The Map of the Sky

by Félix J Palma

  “I’m afraid so. The Martians have marched into London and . . .” I paused, unsure how best to describe the devastation I had seen, but there was no way of telling them gently. “Well . . . they’re destroying the city. Our army has been routed, and there’s no one left to protect us, we are entirely at their mercy.”

  There was a murmur of consternation all round the room. A couple of the maids began to weep. My wife and her sister clutched each other, while Mr. Peachey put his arm around his wife, who nestled her head on his chest like a scared child. Next to me, my cousin gave a sudden sigh.

  Apparently, until then, Andrew had refused to believe there was an invasion, despite the series of blasts resounding in the distance, which could still be heard downstairs despite the cheery music. Seeing my cousin’s unease, I realized that deep down he wanted me to be right in thinking the invasion wouldn’t happen; he seemed more let down than afraid, as if I had somehow failed him by being mistaken in my predictions. I contemplated the others in the room; my words seemed to be the command they had been waiting for to begin trembling. “My God,” several of the servants murmured in tremulous unison, exchanging looks of despair.

  “There’s nothing to fear,” I reassured them, even though I, too, had difficulty believing this after what I’d seen aboveground. “Everything will be all right, I’m sure of it.”

  Victoria shook her head, and her lips set in a fold of sorrow and ridicule. When would I admit defeat?

  “What makes you say that, Mr. Winslow?” Claire asked expectantly, raising her head from her husband’s chest.

  I took a deep breath before replying. I knew I’d have difficulty convincing my impromptu audience, and indeed, after the latest events, even I was beginning to consider the possibility that my logic was flawed. Still, I tried to put my argument across as clearly as I could, ignoring my wife’s disapproving looks.

  “As you know, Mrs. Peachey, some of those here, including yourself, have traveled to the year 2000 and have taken a stroll through a future where the only threat to the human race was the automatons. Clearly that means the invasion to which we are being subjected cannot flourish. I’m convinced something will happen soon to put an end to it, although I still don’t know what. The future tells us this.”

  “I wouldn’t take much notice of the future if I were you, for as the word suggests, it’s something that hasn’t happened yet,” her husband interjected.

  Annoyed by his interruption, I looked at him with curiosity, raising my eyebrows exaggeratedly, and Claire hastily introduced us.

  “Charles, this is my husband, John Peachey,” she said.

  Hearing my name, the man promptly offered his hand, as though fearing he might break some rule of etiquette were he to delay for a few seconds. But that didn’t prevent me from shaking it with a bored expression. I must confess that my first impressions of this Peachey fellow were less than favorable, and not only because he had the nerve to contradict me. I’ve always felt an uncontrollable dislike of men who underestimate their own potential, and who squander it as a result, and Peachey was most definitely one of those men. He was a strapping youth, whose perfectly proportioned face was endowed with a pair of fiery eyes and a noble chin, and yet he appeared to devote his morning ablutions to sabotaging these attributes, obtaining through his meticulous efforts a dull, pusillanimous individual whose lacquered hair was combed down over his brow, and who wore a pair of enormous spectacles. It was as if he lacked the personality to go with his physique, the determination needed to make full use of his formidable appearance. Everything about him was insipid, self-effacing, contrary to his nature. Although I had never met him, I knew Peachey was an honorary director of Barclay & Company, where Claire’s father was a major shareholder. One look at the man told me it was not due to his assiduous, aggressive business acumen that he was occupying that coveted office in Lombard Street.

  “Good, now that we have finally been introduced, Mr. Peachey, may I ask what you were insinuating just now with your naïve comment?” I said with thinly veiled rudeness.

  “I was saying that the future hasn’t happened yet, Mr. Winslow,” he hastened to reply. “It doesn’t exist yet, it isn’t tangible. And so, basing one’s suppositions on something that hasn’t happened yet would seem to me very—”

  “Ah, you appear to know a great deal about the future, Mr. Peachey!” I interjected, with that perfect mixture of sarcasm and civility that only a man of breeding knows how to carry off. “Have you ever visited the year 2000? I have, and I assure you it all seemed very tangible to me. But I don’t recall seeing you there. Which expedition did you go on?”

