The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(53)

Oddly content at the thought of the long-awaited rest this would bring, Reynolds let himself be transported on that icy carriage as it drifted between the icebergs, a wind gently blowing them wherever it wished to take them. The crushing fatigue and emotional drain of the last few hours soon plunged him into a kind of daze, from which only the stabbing cold or the relentless booming of the ice would rouse him. And in that dreamlike state, Reynolds passed the time gazing at the sky, fascinated by the dark tufts of cloud and the jagged gorges they passed through on their uncharted journey, relieved that it was no longer up to them whether they lived or died, that there was nothing they could do but lie there until someone, possibly the Creator Himself, decided on their behalf. He soon lost track of how long they had been drifting, waiting to die, and yet when he came around a little, he was surprised to find his heart still beating. He reached out and touched Allan’s body, which, despite being covered with a film of ice, appeared to contain a tiny glimmer of life that might miraculously be awakened if they could only find shelter. Or perhaps it would fade silently and imperceptibly there on the ice. After all, what did their lives matter? What essential ingredient would they have added to the great stew of life? Yet they must have contributed something, he concluded when, some time after the monster’s disappearance, the raft floated into a much broader channel, which he fancied was the open ocean. Seasick and blue with cold, he thought he detected signs of civilization on the coastline.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, he let himself be hauled up by strong hands, warmed beside the gentle glow of a stove, and revived with warm broth that slipped into every crevice of his throat. And he felt life begin to stir inside him, slowly and cautiously, until one day, he did not know how or when, he woke up and found himself in a warm, cozy cabin next to a simple cot where Allan lay, breathing tenaciously. Despite being delirious with fever, he too had survived. When the captain of the whaler, a huge fellow capable of ripping a kraken’s head off with his bare hands, asked their names, Reynolds had to reply for them both.

“Jeremiah Reynolds,” he said, “and my companion is Sergeant Major Edgar Allan Poe. We are crew members on the Annawan, which set sail from New York on the fifteenth of October for the South Pole, in search of the entrance to the center of the Earth.”





XII

AND YET, NEITHER THEN NOR IN THE DAYS that followed did Reynolds mention the monster that had come from the stars, nor the slaughter they had survived. At that moment, he did not think there were any words that would accurately describe that horror, any words with which to explain to their rescuers that Hell, whilst unarguably inhabited by demons, did not lie beneath their feet or above their heads. And in the days that followed, when Allan’s fever finally abated and he awoke with the melancholic look of one who has walked with death, both men agreed it was best never to tell their secret to anyone. What good would it do to reveal to the world a truth for which it was doubtless unprepared? Besides, they had no way of proving what had happened. If the Creator had answered Reynolds’s prayer, the monster would be lying buried somewhere in the Antarctic ice and, thanks to the interminable snow blizzards, so would its flying machine, long before any other expedition managed to reach that accursed place. And perhaps the only thing they would find when they did get there would be the charred wreck of the Annawan surrounded by the remains of her brutally murdered crew. This might turn out to be worse, of course, for as the only survivors they would no doubt become prime suspects in that mysterious orgy of destruction. And yet there would always be a handful of visionaries who would not only believe them but would go to great lengths to prove that their story about the first Martian to visit Earth was true. However, a far greater number would make them out to be madmen, or impostors, or both. And neither Reynolds nor Allan wished to spend their lives explaining, proving, and denying: in short, defending their sanity, or their honor.

No. That was not why they had struggled to survive. In common with many who escape the jaws of death, both men felt that life was an unexpected gift, and each made a secret promise to himself to be worthy of that second chance, to renounce what he considered his previous inertia and numbness and to live passionately, to do everything it was possible to do with a life. Allan had decided to persist in his dream of becoming a writer with renewed vigor. He wished to do this single-mindedly, without being reminded of his sojourn in Hell. So he made a firm decision to put those days behind him, never consciously to think of them again. And if necessary he could always exorcise that horror by writing a story. The gunner could not think of a better way of ridding himself of the things that bedeviled his soul than by imprisoning them forever on paper. As for Reynolds, after coming so close to tasting the glory of the great adventurers, he had learned to love life in all its simple splendor. His only desire was to live in peace, celebrating each beat of his heart, each molecule of air he breathed, while doing his best to purge his soul of anything that might prevent those who had known him from saying after his death: there lies an honorable man. The last thing he intended to do was to turn his life into a sideshow with himself as the main attraction, ridiculed and pitied by the public. Those days had ended with Symmes. Reynolds intended to live a different life now, secretly knowing things others would never know, content to become one of a handful of simple, honest men who accepted their place in the world uncomplainingly. Neither Allan nor Reynolds considered they had vanquished the monster from the stars to live in the shadow of that event. It was best to say nothing.