The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(132)

Charles shook his head, trying to chase away these thoughts. Why go on tormenting himself by insisting he was living a mistaken life, today of all days, when he needed every precious moment left to him? As soon as it was light, the Martians would drag them all from their cells, and they would have to return to work, to the draining task of building the purification machine. Charles had only a few hours until then, so he walked over to the small table in a corner of his cell, sat down, and took out the pen and notebook for which he had bartered five of his least rotten teeth. He had no idea what Ashton, his fellow prisoner who could procure anything, wanted them for, but he knew he himself would soon have no use for them. He had asked Ashton for these writing tools because he planned to put something down on paper, something he supposed could be described as a diary, although he did not intend to record his day-to-day life (which could be summed up in a few lines) but rather the events leading up to his present predicament. The one thing clear to him was that he had to write it before he died, which would be soon now. As if to confirm his fears, Charles was racked by another of the coughing fits that had been assailing him increasingly in the past few weeks. After it had passed, throat parched and lungs aching, Charles tried to loosen his iron collar with the same gesture he had once used on his bow tie. Then he knitted his brow, remaining silent for a few moments, gathering his thoughts before he began to write: DIARY OF CHARLES WINSLOW

12 February, 1900

My name is Charles Leonard Winslow; I am twenty-nine years old and a prisoner at the Martian work camp in Lewisham. But I shan’t waste the little time I have left writing about myself. Suffice it to say that before the invasion I wanted for nothing: I enjoyed a privileged position in society, a charming wife, and the perfect combination of cynicism and robust health necessary to be able to take full advantage of the daily pleasures life offered me. As things stand, I have been stripped of everything, both materially and spiritually, even my belief in myself. I have nothing left except the certainty that within a week I shall be dead. For that reason I am writing this diary, so that everything I have learned about the invaders will not die with me. For I know things about them that not everyone is aware of, and while this can no longer help me, it may yet prove of some use to others. I am conscious, however, of how unlikely it is that any human will ever read these pages. I need only look around me to realize this. And yet, something inside me makes me cling to the thought that one day, sooner or later, we will overcome the Martians. And if that happens, the information in these pages might play a part in it. Even if I am mistaken and my intuition is no more than the foolish longing of a madman, this diary might still provide the only evidence that Earth was not always ruled over by Martians or whatever they may be. No, over vast stretches of time, Earth belonged to Man, who came to believe he was lord and master of the universe.

Only a few exceptional minds, such as that of the author H. G. Wells, to whose memory I dedicate these pages, were able to observe the Cosmos with a clarity that helped them understand that not only were we not its only inhabitants, we were also probably not the most powerful. Wells announced this to the world in his novel The War of the Worlds, which, with their habitual arrogance, his fellow men read as if it were a simple work of fiction. No one believed anything like that could really come to pass. No one. And, I confess, neither did I, not because I believed we were alone and powerful, but because I had seen the future that awaited my grandchildren. Yes, I had seen the year 2000, and in it there was no trace of any Martians.

For that reason, on the day of the invasion, I found myself at Madame M——’s brothel, the exquisite sanctuary I frequented at least once a week. I seem to recall that the appearance of strange machines on Horsell Common, Byfleet golf course, and at Sevenoaks, Enfield, and Bexley, had already been announced in successive editions of the St. James’s Gazette. It gradually became clear that the machines were hostile, for some of them had opened fire on the bystanders, who had gathered around them as if they were a fairground attraction. Apparently, they made their way toward London on legs that looked like stilts, destroying everything in their path with their terrible heat ray. However, the newspaper assured its readers that there was no need for alarm, for, in an unprecedented display of military strength, the great British army was waiting for them on the outskirts of London and had created a cordon around the city. Rather than spread fear among the population, all of this caused a buzz of interest and anticipation. Keen to see their army defeat the invaders, which some claimed were Martians from outer space, many Londoners had traveled to the outskirts to witness the spectacular confrontation as advertised. However, this crowd of would-be onlookers had been swiftly turned back by the troops, foiled in their desire to see our soldiers give the enemy a drubbing. For reasons of security, nobody was permitted to leave London, and even the train stations had been closed down by order of the government. It was only possible to enter the city, and many of those fleeing Molesey, Walton, Weybridge, and adjacent towns were doing so in droves, flooding the streets with their vehicles crammed with luggage and valuables. According to these fugitives, the devastation in the outlying towns was terrible, and yet no one believed for a moment that we might lose the imminent battle. The final edition of the St. James’s Gazette announced the breakdown of telegraph communications, and with no more news coming through, we all waited to see what happened.

As one might imagine, this created some unease among the population, but no undue panic. And in my own case, I must confess it scarcely caused me any concern. Why should it, when I was convinced our powerful army would destroy these bizarre machines before they managed to march into London? There was no question in my mind that we would defeat the Martians, or whatever they were. It couldn’t be any other way, and not because their machines were marching toward us on ridiculous stilts, instead of soaring through the air with unquestionable superiority, as Wells had described them in his novel. No, we would defeat them because the future said we would. However much they terrified us, and however powerful they seemed, I was already sure of the outcome and therefore incapable of worrying about it. I only felt condescension for those who, incapable of putting two and two together, were afraid for their lives. And so, free from fear, I resolved to go about my daily life as usual. Alas, Victoria, my wife, did not share my peace of mind, despite also having traveled to the year 2000 and seen no sign of any Martian invasion. Much to my annoyance, she insisted on sitting out the battle with my cousin Andrew and his wife—her sister—and a few of our friends at my uncle’s mansion in Queen’s Gate. None of them seemed able to understand that there was nothing to fear.