  Peachey looked at me for a few moments in silence, as though unsure how to respond to my exquisite ambiguity.

  “No . . . I’ve never visited the future . . . ,” he confessed awkwardly.

  “Never? Oh, what a shame, my dear Mr. Peachey. Then I suppose you’ll agree with me when I say that he who pronounces on what he has not seen runs the risk, far too costly in my view, of making a blunder and looking foolish in front of others,” I said, smiling amiably at him. “Consequently, before you continue down that path, allow me to inform you, and Claire will doubtless back me up, that the future does exist. Yes, somewhere in time that future is happening at this very moment, and it is no less real than this instant in which we are conversing. And, unlike you, I can vouch for this, for I have been to the year 2000. A year in which the human race finds itself on the verge of extinction due to the evil automatons, not the Martians, even if thanks to a man named Derek Shackleton we will succeed in defeating them.”

  “I wish Captain Shackleton were here now,” Harold murmured behind me.

  Peachey glanced at him with sudden interest.

  “I don’t think one man could do much,” he said dryly, shrugging his shoulders.

  The banker’s second comment nettled me even more than his first. Not only did this man appear impervious to my disdain, choosing to ignore my last remark and responding to that of the vulgar coachman instead, he also dared to comment on what Shackleton could or could not do.

  “Captain Shackleton isn’t just anyone, Mr. Peachey,” I said, trying not to show my annoyance. “Captain Shackleton is a hero. A hero, do you understand?”

  “Even so, I doubt very much whether in this situation he could—”

  “I’m afraid, Mr. Peachey, I couldn’t disagree with you more,” I interrupted him once again, with deliberate contempt. “However, this is no time to become embroiled in what has the makings of a fascinating discussion, and which under other circumstances would have given me great pleasure, for there is nothing I like more than an exchange of opinions as clever as they are frivolous. I shall simply point out to you that if you had traveled to the future, you would know what a true hero is and what he can achieve.” After smiling at him politely, I could not help offering a final barbed remark: “How rude of me, Mr. Peachey; why, I’ve only just realized that, not having enjoyed as comfortable a position two years ago as you do now, the price of a ticket was doubtless beyond your means.”

  I watched Peachey purse his lips to stop himself from saying something that might have spoiled his outward show of refinement. Then, having stifled this urge, he tilted his head to one side, searching his mind for a more appropriate but equally stinging retort, and I realized that without meaning to we had entered into a verbal sparring match. While the banker was busy trying to think up a reply, I took the opportunity to glance quickly about the room. Everyone had stopped talking and was looking at us: the servants had taken a backseat, no doubt incapable of following the discussion, excepting Harold, who was sitting closer to Lucy, Madeleine, and my wife. They had risen from their chairs, alarmed by the dangerous direction our conversation was taking, while a step away from us, tense as the strings on a violin, stood Claire and Andrew. I grinned at Peachey, my excitement doubled by having such a large audience. The gramophone’s lively melody cut through the silence.

  “What do you know a
bout my life two years ago?” my adversary said at last, barely able to contain his agitation.

  I shook my head slowly, disappointed at Peachey’s response. He had made the classic beginner’s error: even a child knows that answering with a question forcibly exposes one to the wit of the person who must respond to it.

  “As much as I need to know, Mr. Peachey,” I retorted calmly, swirling my glass. “That you appeared quite literally out of nowhere, with no name and no money, only to marry the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in London.”

  “What are you insinuating, Charles?” Claire chimed in.

  I turned toward her with a movement as theatrical as it was graceful.

  “Insinuating? Oh, God forbid I should insinuate anything, Claire!” I said, giving her my most dazzling smile. “Insinuations rarely satisfy the one who makes them, for they force those who are blameless to defend themselves, whilst the guilty can simply ignore them without arousing anyone’s suspicions. That’s why I have always preferred being labeled impudent rather than a hypocrite, my dear, not because I care about other people’s opinion of me, but because I like everyone to know mine.”

