XIII.

by H. G. Wells

**How I Met the Curate**

After witnessing the terrifying power of the Martians, they retreated to their original position on Horsell Common. In their haste, burdened by the wreckage of their fallen companion, they likely overlooked someone as insignificant as me. If they had abandoned their comrade and pressed on, there was nothing standing between them and London except for a few twelve-pounder guns. They could have reached the capital before anyone even knew they were coming, their arrival as sudden and destructive as the earthquake that devastated Lisbon a century earlier.

But they weren’t in a rush. One cylinder after another arrived from their home planet, reinforcing their numbers every twenty-four hours. Meanwhile, the military and naval authorities, now fully aware of the immense threat posed by these invaders, worked tirelessly. Fresh artillery pieces were positioned every minute, and by twilight, every copse and row of suburban homes on the hills around Kingston and Richmond concealed an eager black muzzle, ready for action.

Through the charred and devastated landscape—perhaps twenty square miles in total—surrounding the Martian camp on Horsell Common, scouts moved cautiously. They carried heliographs to signal the gunners about the Martian movements. The Martians, now aware of our artillery capabilities and the danger of human proximity, ensured that no one dared approach within a mile of their cylinders unless they were willing to risk their lives.

It seemed that the Martians spent much of the afternoon moving everything from the second and third cylinders—one located at Addlestone Golf Links and the other at Pyrford—back to their original pit on Horsell Common. One of the giants stood as a sentinel over the blackened heather and the ruins that stretched far and wide, while the others abandoned their massive fighting machines and descended into the pit. They worked late into the night, and a towering column of thick green smoke rose from their activities, visible from the hills around Merrow, and even, it was said, from Banstead and Epsom Downs.

As the Martians prepared for their next move behind me, and humanity gathered for battle in front of me, I painstakingly made my way through the smoke and chaos of burning Weybridge toward London.

I spotted a small, abandoned boat drifting downstream. Shedding most of my soaked clothes, I swam after it, managed to climb in, and escaped the destruction. There were no oars, but I paddled as best I could with my burned hands, making my way down the river toward Halliford and Walton, moving slowly and constantly glancing over my shoulder. I chose the river, believing the water offered me the best chance of escape if those giants returned.

The hot water from the Martian’s destruction flowed downstream with me, obscuring my view of the banks for nearly a mile. At one point, I caught sight of a line of dark figures rushing across the meadows from Weybridge. Halliford appeared deserted, and several houses along the river were ablaze. It was surreal to see the area so quiet and desolate under the scorching blue sky, smoke and small flames rising straight into the heat of the afternoon. Never before had I witnessed houses burning without a crowd of people blocking the view.

As I drifted, exhaustion weighed heavily on me after the violence I had endured, and the heat made it unbearable. Eventually, my fears returned, and I resumed paddling. The sun scorched my bare back. Just as the bridge at Walton came into view around a bend, my fever and weakness overwhelmed my fears, and I landed on the Middlesex bank, collapsing in the long grass, feeling utterly sick.

I guessed it was around four or five o’clock. After a while, I got up and walked half a mile without encountering anyone, then lay down again in the shade of a hedge. I remember talking to myself in a daze during that last stretch. I was incredibly thirsty and regretted not drinking more water. Oddly, I felt a surge of anger toward my wife. I couldn’t explain it, but my desperate need to reach Leatherhead troubled me deeply.

I can’t quite recall when the curate arrived, so I must have dozed off. I became aware of him sitting there, his shirt sleeves smudged with soot, his clean-shaven face turned up to the sky, watching the faint flicker of light that danced above. The sky was what they call a mackerel sky—streaks of soft clouds, lightly brushed with the colors of the midsummer sunset.

I sat up, and as I moved, he glanced at me quickly.

“Do you have any water?” I asked, my voice abrupt.

He shook his head.

“You’ve been asking for water for the last hour,” he replied.

