The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(158)

We surveyed the gloomy catacomb uneasily. It appeared to be deserted.

“But . . . where are your parents?” I asked Curly.

“Here,” the child said, pointing to our surroundings.

“But there isn’t anyone else here, Curly, just us,” Emma protested gently, gazing uneasily after the child’s hand.

“They’re here,” Curly insisted stubbornly. “They’ve been here a long time.”

Somewhat bewildered by Curly’s insistence, we studied the vast chamber once more, peering into the shadows, but as far as we could see we were alone in there. I was about to ask Curly to explain himself when all of a sudden, Wells and Clayton, as though acting on a shared intuition, unhooked a pair of lanterns from the nearest column and edged their way cautiously toward the far wall. Intrigued, we all followed them, forming a kind of procession, while the children remained in the middle of the chamber. When the author and the inspector reached the wall, they each headed for a different corner. They raised their lanterns and began to examine it closely. As the lamplight shone onto the surface, we could see that it was divided into squares, like a checkerboard, each decorated with strange, vaguely oriental-looking symbols. Wells moved his lamp along the wall, revealing it to be covered in these chiseled boxes with their peculiar signs, which gave off a coppery glow, while Clayton did the same at the other end.

“Good God . . . ,” gasped the author.

“Good Lord . . . ,” Clayton’s voice echoed.

“What is it?” I asked, unable to fathom what was going on.

Wells wheeled round to face us, then looked nervously at the children, who were clustered together in the center of the chamber.

“They’ve brought us to see their parents—only their parents are their ancestors,” the author murmured in amazement.

“What do you mean, Mr. Wells?” I said, still puzzled.

“Look, Mr. Winslow.” Clayton beckoned me over. “What do you think each of these squares is?”

“I’ve no idea,” I avowed with irritation, in no mood to play guessing games.

“So you don’t know,” he replied disappointedly. Then he turned to the author. “But you know, don’t you, Mr. Wells?”

Wells nodded solemnly. They were the same as the ones he had seen on the spaceship hidden in the Chamber of Marvels.

“They are Martian symbols,” he said. “And these squares on the wall, Mr. Winslow, are tombs.”

Tombs? Wells’s words startled me, as they did the others. And as he spoke we wheeled around with a mixture of confusion and unease, taking in the rest of the walls in the vast chamber, which we could now see was a shimmering mosaic of tombstones, marking hundreds of niches dug into the rock.

“Are we in a Martian cemetery?” Murray asked.

“It looks like it, sir,” Harold replied despondently.

But in my profound bewilderment, I scarcely heard what they were saying. I was still having difficulty accepting the bizarre notion that the Martians had not arrived on Earth hours before as I had thought, but had been living among us for who knew how long. Yet if this was some kind of Martian burial ground, then these children were . . . Oh, God . . . I contemplated them in disbelief. They were still standing in a huddle in the center of the crypt, a few yards away from us, regarding us with faint curiosity. They had done what we’d asked and seemed to be waiting with indifference to see what our next whim would be, perhaps hoping we would let them get back to their games. And to me they looked just like ordinary children, with their skin still smooth and unblemished and their young, miniature bodies. Children like ours: fragile, innocent, human. But they weren’t. They only had the appearance of human children. And although I found this difficult to take in, doubtless because no Martian had yet mutated in front of my eyes, I noticed my companions were having the same difficulty: they were all staring solemnly at the children, trying to conceal the look of fear creeping over their faces.

“One of the children is missing,” I heard Emma say beside me.

“Yes,” Jane confirmed.

“Right,” Clayton murmured in an imperious tone, ignoring Emma and Jane. “Let’s not panic. We’ll take advantage of the situation. Yes, that’s what we’ll do. Wipe that look of terror off your faces, we don’t want to make these delightful Martians suspicious. I want to see calm smiles, everyone.”

He said these last words in a gruff whisper that sounded like a threat. Then, clearing his throat, like a tenor preparing to go onstage, he sauntered over to the children. The Martian children, I should clarify.

“Hey, Curly,” he called out, crouching down in front of them. “Do you live here?”

Curly looked away from us, turning his ringleted head toward Clayton.

“No, of course not. What a silly idea!” the child declared. “We live up there. But he told us we couldn’t play up there today, because it would be dangerous, that’s why we came down here.”

“Of course, of course, that way you could play safely,” Clayton calmed the child. Then he gave us a sly smile before resuming his conversation with the boy. “And who told you that, Curly? Who is ‘he’?”

“He’s the Envoy, sir. The one we’ve been waiting for. The one they’ve been waiting for, too,” said the child, pointing at the tombs.