IV.

by H. G. Wells

THE DEATH OF THE CURATE

It was the sixth day of our confinement when I took one last look outside and realized I was alone. Instead of staying close to me, trying to push me away from the small opening, the curate had retreated into the scullery. A sudden thought struck me, and I quickly made my way back into the dim room. In the darkness, I could hear him drinking. I reached out and my fingers closed around a bottle of burgundy.

For a few moments, we struggled. The bottle slipped from my grasp and shattered on the floor, and I pulled back, rising to my feet. We stood there, panting and glaring at each other. Finally, I positioned myself between him and the food, declaring my intention to impose some discipline. I divided the pantry's contents into rations that would last us ten days. I refused to let him eat anything more that day.

In the afternoon, he made a weak attempt to get to the food. I had been dozing, but the moment I sensed his movement, I was wide awake. We spent the entire day and night facing each other—me weary but determined, and him whining and lamenting his hunger. It felt like an eternity, a night and a day that stretched on endlessly.

Our growing incompatibility eventually erupted into open conflict. For two long days, we wrestled in whispers and silent struggles. There were moments when I lashed out at him in frustration, times when I tried to coax him into submission, and once, in a desperate attempt, I offered him the last bottle of burgundy, knowing I could get water from a rainwater pump. But neither threats nor kindness worked; he had completely lost his grip on reality. He continued to attack the food and babble to himself, ignoring the basic rules we needed to follow to survive our imprisonment. Gradually, I came to realize that my only companion in this suffocating darkness was a man who had lost his mind.

At times, I felt my own sanity slipping. I experienced bizarre and terrifying dreams whenever I managed to sleep. It seems strange, but I believe that the curate's weakness and madness somehow kept me grounded, reminding me to hold on to my own sanity.

By the eighth day, he began to speak out loud instead of whispering, and nothing I did could quiet him.

“It is just, O God!” he repeated, over and over. “It is just. Let the punishment fall upon me and mine. We have sinned, we have fallen short. There was poverty, sorrow; the poor were trampled underfoot, and I said nothing. I preached empty nonsense—my God, what foolishness!—when I should have stood up for them, even if it cost me my life, and called for repentance! Repent! . . . Oppressors of the poor and needy! . . . The wine press of God!”

Then he would abruptly shift back to the food I was withholding, praying, begging, weeping, and eventually threatening me. His voice grew louder—I begged him to keep it down. He sensed he had power over me—he threatened to shout and bring the Martians down upon us. For a moment, that frightened me, but any concession would have jeopardized our chances of escape. I stood my ground, though I couldn’t shake the fear that he might actually do it. But on that day, at least, he didn’t.

He continued to raise his voice throughout the eighth and ninth days—threats, pleas, mixed with a stream of half-crazed and always frantic repentance for his hollow service to God, which made me feel pity for him. After a while, he would sleep, only to wake up and start again, this time even louder, forcing me to intervene.

“Be quiet!” I pleaded.

He knelt, having been sitting in the darkness near the copper.

“I have been silent for too long,” he said, his voice booming, “and now I must bear witness. Woe unto this unfaithful city! Woe! Woe! Woe! Woe! Woe! To the inhabitants of the earth because of the other voices of the trumpet—”

“Shut up!” I shouted, standing up in fear that the Martians might hear us. “For God’s sake—”

“No!” he yelled, raising his arms, standing tall. “Speak! The word of the Lord is upon me!”

In three strides, he reached the door leading to the kitchen.

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

I reached out and felt the meat cleaver hanging on the wall. In an instant, I was after him, fueled by fear. Before he could cross halfway into the kitchen, I caught up with him. With one last flicker of humanity, I turned the blade back and struck him with the handle. He fell forward, crashing to the ground. I stumbled over him, breathless, and he lay still.

Suddenly, I heard a noise from outside—a rush and crash of falling plaster. The triangular opening in the wall darkened. I looked up and saw the underside of a handling machine slowly moving across the gap. One of its gripping limbs curled through the debris, while another limb cautiously explored the fallen beams. I stood frozen, staring. Then, through a glass panel near the edge of its body, I caught a glimpse of a Martian’s face, with its large, dark eyes peering in. A long, metallic tentacle began to reach through the hole.

With great effort, I turned, stumbled over the curate, and stopped at the scullery door. The tentacle was now a couple of yards into the room, twisting and turning with sudden, jerky movements. For a moment, I was captivated by its slow, erratic advance. Then, with a faint, hoarse cry, I forced myself to cross the scullery. I trembled violently, barely able to stand. I opened the door to the coal cellar and stood in the darkness, staring at the dimly lit doorway into the kitchen, listening intently. Had the Martian seen me? What was it doing now?

Something was moving quietly in there, tapping against the wall occasionally, or starting its movements with a faint metallic ringing, like keys jingling on a ring. Then I heard a heavy object being dragged across the kitchen floor toward the opening. Drawn in, I crept to the door and peeked into the kitchen. In the bright sunlight, I saw the Martian, with its multi-limbed handling machine, examining the curate’s head. I feared it would deduce my presence from the mark I had left on him.

I slipped back into the coal cellar, shut the door, and tried to cover myself as much as possible among the firewood and coal, doing my best to remain quiet in the darkness. Every so often, I paused, tense, listening to see if the Martian had thrust its tentacles through the opening again.

Then I heard that faint metallic jingle once more. It moved slowly through the kitchen, and soon I could tell it was getting closer—in the scullery, I guessed. I hoped its length wouldn’t be enough to reach me. I prayed fervently. It passed, scraping softly against the cellar door. An unbearable age of suspense stretched on, and 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, maybe two, and then the door opened.

In the dim light, I could just make out the thing—more like an elephant’s trunk than anything else—waving toward me, touching and examining the wall, the coals, the wood, and the ceiling. It resembled a black worm swaying its blind head back and forth.

At one point, it even brushed against the heel of my boot. I was on the verge of screaming; I bit my hand to stifle the sound. For a moment, the tentacle was still. I almost convinced myself it had withdrawn. Then, with a sudden click, it gripped something—I thought it had me!—and seemed to retreat from the cellar. For a moment, I wasn’t sure. It appeared to have taken a lump of coal to inspect.

I seized the chance to shift my cramped position slightly and listened intently, whispering fervent prayers for safety.

Then I heard the slow, deliberate sound creeping toward me again. It drew near, scratching against the walls and tapping on the furniture.

Just when I was still uncertain, it rapped sharply against the cellar door and closed it. I heard it move into the pantry, where biscuit tins rattled, a bottle shattered, and then a heavy bump against the cellar door followed. Then came a silence that stretched into an eternity of suspense.

Had it gone?

Eventually, I decided it had.

It didn’t return to the scullery, but I lay in the close darkness for ten days, buried among the coals and firewood, too afraid to crawl out for the drink I desperately craved. It wasn’t until the eleventh day that I dared to venture far from my hiding place.