The War of the Worlds, H. G. Wells [little red riding hood ebook free .txt] 📗

I

began to realise the complete overthrow of his intelligence, to

perceive that my sole companion in this close and sickly darkness was

a man insane.

 

From certain vague memories I am inclined to think my own mind

wandered at times. I had strange and hideous dreams whenever I slept.

It sounds paradoxical, but I am inclined to think that the weakness

and insanity of the curate warned me, braced me, and kept me a sane

man.

 

On the eighth day he began to talk aloud instead of whispering, and

nothing I could do would moderate his speech.

 

“It is just, O God!” he would say, over and over again. “It is

just. On me and mine be the punishment laid. We have sinned, we have

fallen short. There was poverty, sorrow; the poor were trodden in the

dust, and I held my peace. I preached acceptable folly—my God, what

folly!—when I should have stood up, though I died for it, and called

upon them to repent-repent! … Oppressors of the poor and needy . .

. ! The wine press of God!”

 

Then he would suddenly revert to the matter of the food I withheld

from him, praying, begging, weeping, at last threatening. He began to

raise his voice—I prayed him not to. He perceived a hold on me—he

threatened he would shout and bring the Martians upon us. For a time

that scared me; but any concession would have shortened our chance of

escape beyond estimating. I defied him, although I felt no assurance

that he might not do this thing. But that day, at any rate, he did

not. He talked with his voice rising slowly, through the greater part

of the eighth and ninth days—threats, entreaties, mingled with a

torrent of half-sane and always frothy repentance for his vacant sham

of God’s service, such as made me pity him. Then he slept awhile, and

began again with renewed strength, so loudly that I must needs make

him desist.

 

“Be still!” I implored.

 

He rose to his knees, for he had been sitting in the darkness near

the copper.

 

“I have been still too long,” he said, in a tone that must have

reached the pit, “and now I must bear my witness. Woe unto this

unfaithful city! Woe! Woe! Woe! Woe! Woe! To the inhabitants of

the earth by reason of the other voices of the trumpet–-”

 

“Shut up!” I said, rising to my feet, and in a terror lest the

Martians should hear us. “For God’s sake–-”

 

“Nay,” shouted the curate, at the top of his voice, standing

likewise and extending his arms. “Speak! The word of the Lord is

upon me!”

 

In three strides he was at the door leading into the kitchen.

 

“I must bear my witness! I go! It has already been too long

delayed.”

 

I put out my hand and felt the meat chopper hanging to the wall. In

a flash I was after him. I was fierce with fear. Before he was

halfway across the kitchen I had overtaken him. With one last touch

of humanity I turned the blade back and struck him with the butt. He

went headlong forward and lay stretched on the ground. I stumbled

over him and stood panting. He lay still.

 

Suddenly I heard a noise without, the run and smash of slipping

plaster, and the triangular aperture in the wall was darkened. I

looked up and saw the lower surface of a handling-machine coming

slowly across the hole. One of its gripping limbs curled amid the

debris; another limb appeared, feeling its way over the fallen beams.

I stood petrified, staring. Then I saw through a sort of glass plate

near the edge of the body the face, as we may call it, and the large

dark eyes of a Martian, peering, and then a long metallic snake of

tentacle came feeling slowly through the hole.

 

I turned by an effort, stumbled over the curate, and stopped at the

scullery door. The tentacle was now some way, two yards or more, in

the room, and twisting and turning, with queer sudden movements, this

way and that. For a while I stood fascinated by that slow, fitful

advance. Then, with a faint, hoarse cry, I forced myself across the

scullery. I trembled violently; I could scarcely stand upright. I

opened the door of the coal cellar, and stood there in the darkness

staring at the faintly lit doorway into the kitchen, and listening.

Had the Martian seen me? What was it doing now?

 

Something was moving to and fro there, very quietly; every now and

then it tapped against the wall, or started on its movements with a

faint metallic ringing, like the movements of keys on a split-ring.

Then a heavy body—I knew too well what—was dragged across the floor

of the kitchen towards the opening. Irresistibly attracted, I crept

to the door and peeped into the kitchen. In the triangle of bright

outer sunlight I saw the Martian, in its Briareus of a handling-machine, scrutinizing the curate’s head. I thought at once that it

would infer my presence from the mark of the blow I had given him.

 

I crept back to the coal cellar, shut the door, and began to cover

myself up as much as I could, and as noiselessly as possible in the

darkness, among the firewood and coal therein. Every now and then I

paused, rigid, to hear if the Martian had thrust its tentacles through

the opening again.

 

Then the faint metallic jingle returned. I traced it slowly

feeling over the kitchen. Presently I heard it nearer—in the

scullery, as I judged. I thought that its length might be

insufficient to reach me. I prayed copiously. It passed, scraping

faintly across the cellar door. An age of almost intolerable suspense

intervened; then I heard it fumbling at the latch! It had found the

door! The Martians understood doors!

 

It worried at the catch for a minute, perhaps, and then the door

opened.

 

In the darkness I could just see the thing—like an elephant’s

trunk more than anything else—waving towards me and touching and

examining the wall, coals, wood and ceiling. It was like a black worm

swaying its blind head to and fro.

 

Once, even, it touched the heel of my boot. I was on the verge of

screaming; I bit my hand. For a time the tentacle was silent. I

could have fancied it had been withdrawn. Presently, with an abrupt

click, it gripped something—I thought it had me!—and seemed to go

out of the cellar again. For a minute I was not sure. Apparently it

had taken a lump of coal to examine.

 

I seized the opportunity of slightly shifting my position, which

had become cramped, and then listened. I whispered passionate prayers

for safety.

 

Then I heard the slow, deliberate sound creeping towards me again.

Slowly, slowly it drew near, scratching against the walls and tapping

the furniture.

 

While I was still doubtful, it rapped smartly against the cellar

door and closed it. I heard it go into the pantry, and the biscuit-tins rattled and a bottle smashed, and then came a heavy bump against

the cellar door. Then silence that passed into an infinity of

suspense.

 

Had it gone?

 

At last I decided that it had.

 

It came into the scullery no more; but I lay all the tenth day in

the close darkness, buried among coals and firewood, not daring even

to crawl out for the drink for which I craved. It was the eleventh day

before I ventured so far from my security.