did not appear to feel her death, and perhaps that was the strongest proof that she was still alive, for it was inconceivable to Wells that the person he most loved in the world had stopped existing without his perceiving it, or that he had not, out of solidarity, died seconds later from a heart attack, with a synchronicity more sophisticated than that evinced between twins. From the moment he found the note pinned to the Garfields’ door, Wells feared Jane might have been killed or fatally injured in the invasion, but he had forced himself not to think about it. And he must continue that strategy, sealing off the wellspring of pain until he had actually confirmed her death.

  The uneasy veneer of calm that lay over the Euston Road had spread to Regent’s Park. There was no one around, and in the park itself, everything appeared in order. Every tree, stone, and blade of grass was unharmed, doggedly clinging to the planet. If a tripod had passed that way, it must have been sufficiently moved by this oasis of vegetation in the heart of London to spare it. The only reminder that they were in the throes of a Martian invasion was a dog, which crossed in front of the coach carrying a severed arm in its mouth. At least someone was benefiting from this, Wells reflected, while Emma averted her gaze with a look of revulsion. But besides this macabre detail, the journey proceeded uneventfully until they glimpsed the contours of Primrose Hill.

  They came to a halt at the foot of the rise and then, not daring to abandon Clayton in the carriage, carried him to the top of the hill, where they propped him against a tree. From there, they were able to get a more precise idea of the total and utter destruction that was spreading across the city. London was expiring before them, wounded and in flames. To the north, the houses of Kilburn and Hampstead had been reduced to jagged heaps of rubble among which three or four tripods moved languidly. To the south, beyond the green waves of Regent’s Park, Soho was in flames, and through its streets, moving with the ungainly elegance of herons, a handful of tripods opened fire from time to time. Far off in the distance, they could make out what had once been the magnificent mansions of the Brompton Road, almost all razed to the ground. Westminster Abbey was reduced to a ruin. Farther off, through a veil of smoke, St. Paul’s Cathedral was still standing, although a Martian ray had perforated its dome. Wells contemplated the devastation before him with a feeling of humiliation more than of fear. It had taken so much time to build this vast city, this anthill where millions of souls lived out their lives without realizing they meant nothing to the universe, and only a single day to reduce it to ashes.

  A woman’s sudden cry brok
e the desolate silence.

  “Bertie!”

  Wells wheeled round toward where the voice was coming from. And then he saw her running across the hill toward him, flushed, bedraggled, hysterical, and alive, above all, alive. Jane had survived all this destruction, she had defied death, and even though she might soon perish, now she was alive, like him, she was still alive. Seeing her running toward him, Wells thought of doing the same to fuse in a passionate embrace, yielding to the sentimentality that the scene required. His pragmatism had always made him resist such gestures. Particularly when Jane had insisted on them in their daily life, where he felt these actions so characteristic of romantic literature were silly, out of tune with the everyday routine of domesticity. But now appeared to be the only moment in his life when such a gesture would be completely appropriate, de rigueur even, not to mention that he also found himself before an audience that would be let down if the scene ended any other way. And so, wary of disappointing everyone, Wells began trotting stiffly toward Jane, his wife, the person who meant more to him than anyone in the world. Jane gave a shriek of joy as the distance between them narrowed and flew across the grass, delighted to find him alive, for his wife had also been forced to endure the anguish of imagining her husband dead while she was still breathing. And this, the author reflected, was true love, this selfless, irrepressible joy, the perplexing knowledge that one meant more to someone than one’s own life, and the acceptance that someone else meant more to one than oneself. Wells and Jane, husband and wife, writer and muse, embraced amid all this cruel destruction, this planet on its knees awaiting the final death blow.

  “Bertie, you’re alive! You’re alive!” Jane cried between sobs.

  “Yes, Jane,” he said. “We’re alive.”

  “Melvin and Norah are dead, Bertie,” she told him between gasps. “It was horrible.”

  And Wells realized that Jane, too, had suffered. That, like him, she had her own tale to tell, an exciting adventure he would listen to with a tender smile, in the calm knowledge that, although at times it had seemed impossible, these perilous events had ended happily, in each other’s arms. Next to them, Murray and Emma beamed, moved by this miraculous reunion. The sun shone on the grass with the sweetness of dawn, and everything was so unequivocally beautiful that all of a sudden Wells felt euphoric, immortal, invincible, capable of kicking the Martians out all on his own. Yet one glance at the devastated city told him they were doomed: it was only a matter of time before the Martians gave the last knife thrust to this brick dragon and went around on foot killing anyone who had escaped the tripods. Yes, his euphoria was simply the final splendor of the wilting rose before it disintegrated in a shower of petals on the grass. But what the devil did it matter. He felt it and was happy, happier than ever before.