The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(59)

“Yes,” Reynolds confirmed, “it’s him.”

“I thought as much. I have read many of his stories,” the doctor said, gazing at his illustrious patient with compassion. Then he turned to Reynolds. “Mr. Poe arrived at the hospital in a complete daze, unaware of who carried him here. Since then he has not stopped calling your name and insisting he is being pursued by a monster.”

Reynolds nodded, smiling wistfully, as though accustomed to his friend’s ravings.

“Did he say anything else?” he asked without looking at the doctor.

“No, he simply repeats the same thing over and over.”

As though confirming what the doctor had said, the gunner cried out once more: “It’s coming for us, Reynolds. The monster is coming for us . . .”

The explorer gave a troubled sigh, then looked at the people gathered around Allan’s bed.

“Could you leave me alone with him, gentlemen?” he ordered rather than asked. But then, seeing the doctor’s reluctance, he added, “It will only take a moment, Doctor. I would like to say goodbye to my friend in private.”

“The patient hasn’t much longer to live,” protested the doctor.

“In that case let’s not waste any more time,” Reynolds replied brusquely, looking straight at him.

The young doctor nodded resignedly and asked the others to follow him.

“We shall wait outside. Don’t be long.”

When he was alone, Reynolds finally approached Allan’s bed.

“I’m here, Allan,” he said, taking his hand.

The gunner tried hard to focus, staring at him with glassy eyes.

“It’s coming for us, Reynolds!” he cried once more. “It’s going to kill us . . . Oh dear God . . . It has come from Mars to kill us all!”

“No, Allan, it’s over now,” Reynolds assured him in an anguished voice, casting a sidelong glance at the door. “We killed it. Don’t you remember? We did it, we defeated the monster.”

Allan gazed about him distractedly, and Reynolds realized the gunner was not seeing the room in the hospital.

“Where am I? I’m cold, Reynolds, so awfully cold . . .”

Reynolds took off his coat and draped it over Allan’s frame, which was still lying on the ice, in temperatures of forty degrees below zero.

“You’re going to get well, Allan, have no fear. You’ll get better and they will send you home. And you will be able to carry on writing. You will write many books, Allan, just wait and see.”

“But I’m so cold, Reynolds . . . ,” the gunner murmured, a little calmer. “In fact I’ve always been cold. It comes from my soul, my friend.” The explorer nodded, tears in his eyes. The gunner seemed to have regained his sanity for a moment: his mind had somehow come back from the icy wastes and once more occupied that body shivering on a hospital bed. Allan’s increasing serenity made Reynolds uneasy. “I think that’s why I joined that accursed ship, just to find out whether anywhere in the world was colder than inside me.” The gunner gave a feeble laugh that turned into a dreadful coughing fit. Reynolds watched him convulsing on the bed, fearing the violent jolts would shatter his fragile bones. When they finally abated, Allan lay, mouth open, gulping for air that seemed to get stuck in some narrow duct in his body before it could reach his lungs.

“Allan!” Reynolds cried, shaking him gently, as though afraid he might break. “Allan, please . . .”

“I’m leaving you, my friend. I’m going to the place where the monsters dwell . . . ,” the gunner murmured in a faint whisper.

Desperate, Reynolds watched Allan’s neck tense and his nose seem to grow horribly sharp. His lips were turning a dark shade of purple. He understood his friend was dying. Allan choked with a bitter sob, but managed to croak, “May God have mercy on my wretched soul . . .”

“Have no fear, Allan. We killed it,” Reynolds repeated, stroking his friend’s brow with the tenderness of a mother trying to convince her child there are no monsters lurking in the dark. He realized that these would be the last words his friend ever heard. “There are no monsters where you are going. Not anymore.”

Allan gave a feeble smile. Then he looked away, fixing his gaze somewhere on the ceiling, and left his tortured existence with a gentle sigh, almost of relief. Reynolds was surprised at how discreet death was: he had expected to see the gunner’s soul rise up from his body like a dove taking to the air. More out of bewilderment than politeness, he remained beside the bed for a few moments, still holding the gunner’s pale hand in his. Finally he laid it on Allan’s chest with the utmost care.

“I hope you are at last able to rest in peace, my friend,” he said.

He covered Allan’s face and left the room.

“He’s dead,” he murmured as he walked past Doctor Moran and his students, who were standing outside the door. “But his work will be immortal.”

As he found his way out of the hospital, Reynolds could not help wondering whether Edgar Allan Poe’s work would have been different had he not encountered the monster. No one could know, he said to himself with a shrug. On the steps of the hospital, the explorer stared at the radiant morning before him, the carriages jolting over the cobblestones, the hawkers’ cries, the people strolling up and down the pavements, all of them making up the vibrant symphony of life, and he let out a sigh. In the end, the monster from the stars had killed his friend. He had to acknowledge it had beaten them. Yet rather than filling him with hatred or fear, it merely served to strengthen his terrible feeling of loneliness. He was now the sole survivor of the Annawan, the only person who knew what had really happened in the Antarctic. Could he remain the sole guardian of that secret? Of course he could, he told himself, because he had no choice. Besides, what solace could it bring him now to share that secret with anyone else? And with whom could he share it? With his practical, adorable Josephine? Whom would it profit to know they were not the sole inhabitants of the universe? The coachman, the flower seller on the corner, the innkeeper unloading barrels on the far side of the street? No, none of them would be better off knowing that from the depths of the universe, intelligences greater than theirs were observing the Earth with greedy eyes, perhaps even now planning how to conquer it. As he had discovered, such information was worthless and only brought suffering to those who possessed it. Whatever had to happen would happen, he concluded with his relentless pragmatism, putting on his hat and descending the steps. He would not be the one to deprive the world of its innocent enjoyment of the astonishing beauty of a starry sky.