CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF A MINISTER

Say not “Good night”; but in some

brighter clime bid me “Good morning.”

—Anna Letitia Barbauld

Alex Smith, 8 Bi-January, Mars Year i

Marin County, California, Planet Earth

On the sixth day (I think) of our imprisonment, I stepped back from our window on the outside world and suddenly found myself alone. Lesley had retreated to the storeroom. I went to find her, creeping quietly into the rear of our little establishment. Then I heard the sound of drinking. I reached into the darkness, and my fingers wrapped around a bottle of burgundy, which I tried to yank from the woman.

“What the hell are you doing?” I hissed. “You’re putting us both in danger!”

She grabbed ahold of the bottom of the container, and tried to pull it out of my hands. Then the bottle fell between us and broke on the floor. We stood there whispering threats to each other in low tones. In the end I told her that I was implementing a rationing program. I divided the remaining foodstuffs into portions that would last us ten more days. That afternoon she made a feeble effort to crawl by me while I was dozing, but I woke up immediately and stopped her. All day and all night we sat there face to face. I was tired. I was cranky. And all she could do was quietly weep and complain incessantly of her hunger. It was just a night and day, but it seemed to me—it seems even now—interminable.

For two days we argued off and on about inconsequential things. There were times when I struck her, I’m ashamed to say, times when I cajoled her, and once when I even tried to bribe her with the last bottle of booze. I knew the faucet in the kitchen could still provide me with a trickle of bad-tasting water. But she just wouldn’t listen to reason.

“God is judging me,” she said. “He hath singled me out for punishment!”

Oh God, I just wished she would shut her mouth forever!

She became careless of her movements and any noise she made while moving around in our prison. I began to realize that my sole companion in this damnable darkness was insane.

My own mind may also have wandered a bit during this period. I had strange, even wild dreams whenever I dropped off. Maybe the struggle with Lesley was one of the things that ultimately kept me sane—and alive.

On the eighth day she began to speak aloud instead of whispering, and nothing that I tried would stop her.

“Is it just, God?” she said, over and over again. “Is it 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 them, and called upon them to repent—repent! Oppressors of the poor and needy! The wine press of God!”

Once more she would speak again of her hunger, praying, begging, weeping, even badgering me to give her more food. She then perceived that she had a hold over me—and now she threatened to bring the Martians down upon us unless I agreed to release the supplies. I defied her.

She continued to warble in her loud, obnoxious, whiny voice through most of the eighth and ninth days, making threats and entreaties intermingled with a torrent of half-sane and frothy repentances for her sham service of God. I actually started to pity her. Then she slept awhile. When she woke, she began again, so loudly, in fact, that I had to make her stop at any cost.

“Shut up!” I said.

She went down on her knees.

“I’ve been still too long,” she said in a loud voice that must have reached all the way to the lower circles of Hell, “and now I must bear witness. Woe unto this unfaithful city! Woe! Woe! Woe! To the inhabitants of the Earth by reason of the other voices of the trumpet—”

“Shut up!” I repeated, rising to my feet, terrified lest the aliens should hear. “For God’s sake, woman—”

“Nay!” shouted the minister at the top of her voice, standing and extending her arms to the left and right. “Speak! The word of the Lord is upon me!”

In three strides she was at the kitchen door.

“I must go to bear witness against the aliens! I must depart! It has already been too long delayed.”

I put out my hand and grabbed the first thing that came to me, a large carving knife still dangling from its original hook. In a flash I was after her, overtaking her halfway across the kitchen. I raised the blade on high—and then struck her with the butt! She slumped immediately to the floor. I stood over her body, panting. At last she was silent! Finally!

Then I heard a noise just outside, a scraping of the plaster, and the hole in the wall suddenly went dark. I looked up and saw the lower half of the handling-machine moving slowly across the opening. I was scared shitless.

One of the tentacles came curling like a serpent through the debris, swishing back and forth as it sought its prey. Then another limb appeared, feeling its way over the fallen beams. I just stood there watching the alien “arms” reaching towards me. Outside I could actually see the Martian driver visible through its glass plate: the ugly, bulging face, the dark, bestial eyes peering intently into the darkness from the liquid bath in which it was embedded. The metal snakes kept feeling their way forward through the opening in the wall. I froze completely.

