The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(130)
A woman’s sudden cry broke 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.
Just then, someone began to applaud. Startled, the group turned as one toward the sound of the clapping. A few yards away, propped against a tree, they discovered a young man, apparently moved by the tender scene.
“I’m beginning to think love is man’s greatest invention,” he said, doffing his hat. “Don’t you remember me? I’m Charles Winslow.”
Wells recognized him instantly. Winslow was the young dandy who had burst into his house brandishing a pistol in the belief that he possessed a time machine like the one he wrote about in his novel. And despite the young man’s present dishevelment (his hair was tousled and his jacket soiled and torn), the author had to admit he had not lost his stunning good looks.
“Of course, Mr. Winslow,” he said, going over to shake Charles’s hand.
After greeting Wells, the young man noticed the millionaire and suddenly turned pale.
“Mr. Winslow, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” chuckled Murray.
“Perhaps I have,” Charles said hesitantly.
“Shake my hand and you’ll see you’re mistaken,” the millionaire said, stretching out his great paw. The two men shook hands warmly. “But we can discuss my resurrection another time. Allow me to introduce you to Miss Harlow.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Harlow,” Charles said, kissing her hand and dazzling her with his mischievously angelic smile. “Under other circumstances I would have asked you to dine with me, but I’m afraid there are no restaurants open in London. Or at least none that are worthy of you.”
“I’m glad to find you in such good spirits despite the invasion,” said the author, stepping in before Murray had a chance to fly off the handle.
“Well, I don’t think we need worry too much, Mr. Wells,” the young man replied, signaling the surrounding destruction with a wave of his hand. “Clearly we’re going to survive.”
“Do you really think so?” the author said, not trying to conceal his disbelief.
“Of course,” Charles assured him. “We already know that in the year 2000 our problem will be the automatons, not the Martians. This situation will clearly resolve itself.”
“I see.” Wells gave a resigned sigh. “And what are we supposed to do?”
“Leave it to the heroes, of course,” the young man replied.
“To the heroes?” Murray chortled. “You mean you?”
“Oh, no, Mr. Murray. You flatter me, but I wasn’t referring to myself. I was referring to a real hero,” said Charles, beckoning to a man standing a few yards from the group. “To someone who has come from the future to save us.”