The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(159)
“Oh, I see. And have you been waiting for him for a long time?”
“Yes, sir, a very long time. We almost thought he wasn’t going to come.”
“I see . . .” Clayton moistened his lips and exchanged a meaningful look with Wells, as though they shared some secret information. “And is he down here, too, Curly?”
“Yes.”
Clayton swallowed hard.
“Good, good.” He smiled. “And could you take us to him?”
“Why?” Curly looked at the inspector askance. “Do you want to kill him because of what he’s doing to you?”
“Kill him? Why of course not, Curly,” the inspector replied with a casual wave of his hand. “How could you think such a thing?”
“Why then?”
“Just to talk to him, Curly.” The inspector shrugged, playing it down.
“Talk to him about what?”
“Er . . . well, about grown-up things, you know,” Clayton vacillated. “Nothing very interesting, in any case.”
“Do you think we wouldn’t understand?” the boy asked in a faintly menacing tone, which struck me as all the more threatening for being cloaked in that innocent childlike voice.
“I didn’t say that, Curly.”
“Because I think we would.”
“One of the children is missing,” I heard Emma whisper again behind me, in a low, quavering voice.
I studied the group of children standing motionless, listening to the conversation between Curly and the inspector. There was something so malevolent and inhuman about their concentration that it sent a shiver down my spine.
“Of course, of course,” I heard Clayton reassuring Curly. “I don’t doubt it, but—”
“We’re cleverer than you think,” Curly insisted quietly, fixing his dark, terribly empty eyes on the inspector, who appeared to totter slightly, as if he was about to lose his balance, “and we understand things you could never comprehend.”
“Oh for God’s sake! That’s enough!” Murray cried. He plunged his hand into my pocket and snatched my pistol. Before I had time to react, he leapt in front of Curly, placing the barrel against his head, and said, “Listen to me, kid: I don’t know what you understand, or even what you are, and, frankly, I don’t care. All we want to know is who is responsible for this damned invasion, and where to find him. And you, my dear little children, are going to help us do that. Otherwise, you can be sure I’ll shoot you. If there’s one thing I detest more than Martians, it’s children.”
We heard a laugh ring out from somewhere in the room. And a voice said, “Would you be capable of taking the most sacred life of all, that of an innocent child? Is it not written in your Holy Scriptures, ‘Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of God’?”
As one, we peered into the dense surrounding gloom, trying to make out who had spoken. Then, the shadows seemed to congeal and we instantly discovered more than twenty people encircling us. For the most part, they were middle-aged men, who, judging from their apparel, came from every conceivable social class. Before we could react, the children scurried behind them, and Murray found himself pointing his pistol at air. The one who had spoken was standing a few steps closer than the others. He was an elderly, dignified-looking gentleman wearing a black cassock and a collar. Unlike the others, who were glaring at us menacingly, the old priest wore a smile of amused satisfaction. I noticed then that he was holding the hand of little Hobo, who must have gone to warn them while the others kept us occupied. Skipping and singing gaily, the children had led us into a trap. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Murray aim his gun at the man who had spoken. Clayton, Harold, and Shackleton immediately followed suit. I simply piled close behind them with the others, cursing the fact that, stupidly, I had no weapon and was therefore unable to act.
“Oh, what a proud gesture, so touchingly human,” the old man declared when he saw all our pistols pointing at him. “But do you really think shooting us will get you anywhere?”
Those brandishing the guns stared at one another, unsure what to do next, but they continued pointing at the Martians. Our pigheadedness amused the old man, who spread his wrinkled hands in a gesture of peace.
“Gentlemen, please. Don’t make us kill you; you know how easy that would be. Put down your weapons and surrender,” he urged in his melodious voice. “Those who do will receive His mercy: ‘Be still and know that I am God,’ Psalm Forty-Six, verse ten,” he recited, with a smile of infinite compassion. “After all, I only want to take you where you want to go: He wishes to meet you as much as you wish to meet Him. One of you, in particular . . .” He stepped forward, stretching out his hands, palms upturned. “Let us go to Him in peace, brothers: ‘My times are in thy hand: deliver me from the hand of mine enemies, and from them that persecute me. Make thy face to shine upon thy servant,’ ” he intoned, gazing at Wells with a strange look of tenderness, before adding in a whisper: “Psalm Thirty-One, verses fifteen and sixteen.”
XXXVI
CHARLES AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING, HIS FACE IN A pool of blood. From the taste of blood in his mouth, he assumed he had hemorrhaged from the nose during the night. When he tried to wipe the blood off with the sleeve of his jacket, two of his remaining teeth came out. He pulled himself up laboriously, sweating and shivering at the same time. The simple act of breathing had become a torment: his throat burned and his lungs felt as if they were filled with hot coals. This was proof enough that he had little time left, perhaps even less than he had thought.