  “Oh we all know perfectly well how you love giving your opinion, Charles. But allow me to remind you that in this instance you are referring to someone about whom you know nothing,” Claire retorted, visibly upset. “And as you yourself warned John a few moments ago, he who pronounces on things he knows nothing about runs the risk, far too costly in your view, of looking foolish in front of others.”

  I positively beamed.

  “But I’m the first to admit my ignorance, Claire!” I exclaimed, spreading my arms and glancing around me with a look of innocence. “And I’d like nothing more than to remedy it. My dear Claire, speculating about where your mysterious husband sprang from has been the favorite pastime of all London for the past two years! I’m not exaggerating when I say that since the tragic death of Mr. Murray it has been the most popular topic of discussion in the clubs and salons.”

  “Charles, I think everyone here will agree that there is a fine line between impudence and downright ill manners, and tonight you seem intent on stepping over that line,” I heard my wife say. Clearly, whilst considering our argument too important to dispel with a tender embrace, she did not mind breaking our silence with a reproach.

  “My dear, it is impossible not to take an interest in another person’s life without being ill-mannered. If not, one risks falling into mendacity,” I said, turning to her. “You better than anyone ought to know that, or do you intend to put me in the awkward position of reminding you in front of everyone that yours was one of the sharpest tongues when commenting on the matter behind your dear friend’s back?”

  I admit that my comment was too much of a poisoned dart, but one cannot always judge these things properly. Victoria bit her lip, suppressing her rage, and I confess I felt a pang of remorse, even though in those days I was convinced that remorse was a luxury I could ill afford.

  “You pride yourself on your exquisite manners, Mr. Winslow,” Peachey intervened, at last forgoing his wife’s protection and stepping valiantly into the fray, “yet you don’t seem to know how to treat your wife, much less to make her happy, as I do mine.”

  I wheeled round, ready to fend off his attack, but the accuracy of his blow caught me off guard, and, just as even the finest swordsman can make a false move, I mistakenly answered him with a question.

  “And how did your sharp mind arrive at that conclusion, Mr. Peachey?”

  Peachey used my slip to better advantage than I could have imagined, mirroring my smirk to perfection.

  “Because, as we all noticed, you left her here alone, while you went out to attend to apparently more pressing matters.”

  I had to clench my fists so as not to reveal the pain his answer caused me, and I confess, when I replied, I was hard put to maintain my habitual composure.

  “I don’t think you are best placed to judge the urgency of my affairs, Mr. Peachey. But at least I decide what I do or don’t do in the light of the affection I feel for my wife, and not for fear of upsetting the person to whom I owe my position.”

  Peachey pursed his lips once more.

  “Do you dare question my love for Mrs. Peachey?” he demanded, no longer bothering to conceal his anger.

  I grinned: the time had come to administer the killer punch.

  “My dear Mr. Peachey, I couldn’t possibly do such a thing without belittling one of society’s most beautiful and interesting young ladies. But, make no mistake, if I were to dare to question your love for our adorable Claire, attributing it to something other than her myriad qualities, what I would actually be calling into question would be your manhood.”

  Peachey clenched his jaw, trying hard to contain his rage. This he managed by snorting a little, the way some animals do.

  “Charles, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” Claire protested behind me.

  “My dear Claire, you women are very good at believing whatever suits you,” I replied, turning toward her, while out of the corner of my eye I observed Peachey remove his spectacles, close them, and place them in his jacket pocket very carefully, like someone officiating at a church service.

  “Don’t speak to my wife like that, Mr. Winslow,” he said calmly, making sure his spectacles were properly protected.

  The fact that he did not deign to look at me enraged me more than what he said.

  “Is that an order, John?” I said, grinning at his veiled threat and spreading my arms in front of him, as if to convey my bewilderment.

  “I trust I expressed myself clearly enough for you to be in no doubt, my dear, ill-mannered fellow,” he retorted.