We fell silent for a moment, sizing each other up. I must have looked quite a sight—bare except for my soaked trousers and socks, my skin scalded, and my face and shoulders darkened by smoke. His face was pale and soft, his chin receding, and his hair curled crisply, almost flaxen, on his low forehead. His eyes were large, pale blue, and stared blankly. He spoke abruptly, his gaze drifting away from me.

“What does it mean?” he asked. “What do these things mean?”

I stared at him, speechless.

He extended a thin, white hand and spoke in a tone that sounded almost like a complaint.

“Why are these things allowed? What sins have we committed? The morning service was over, I was walking to clear my mind for the afternoon, and then—fire, earthquake, death! It’s like Sodom and Gomorrah! All our work undone, all the work—what are these Martians?”

“What are we?” I replied, clearing my throat.

He gripped his knees and turned to look at me again. For what felt like half a minute, he just stared silently.

“I was walking to clear my mind,” he repeated. “And then—fire, earthquake, death!”

He fell silent again, his chin sinking almost to his knees.

After a moment, he began to wave his hand, his voice rising in agitation.

“All the work—all the Sunday schools—what have we done? What has Weybridge done? Everything gone—everything destroyed. The church! We rebuilt it just three years ago. Gone! Swept away! Why?”

Another pause, and then he erupted again, his voice wild.

“The smoke of her burning goes up forever and ever!” he shouted.

His eyes blazed, and he pointed a thin finger toward Weybridge.

By now, I was starting to gauge his state of mind. The overwhelming tragedy he had experienced—it was clear he was a survivor from Weybridge—had pushed him to the brink of madness.

“Are we far from Sunbury?” I asked, keeping my tone matter-of-fact.

“What are we supposed to do?” he replied. “Are these creatures everywhere? Has the earth been handed over to them?”

“Are we far from Sunbury?” I pressed.

“Only this morning, I officiated at the early service—”

“Things have changed,” I said quietly. “You need to keep your head. There’s still hope.”

“Hope!”

“Yes. Plenty of hope, despite all this destruction!”

I started to explain my perspective on our situation. He listened at first, but as I continued, the spark of interest in his eyes faded, replaced by that vacant stare.

“This must be the beginning of the end,” he interrupted. “The end! The great and terrible day of the Lord! When men will call upon the mountains and the rocks to fall on them and hide them—hide them from the face of Him who sits on the throne!”

I began to grasp the gravity of the situation. I stopped my struggling arguments, pushed myself to my feet, and stood over him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Be a man!” I urged. “You’re terrified out of your wits! What good is religion if it crumbles in the face of disaster? Think of what earthquakes, floods, wars, and volcanoes have done to humanity before! Did you think God had exempted Weybridge? He’s not an insurance agent.”

For a while, he sat in stunned silence.

“But how can we escape?” he asked suddenly. “They are invulnerable, they are merciless.”

“Neither of those, perhaps,” I replied. “And the stronger they are, the more cautious we must be. One of them was killed over there not three hours ago.”

“Killed!” he exclaimed, looking around in disbelief. “How can God’s ministers be killed?”

“I saw it happen,” I said. “We just happened to be caught in the thick of it, that’s all.”

“What’s that flicker in the sky?” he asked abruptly.

I explained that it was a heliograph signaling—a sign of human effort and hope in the sky.

“We’re in the midst of it,” I said. “As quiet as it seems. That flicker tells of the gathering storm. Over there, I believe, are the Martians, and toward London, where the hills rise around Richmond and Kingston, earthworks are being built and guns are being set up. Soon, the Martians will be coming this way again.”

Just as I finished speaking, he sprang to his feet and stopped me with a gesture.

“Listen!” he said.

From beyond the low hills across the water, the distant sound of guns echoed, accompanied by an eerie, haunting cry. Then, silence enveloped everything. A cockchafer buzzed lazily over the hedge and drifted past us. High in the western sky, the crescent moon hung faint and pale above the smoke rising from Weybridge and Shepperton, blending with the warm, still beauty of the sunset.

“We should take this path,” I suggested, “heading north.”