Then at last I came to my senses. With a huge effort I stumbled over the outstretched body of the minister, and stepped quietly towards the storeroom door. The first tentacle now stretched out about the length of a man, twisting and turning this way and that with its strange, jerky movements. For awhile I continued to watch the thing, fascinated in spite of myself by that slow, fitful advance. Then I forced myself back into the safety of the alcove. I was trembling so much by this point that I could barely stand. I opened the door of the partially blocked cellar, and stared back into the faintly lit kitchen, listening intently. Had the Martian seen anything? What was it doing?

Something was moving out there, something was very quietly but purposefully exploring our little world. Every now and then I could hear it tap against the wall, or start questing again with a faint metallic sound, like the jangling of keys on a ring. Then a heavy body—I knew whose it was—was dragged across the floor of the kitchen towards the opening. I crept to the door and peered out. The driver in the handler was examining the minister’s head. Jesus H. Christ! I gave no thought to Lesley’s welfare, but only hoped that the creature wouldn’t infer my presence from the blow I’d given her.

I crept back into the cellar, shut the door, and covered myself as much as I could with boards and fallen debris. Every now and then I paused, absolutely rigid, to listen again.

Then the faint jingling returned. Santa and all his reindeers, I thought!—and nearly burst out laughing in spite of myself. The thing was slowly feeling its way around the ruined kitchen. Then it moved into the storage nook. Shit! Maybe—oh, God, maybe!—it was too short to reach me.

At that point I actually prayed for my life. I hadn’t prayed for anything since I was a kid. The tentacle scraped faintly at the cellar door. Quote the raven, “nevermore”! Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the dark December….

But of course, it was January now.

Things were quiet for a bit, and that was almost worse than the scratching sounds. Suddenly I heard it fumbling at my chamber door! The Martians understood doors!

It worried at the knob for a moment, a very long moment.

The door swung open!

In the gray light I could barely see the damned thing, like some rogue elephant’s trunk waving towards me, touching the walls and examining the ceiling and feeling the broken stairs. It was blindman’s buff all over again. The tentacle looked like a black worm swaying its little head to and fro, sniffing and snuffling me out. Shitters quitters!

It touched the end of my shoe. I nearly screamed out loud. I bit the heel of my hand to keep quiet. The blood was salty in my mouth (do the aliens taste salt?). For a time the thing remained motionless. I even wondered if it might have withdrawn. Then it grabbed onto something big with an abrupt click and scratch—for a moment I thought it was me—God, I thought it was me!—and took whatever it was with it. Apparently it’d grabbed a piece of wood or something to examine. Who the bloody hell knows?—or cares, even.

I slightly shifted my position—my back was cramping—and then listened again, oh, gentlefolks, did I ever listen, I strained myself listening, I heard myself listening. And all the while I whispered sweet passionate prayers to Jesus for my safety. It was the Reverend’s ultimate revenge: I had become Lesley!

Once again I heard the same deliberate tinkling sound creeping towards me. Slowly but steadily it drew ever nearer, scratching against the walls and tapping on the remaining debris. I knew I was dead for sure this time. I suddenly felt a great release. I didn’t care any more. I would give myself up willingly.

And then—and then the thing just rapped smartly on my door and shoved it shut with a giant bang. I must have jumped halfway to the ceiling. I heard it gradually retreat back through the outside rooms, rattling cans and smashing bottles. I heard nothing else but silence, a silence that passed into an infinity of suspense.

Had it actually withdrawn? It’d fooled me so many times in the past hour or two that I wasn’t really sure. I finally decided that it was gone.

I lay there all through the tenth day. I remained sequestered in the close, close darkness of the basement, buried among the leftover pieces of man’s existence, not daring even to crawl out for the drink that I so desperately craved. I couldn’t find the strength to leave my security blanket. I couldn’t even move.

Oh, dear God in heaven.

Lesley, please forgive me!