  And what followed happened so quickly I’m unable to describe it as precisely as I’d like. All I remember is Peachey grabbing my wrist with an impossibly swift movement and finding myself with my right arm twisted behind my back. Then, a foot kicked my leg out from under me, and before I knew what had hit me, the room tilted sideways, and, like a listing vessel, I ended up with my face pressed into the carpet. Peachey was on top of me, effectively immobilizing me under the weight of one of his legs. Each time I tried to move, I felt a pain shoot down my arm, almost preventing me from breathing.

  “That’s enough, John,” I heard Claire say in a clear, steady voice.

  Like a panther suddenly pacified by a maiden’s dulcet tones, Peachey released his quarry. I felt him stand up, while I remained where I was, my face half buried in the carpet, hiding a humiliating grimace of pain caused by the ache in my arm.

  “Charles . . .” Claire spoke to me once more in a gentle, almost motherly tone. “I’m going to agree with you about one of the things you said: Captain Shackleton is indeed a hero, an exceptional man who is capable of saving our planet from the automatons—”

  “Claire, please . . . ,” I heard her husband implore, while he shifted awkwardly on his feet, inches from my face.

  “No, John,” his wife interrupted, “Mr. Winslow is an old friend and must be made aware of his mistakes so that he has the opportunity to apologize, as I have no doubt his honor as a gentleman will dictate.”

  “But . . . ,” her husband replied timidly.

  “However, Charles,” I heard Claire resume. I still didn’t turn around, keeping my face pressed to the floor, sensing that no matter what she said, there was nothing I could say to redeem myself. “There’s something else you should know about Captain Shackleton. Derek Shackleton isn’t just a great hero. He is also a man who is capable of renouncing glory for the woman he loves, of traveling back in time to be by her side, even if this means having to conceal his true identity behind the guise of a simple bank director.”

  I raised my head from the carpet with as much dignity as I could muster, and managed to address her feet. “What the devil are you trying to say, Claire?”

  Her voice floated down to me as gently as a feather. “That you are in the presence of your beloved Captain Shackleton.�
�

  “W-what?” I stammered, completely bewildered.

  My gaze moved slowly up the banker’s powerful legs, at the sides of which hung his enormous paws, over his waist and his broad chest, settling at last on his face, from which, unhindered by spectacles, his large, intense eyes were now flashing. For what seemed like an eternity, I contemplated with amazement the calm, indomitable countenance, which from below had the air of an Olympian god. Then, like a reflection in a steamed-up mirror, my memory of the brave Captain Shackleton, savior of the human race, was superimposed on the man who, moments before, I had sought to humiliate. No one had ever seen Shackleton’s face, because his helmet had covered all except his chin, but I had to confess Peachey’s chin had a similarly noble air. Could it be true, then? Was this spineless, timid banker really Captain Shackleton? Peachey stretched out the same hand with which moments before he had forced me to the ground and offered to help me up. I accepted, still unable to believe this was Shackleton, and he hauled me, half dazed, to my feet.

  “You’re pulling my leg,” I said, still refusing to believe it. “You can’t be Captain Shackleton.”

  “Of course he is, Charles.” Claire was adamant. Then she looked at me with a dreamy smile. “Derek and I met two years ago . . . although, strictly speaking, our first meeting hasn’t happened yet, because it took place in the year 2000. But the fact is, it all began during one of Murray’s Time Travel’s expeditions to the future, although he had to travel to our time for—”

  “Hold on, Claire, hold on . . .” I tried to interrupt, completely flummoxed.

  “Well, all that isn’t important now. I can explain another time,” she said, ignoring my protest. “The fact is, Charles, we fell in love. And Derek decided to leave everything and stay in the present with me, the woman he loved.”

  “But . . . that’s impossible, Claire,” I said, incapable of reacting.

  “No it isn’t, Charles. That’s what happened. Why would we lie to you?” she said, genuinely touched by my bewilderment. “My husband is Captain Derek Shackleton, the savior of the human race.”