The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(33)

After walking some twenty yards, Reynolds realized he would not have the strength to carry his arsenal all the way to where the flying object had crashed, and when one of the pistols slipped from his belt for a third time, he decided to leave it where it lay. Next he dropped one of the muskets, and thus, gradually shedding his weapons, he began closing the distance, straining not to lose sight of the mountains as the fog thickened. Much to Reynolds’s despair, they soon vanished altogether in the accursed mist, as did the rest of the landscape. He suddenly realized in bewilderment that he could not see anything around him. Through his drunken haze, he dimly perceived that what he was doing was complete madness and doomed to failure. Not only had he lost sight of his objective in the dense fog but he could no longer see his way back to the ship. With a weary gesture, he flung the last musket to the ground. There was no need to play the hero anymore. But what was he to do? He needed to think, to weigh up the situation. Clearly he could not stay where he was, out on the ice, exposed to that merciless cold. Unfortunately, his head was spinning and his thoughts were muddled as he flailed around desperately in search of a solution. He was forced to accept that he was stuck in the middle of nowhere and too drunk to think straight. Not only that, but he must not forget the monster from the stars, which was doubtless lurking out there, perhaps even spying on him at that very moment from behind the wall of fog, smacking its lips at the sight of his vulnerability. Suddenly aware that he was at the creature’s mercy, Reynolds was seized with the same terror he had felt when he saw Doctor Walker’s dismembered body. He grabbed one of the two remaining pistols and aimed it frantically in all directions. The monster could pounce on him from any side, he realized with horror. He thought he glimpsed a shadow in the fog but could not tell whether it was real or a figment of his overwrought imagination. His fear reached an intolerable pitch, causing his arm to twitch uncontrollably, and all of a sudden he found himself running helter-skelter through the fog, he did not know where or why, feeling the monster’s breath on his neck, aware that his panic would spur him on as far as his legs would carry him.

It was then he tripped over something and landed flat on his face on the ice. Half dazed, he got to his knees and felt his way nervously in the fog, trying to discover whatever had made him stumble. What the devil could it be out there in the middle of the snow? Then his hands touched a boot, which seemed to rise from the snow like a grotesque mushroom. Mystified, the explorer clutched it for a few moments, as though warming it, unsure of what to do next. Then, as his shock subsided, he slowly began to dig in the snow. He soon managed to excavate the calf that was attached to the boot and, a few handfuls of snow later, the thigh that was joined to the calf. He went on digging, gradually exposing an entire corpse buried under the snow. Finally out of the white grave a reddened face loomed, still blurry beneath a thin layer of ice that covered it like a widow’s veil. Gingerly, he brushed the ice off with one of his gloves. And, gazing at him from his snowy grave and from the great beyond with the astonished look of someone receiving an unexpected visitor, was Carson. Reynolds’s jaw dropped; he was unable to comprehend what he was seeing. Then his eye fell upon the horribly familiar wound to Carson’s abdomen, which had been sliced open. Bewildered, the explorer tried to fathom what the devil Carson was doing there. It must have been him on watch on the poop deck, and when he saw Reynolds leave the ship in that drunken state on his way to God only knew where, he had followed him, unluckily as it turned out, for the monster had found Carson first.

When he realized this, Reynolds leapt to his feet and cast a horrified glance about him. The demon was out there watching him. He knew that now; he could sense its presence. It had ripped Carson’s guts out, and it was only a matter of time before it tore Reynolds limb from limb, because that was what the monster did, that was its way of communicating with them. Yes, was it not clear enough to him now that there was apparently no guarantee that a superior being would show any kindness or consideration toward the poor, inferior races in the Cosmos? Beset by panic, Reynolds did the only thing he could do in his situation: he ran. He ran in any direction, on and on through the fog. He ran as he had never run in his life. He ran with the unnerving sensation of not knowing whether he was running away from the monster or straight into its clutches.





VIII

WHEN REYNOLDS GLIMPSED THE DARK OUTLINE of the Annawan in the distance, faintly illuminated by the dozen lanterns, his one thought was that the Creator’s hand had guided him there. How else could his frenzied path through the fog, now running, now walking exhausted, have led him to exactly where he wanted to be? He hurried toward the ship, turning constantly to look over his shoulder, afraid the creature would materialize at any moment. Once he reached the vessel, Reynolds dragged himself, on the point of collapse, up the ramp. Griffin, who was on watch on the starboard side, observed his labored ascent with compassion, and when Reynolds passed close by, Griffin kindly held out his hand to help him.

“Carson is dead!” Reynolds managed to gasp, struggling for breath. “The monster has torn him to pieces!”

Far from responding with shock to the terrible news, as Reynolds had expected, Griffin stared at him blankly.

“Did you hear what I said, Griffin?” Reynolds repeated, more loudly this time. “Carson is dead, I tell you!”

“Calm yourself, sir,” the sailor responded at last. “I heard you perfectly well, only I think you are mistaken: Carson is over there.”