The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(147)
But whatever the case, whether to beg her forgiveness, or for some other reason, the captain had never stopped waiting. He rose each morning because every day could be the day when he might see her again. And he went on eating, breathing, and keeping in shape because it helped him to get up each morning. Charles felt sorry for Shackleton. Here, mechanically wolfing down his revolting puree unfit for a pig, was the greatest hero the world had ever known, the savior of humanity, reduced to a nameless prisoner, hunched and filthy among thousands of others. But no, Shackleton wasn’t like the others. Shackleton clung to his hope. And no one, not even a monster from outer space, could take that away from him.
“I didn’t see Victoria, either,” the captain blurted out suddenly.
Charles said nothing. He felt an overwhelming sorrow upon realizing that the captain assumed he was just as anguished not to have received any news of his wife. But it wasn’t true, Charles acknowledged bitterly; he cared no more about Victoria’s fate than his own. Attempting to change the subject, Charles pointed to the purification machine glowing in the distance.
“If only Mr. Wells could see this,” he said, “I’m sure one glance and he would know exactly what it does.”
Shackleton made a noise that Charles wasn’t sure whether to interpret as a laugh of approval or a grunt of disapproval.
It began to rain, one of those strange showers that had become more and more frequent of late. Every two or three days, tiny green crystals would fall from the sky, as though it were raining gemstones. Within seconds the ground was carpeted in a slithery green film, as though the skin of some bizarre insect or reptile had grown over the Earth’s surface. After a while, these bizarre crystals began to melt, giving off poisonous fumes that stained the mist an emerald green, while the greenish liquid they released mixed with the mud to produce a kind of malodorous green moss, from which strange plants grew, spreading over every surface with extraordinary tenaciousness, like some repulsive web. None of the prisoners had ever seen anything like these vile weeds, which had slowly begun to invade the camp, covering the rocks and trees in a dark green shroud. These putrid plants had also grown up along the borders of the camp, where the crystals created stagnant pools, creeping steadily toward the Earthling trees, adorning them with their sinister drapes, turning them into dark, menacing forests, which in fairy tales lead to witches’ lairs. At first, Charles and Shackleton had spent hours discussing these curious changes to the climate and vegetation: the crystals were simply the colorful culmination of the disturbing coppery hues that so often stained the sky, the sudden tornados that rattled their cells, or the dead birds that had rained from the sky in the first few months, blanketing the fields at dawn. They were convinced this was caused by the pyramids, like the one they were helping to build, which were springing up all over the planet, and they often discussed whether such changes would be reversible when the long-awaited uprising took place and those monstrosities were destroyed along with all the rest. But gradually they had become resigned to the changes, as though things had always been that way, as though from the beginning of time on Earth the skies had always turned the color of rusty copper, and showers of green crystals had always filled the fields. In fact, for months now, they barely spoke about anything much.
Charles and Shackleton stood up, protecting themselves from the hail of crystals, and joined the group of prisoners whom the Martians had begun assigning their daily tasks. Charles was sent to work on one of the upper levels of the tower. As always, his day was grueling, and yet he was almost glad of all the physical exertion, because besides exhausting him, it also stopped him from thinking. Back in his cell, Charles took out the diary and resumed his story where he had left off.
DIARY OF CHARLES WINSLOW
14 February, 1900
With our plans to bring reinforcements from the future frustrated, Shackleton resumed his pessimistic tune, insisting again and again that he was no hero, that he could do nothing without his weapons and his men, while I reminded him again and again that only moments before he had destroyed one of the tripods single-handed, using only his formidable gifts as a strategist. And besides, why this need to travel to the year 2000? Hadn’t he formed his brave army of the future out of a few exhausted survivors? Then we would do the same: we would comb the ruins and assemble a group of proud, able-bodied men, whom he could mold into the resistance fighters we needed, an elite band of soldiers devoted to the cause. I was convinced that once they knew who Shackleton was, they were sure to follow him, as his warriors of the future had done. After a few long arguments in which I harangued the captain as a general would his troops, I succeeded in coaxing him out of his despair, and he showed some willingness to fight. However, before proceeding with any plan, he insisted on going back to Queen’s Gate to make sure our wives and friends were still safe and sound.
When I saw how concerned he was for Claire, I understood why great heroes are nearly always loners. Love makes them vulnerable. I knew almost nothing about Captain Shackleton’s private life in the year 2000, only the brief biography Mr. Murray had given the passengers before they climbed aboard the Cronotilus. Yet I thought it likely that in his time, the captain had been a sullen, solitary fellow, whose heart was filled with loathing and the desire to destroy, and who would have forsaken love and a female companion with whom to share the terrible burden of defending the human race. However, the Shackleton before me now, the Shackleton who lived among us, was a man in love and apparently unwilling to put anything before his beloved Claire, even the whole of the human race. Obviously I couldn’t ask him, as I would have liked, if he could damn well forget about his wife for once, much less argue that a hero should be prohibited from falling in love while on duty. And so I agreed to go back to my uncle’s house, but not before convincing him to find some elevated spot with a good view over London, where we could get a clearer idea of the progress and extent of the invasion. This would help us to reach Queen’s Gate without any mishaps and to plan our next moves. We decided to go to Primrose Hill, that natural balcony overlooking the city, where Londoners spent their Sundays, and to this end we crossed the Euston Road. It was the luckiest decision we could have made, for there we bumped into another group of people who had survived that terrible night. What they had endured, together with the view from Primrose Hill of a London brought to its knees, had discouraged them to the point where what they needed most was a hero. And I had brought with me the greatest hero of all.