XI

I imagine those of you who have been following my tale at all closely will have realized that despite my precautions I have made a mistake in my choice of where to begin. Obviously, if the sailor called Griffin destroys the Martian, as he has just done in so startling a manner, no expedition will be able to find it years later entombed in the ice, nor take it back to the Natural History Museum, where Wells will stumble upon it. I fear that when going back in time I must have chosen the beginning of another story similar to this one, but with a very different ending. I cannot apologize enough! However, permit me to try to make amends for my clumsiness.

How can I make this story fit with the prologue I have already narrated? Clearly there is only one possible way: by having Griffin not kill the demon from the stars. Let us imagine, then, that this curious sailor did not make an opportune appearance. Furthermore, let us imagine, to be on the safe side, that he never boarded the Annawan at all. You will agree that the story would have evolved very differently if we had dispensed with any of the other crew members, although not all of them would have had such a dramatic effect on the course of events. Say, for example, we had omitted the cook, an ugly, potbellied brute who answers to the resonant name of Dunn; there would be no change to the main events, beyond those relating to the crew’s daily meals, or how much rum the aforesaid individual filched from the store cupboard each day, something I have not referred to until now, for, unless it is absolutely necessary, I prefer not to sully the image of the human race by describing the dissoluteness of some of its members. Nor would it have produced any substantial change in the story had Potter and Granger boarded the Annawan and not Wallace and Ringwald; the former pair arrived when the crew was complete and signed up on another vessel, where Potter ended up stabbing Granger over a game of cards. For Potter and Granger would have behaved in exactly the same way as their predecessors, of that I am sure, because, as I have already told you, I am able to see all the other possibilities beyond the veil of our universe, the flowers that grow in the neighboring garden. However, in the tale that concerns us, Griffin’s appearance could not have been more relevant. Would the Martian have ended up frozen in the snow if the sailor had not turned up and skewered it with his harpoon? Would Reynolds really have had the guts to shoot himself in the head, or would he have scraped the bottom of the barrel of life, despite knowing it would condemn him to a horrific end? Would they have been saved thanks to some other unforeseen miracle not of their making or, on the contrary, would a blaze of inspiration have allowed one of them to perform a checkmate in extremis on that chessboard made of ice?

Let us discover the answers to those questions by making the sailor in our story disappear, as one might remove a cuckoo’s egg from the nest, thus restoring the natural course of things. Imagine that, as we have decided, Griffin never joined the crew of the Annawan and that the ship therefore set sail on her deadly mission with one less sailor on board. This did not simply mean that Dunn had to prepare one less meal a day, or that the waste bucket needed emptying less frequently. Without Griffin, for example, no one would have noticed that the object that hurtled through the sky and crashed into the mountain was being steered; Reynolds would have had no one to talk to on the way over to the flying machine; another sailor would have helped him back on board the Annawan after he stumbled on Carson’s body; and no one would have intervened when Captain MacReady placed a pistol to Reynolds’s head and threatened to kill him because he might be the creature. But first and foremost, and this is what should most concern us, no one would have harpooned the Martian just as it was about to end the lives of poor Reynolds and Allan. What would have happened then? How would the hunt have continued had Griffin never boarded the Annawan to escape a woman’s clutches, only to end up confronting the demon from the stars?

Ignore my mistake, which is almost certainly due to my failings as a narrator, and travel back with me a few moments in time, to when the monster has fought off the dogs and is lurching toward Reynolds and Allan, spreading its claws, and let us see how things turn out.

The explorer, pressing the pistol to his head, watched the powerful, inhuman, enormous creature approaching and noticed that a strange calm had come over him. He no longer felt fear, euphoria, or defeat. He felt nothing. He had used up his supply of emotions during the drama of the past few hours. Now he was empty, save for a flicker of terrible indifference about his own fate. None of this seemed to be happening to him. It was as if he were watching it from a great distance, as might a bird sailing overhead, only vaguely interested in the strange goings-on below, where usually nothing much happened. The explorer stroked the trigger, pressing it lightly. He looked up at the Martian, which, as though sensing that Reynolds was about to deprive it of its satisfaction, had quickened its pace. The explorer smiled, watching the creature approach, its gaze fixed on him. He wanted to keep his own eyes open until the moment he pulled the trigger, so that he could take with him to the afterlife the look of defeat that would no doubt register on the Martian’s face when it realized he had escaped its claws by taking the shortcut of suicide. Reynolds tried to swallow the lump in his throat. Would it hurt, or would he feel nothing when the bullet made his brain burst into a spray of thoughts, scattering his dreams over the snow? How easy it is to destroy a man and all he brings with him! Reynolds thought. And how naïve of them to imagine they could destroy with their pathetic weapons that powerful being, whose superiority far outstripped Man’s wildest dreams! That creature was Evil incarnate, indestructible and eternal. It had survived repeated shootings, as well as the explosion. The cold did not affect it. He knew now that even the bullet encrusted in MacReady’s skull would not have killed it. Everything had failed. All that was left to him was the pyrrhic victory of taking his own life.

“Burn in Hell, demon,” he said, contemplating the creature’s colossal build, its gigantic proportions and powerful musculature, with a scientist’s detachment.

