by Zdenko Basic
He did not turn aside as he had meant to do, but went on, and passed through the wall of the circumference and out upon the rocks, and his eyes were always upon the sunlit ice and snow.
He saw their infinite beauty, and his imagination soared over them to the things beyond he was now to resign for ever.
He thought of that great free world he was parted from, the world that was his own, and he had a vision of those further slopes, distance beyond distance, with Bogotá, a place of multitudinous stirring beauty, a glory by day, a luminous mystery by night, a place of palaces and fountains and statues and white houses, lying beautifully in the middle distance. He thought how for a day or so one might come down through passes, drawing ever nearer and nearer to its busy streets and ways. He thought of the river journey, day by day, from great Bogotá to the still vaster world beyond, through towns and villages, forest and desert places, the rushing river day by day, until its banks receded and the big steamers came splashing by, and one had reached the sea—the limitless sea, with its thousand islands, its thousands of islands, and its ships seen dimly far away in their incessant journeyings round and about that greater world. And there, unpent by mountains, one saw the sky—the sky, not such a disc as one saw it here, but an arch of immeasurable blue, a deep of deeps in which the circling stars were floating. . . .
His eyes scrutinised the great curtain of the mountains with a keener inquiry.
For example, if one went so, up that gully and to that chimney there, then one might come out high among those stunted pines that ran round in a sort of shelf and rose still higher and higher as it passed above the gorge. And then? That talus might be managed. Thence perhaps a climb might be found to take him up to the precipice that came below the snow; and if that chimney failed, then another farther to the east might serve his purpose better. And then? Then one would be out upon the amber-lit snow there, and halfway up to the crest of those beautiful desolations.
He glanced back at the village, then turned right round and regarded it steadfastly.
He thought of Medina-saroté, and she had become small and remote.
He turned again towards the mountain wall, down which the day had come to him.
Then very circumspectly he began to climb.
When sunset came he was no longer climbing, but he was far and high. He had been higher, but he was still very high. His clothes were torn, his limbs were bloodstained, he was bruised in many places, but he lay as if he were at his ease, and there was a smile on his face.
From where he rested the valley seemed as if it were in a pit and nearly a mile below. Already it was dim with haze and shadow, though the mountain summits around him were things of light and fire. The mountain summits around him were things of light and fire, and the little details of the rocks near at hand were drenched with subtle beauty—a vein of green mineral piercing the grey, the flash of crystal faces here and there, a minute, minutely beautiful orange lichen close beside his face. There were deep mysterious shadows in the gorge, blue deepening into purple, and purple into a luminous darkness, and overhead was the illimitable vastness of the sky. But he heeded these things no longer, but lay quite inactive there, smiling as if he were satisfied merely to have escaped from the valley of the Blind in which he had thought to be King.
The glow of the sunset passed, and the night came, and still he lay peacefully contented under the cold clear stars.
H.G. Wells
Herbert George Wells was born on September 21, 1866 in Bromley, Kent County, England, and in his lifetime became notable for many great achievements as an author and great thinker, one of which was being credited as one of the fathers of the science fiction genre. He had an underprivileged upbringing—his mother, Sarah Neal, a maid to the riches; his father, Joseph Wells, an unsuccessful businessman and professional cricket player. At a young age he apprenticed many places: as a draper, a chemist’s assistant, and a pupil-teacher. But time after time he failed at each role. He was saved by a scholarship to attend the Normal School of Science in London, where he studied biology until 1887. And in 1890 he earned a Bachelor of Science degree in zoology from the University of London External Programme. The experiences and ideologies of Herbert’s youth defined and inspired his writing career for the rest of his life, as exemplified by the numerous publications authored by him. At the age of 79, on August 13, 1946, he died at home in London, but his life lives on in words.
Additional Steampunk Classics Await. . . .
Steampunk: Poe.
ILLUSTRATED BY ZDENKO BASIC AND MANUEL SUMBERAC
Featuring a collection of stories and poems by Edgar Allan Poe. These unabridged classics are heightened by equally dark and mysterious Steampunk illustrations.
Steampunk:
Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.
ILLUSTRATED BY ZDENKO BASIC AND MANUEL SUMBERAC
An artful celebration of Mary Shelley’s classic horror story. Steampunk-inspired illustrations placed throughout the work shine a new haunting light on the original novel.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Contents
Introduction
The Time Machine
The War of the Worlds
The Country of the Blind