He wondered idly how many tons a creature like that would weigh. Would it be heavier than an ox? Lighter than a baby elephant? And then, to his astonishment, a crazy idea struck him like a bolt from the blue. He withdrew his finger from the trigger. What if . . . ? Would it be worth a gamble? He glanced at Allan, who was stretched out on the snow, mesmerized by the monster’s advance, like a lamb waiting for slaughter. The change of plan Reynolds had in mind would upset the gunner, but he might forgive him if in the process he was spared dying at the hands of the creature, even if it only meant dying from starvation or exposure instead.

With a swift movement, Reynolds turned the gun away from his head and pointed it at the Martian, who gazed at him, surprised by this unexpected gesture. Reynolds shot the monster in the head without remorse or pleasure, as one carrying out a routine task. The blow knocked the monster to the ground, and although Reynolds knew he had not killed it, he hoped this would give him time enough to carry out his plan. Quick as a flash, he wrenched Allan to his feet once more and forced him to run, circling round the monster this time and heading for the wrecked ship.

“Run, run for your life!” he urged the gunner, who had begun a flailing sprint with what appeared to be the last of his energy.

Reynolds ran beside him, trying to keep the young man on the right track, all the while glancing back over his shoulder at the monster. Once it had recovered from the gun blast, the Martian had stood up, still a little dazed, and resumed its pursuit, although for the moment it did not seem in too much of a hurry, like a predator that knows its victim has no chance of escape. All the better, Reynolds thought, reaching the destroyed vessel on the point of collapse. He made the gunner stop next to a pile of debris so they could catch their breath. When he managed to tear his eyes from MacReady’s privy, which was perched incongruously on top of a pile of timber, the explorer glanced once more over his shoulder. He saw the Martian still coming toward them, taking ever greater leaps across the ice, perhaps because it was suddenly in a hurry to end that stupid chase. Smiling to himself, Reynolds skirted round the ship and pushed Allan ahead of him out onto the ice on the port side, where the unfortunate MacReady had forbade the men from walking. Allan looked at him with alarm as the ice creaked under their weight, threatening to break up like pastry crust. But instantly, a flash of comprehension crossed his dark face. Reynolds urged him on, and the gunner obeyed, filled with renewed energy, even as the ice began to crack more and more with every step. They soon had the alarming feeling of walking on a moving sea.

When they considered they had ventured a sufficient distance onto the flimsy surface, they stopped and turned toward the wreck of the Annawan, just as the Martian was rounding it. The creature took a spectacular leap, unaware it was falling into the improvised trap Reynolds had laid, and landed some five yards from where they had come to a halt. To the amazed relief of the supposed victims, the ice gave way under the monster’s incredible weight, and they watched it go down, arms thrashing about in a sea as dark as wine, as the ice closed up again. The impact, similar to a blast of dynamite, caused a skein of cracks to spread out in all directions, splintering the ice within a twenty-yard radius. The sudden tremor knocked Reynolds and Allan to the ice, and they clung to each other so as not to be separated as the ice broke into fragments around them. They listened in terror as the Martian struggled to punch its way through the thick frozen layer above its head, but it only succeeded in cracking, not piercing the ice. Gradually the frantic thudding grew fainter, until it was no more than a sinister tapping sound, ever more distant, leading them to conclude that some timely coastal current was dragging the monster away. When the tapping finally stopped, Reynolds prayed aloud to the Creator, or rather he demanded imperiously that He entomb the monster in that frozen sea. Yes, even if the Martian proved as immune to drowning and freezing as it was to bullets and fire, he prayed it would in one form or another meet its end there, for indestructible though it might seem, as far as he knew, the Creator had never shown the slightest interest in blessing any of His creatures with immortality.

After he had finished praying, Reynolds slumped down next to the gunner on the improvised raft that was floating down one of the channels the fractured ice had created. The two men were so exhausted and breathless they could scarcely speak. Even so, Reynolds heard the soft flutter of Allan’s voice.

“Thank you for saving my life, Reynolds. The last thing I expected to find in this hellhole was a friend.”

The explorer smiled. “I hope you remember that when you have no more need of me,” he replied between gasps. “Assuming such a moment ever arrives.”

The gunner gave a chuckle, which died away no sooner than it touched the air. Then there was silence. Reynolds half dragged himself up and saw that Allan had spent his last reserves of energy laughing at his jest, for the gunner lay unconscious beside him. Reynolds smiled wearily and fell back onto the ice, close to collapse, reflecting about what he had just said to Allan. Why had he carted the gunner back and forth, never even considering leaving him to his fate? It wasn’t like him. And yet he had, for he was incapable of ignoring the spell the poet’s voice cast on him each time he called out his name, with the blind trust of a child calling to its mother in the dark. Answering that desperate appeal had made him feel something profound and alien, something he had never felt before, he realized in the haze of his fatigue: for the first time in his life, someone had placed his trust in him, someone had needed him. Allan, the gunner who dreamed of being a poet, had called his name in the hold, up on deck, on the ice, and he had gone to his aid instantly. He sensed that by saving Allan, he would in some way also be saving his own selfish soul. Yes, that is what had motivated him. And who could tell—perhaps that last-minute gesture would redeem him from Hell and redirect him to Heaven. For one thing was certain: unless some miracle occurred, the merciless cold would kill them within a matter of hours.

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.”