Book 2 · Chapter 4

It was on the sixth day of our imprisonment that I peeked for the last time, and pretty soon I found myself alone. Instead of sticking close to me and trying to push me away from the slit, the curate had gone back into the kitchen. I had a sudden thought.

I went back quickly and quietly into the kitchen. In the darkness, I heard the curate drinking. I reached out in the darkness, and my fingers caught a bottle of burgundy. For a few minutes, there was a struggle. The bottle hit the floor and broke, and I stopped and got up.

We stood there, breathing hard and glaring at each other. Finally, I stood between him and the food, and told him I was serious about starting a strict routine. I divided the food in the pantry into portions to last us ten days. I wouldn't let him eat any more that day.

In the afternoon, he tried weakly to get at the food. I’d been dozing, but I was instantly awake. All day and all night, we sat facing each other - I was exhausted but determined, and he was crying and complaining about being hungry.

It was, I know, a night and a day, but to me it felt - it still feels - like an endless amount of time. And so, our growing problems ended in a full-blown fight. For two long days, we argued and wrestled.

There were times when I kicked and punched him hard, times when I tried to reason with him, and once I even tried to bribe him with the last bottle of burgundy, since I could get water from a rainwater pump. But neither force nor kindness worked; he was completely unreasonable.

He wouldn’t stop attacking the food or talking to himself loudly. He wouldn’t follow the basic rules to make our imprisonment bearable. Slowly, I realized his mind was totally gone - I was stuck in the dark with an insane man. From some hazy memories, I think my own mind wandered sometimes.

I had weird and scary dreams whenever I slept. It sounds crazy, but I think the curate’s weakness and insanity warned me, strengthened me, and kept me sane. On the eighth day, he started talking out loud instead of whispering, and nothing I did would make him stop.

"It’s only fair, God!" he’s say, over and over. "It’s fair. Let the punishment fall on me and my family. We’d messed up, we’d fallen short. There was poverty, sorrow; the poor were crushed, and I kept quiet."

"I preached empty words - my God, what a joke! - when I should have stood up, even if it killed me, and called on them to change - to repent! . . . Oppressors of the poor and needy . . . ! God’s wrath! Then he’s suddenly back to begging for food - praying, begging, weeping, then threatening.

He started raising his voice - I begged him to stop. He thought he had control over me - he threatened to scream and call the Martians down on us. That scared me for a bit, but giving in would have ruined our chance of escaping. I stood up to him, even though I wasn’t sure he’d do it.

But that day, at least, he didn’t. He talked with his voice rising slowly, through most of the eighth and ninth days - threats, pleas, mixed with a flood of half-crazed and always ridiculous regret for his fake service to God, which made me feel sorry for him.

Then he slept for a while, and started again with renewed energy, so loudly that I had to make him stop. "Be quiet!" I pleaded. He got to his knees, because he’s been sitting in the dark near the copper pot.

"I’ve been quiet too long," he said, in a voice that must have echoed down into the pit, "and now I have to speak up. Disaster for this unfaithful city! Disaster! Disaster! Disaster! Disaster! Disaster! To the people of the earth because of the other sounds of the trumpet - - "

"Shut up! I said, jumping up, totally freaked out that the Martians might hear us. "For God’s sake - - " "No!" shouted the curate, yelling at the top of his lungs, standing up and spreading his arms. "Speak! The word of the Lord is upon me!"

He took three giant steps to the door leading into the kitchen. "I have to tell everyone! I’m going! It’s been way too long to wait. I reached out and grabbed the meat grinder hanging on the wall. In a flash, I was after him. I was terrified.

Before he was halfway across the kitchen, I caught up to him. With one last bit of humanity, I turned the blade back and hit him with the handle. He stumbled forward and crashed to the ground. I tripped over him and stood there, panting. He lay still.

Suddenly, I heard something outside - the crash and scrape of plaster falling, and the triangular hole in the wall got dark. I looked up and saw the bottom of a machine slowly coming through the hole.

One of its grabbing arms curled among the rubble; another arm appeared, feeling its way over the fallen beams. I stood frozen, staring.

Then I saw through a kind of glass plate near the edge of the machine the face, or what we could call a face, and the big dark eyes of a Martian, peering, and then a long, metallic tentacle slowly snaked through the hole.

I turned, struggling, stumbled over the curate, and stopped at the scullery door. The tentacle was now in the room, twisting and turning with weird, sudden movements. For a while, I just watched that slow, hesitant advance. Then, with a faint, hoarse cry, I forced myself across the scullery.

I was shaking so badly; I could barely stand up. I opened the door to 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 back and forth there, really quietly; every now and then it tapped against the wall, or started moving with a faint, metallic ringing, like keys jingling on a keyring. Then a heavy body - I knew exactly what it was - was dragged across the kitchen floor towards the opening.

I couldn't resist; I crept to the door and peeked into the kitchen. In the bright triangle of sunlight, I saw the Martian, in its giant machine, checking out the curate’s head. I immediately thought it would figure out I was there because of the mark from the blow I’d given him.

I crept back to the coal cellar, shut the door, and started to cover myself up as much as I could, as quietly as possible in the darkness, among the firewood and coal. Every now and then I paused, stiff as a board, to hear if the Martian had pushed its tentacles through the opening again.

Then the faint metallic jingle returned. I traced it slowly, feeling around the kitchen. Soon, I heard it closer - in the scullery, as far as I could tell. I thought maybe it wasn't long enough to reach me. I prayed like crazy. It passed, scraping faintly across the cellar door.

A long, tense moment went by; then I heard it fumbling at the latch! It had found the door! The Martians understood doors! It messed with the latch for a minute, maybe, and then the door opened.

In the darkness, I could just see the thing - like an elephant’s trunk more than anything else - waving around, touching and checking out the wall, coals, wood, and ceiling. It was like a black worm swaying its blind head back and forth. Once, even, it touched the heel of my boot.

I was about to scream; I bit my hand. For a while, the tentacle was silent. I almost thought it had been pulled back. Then, with a sudden click, it grabbed something - I thought it had me! - and seemed to go out of the cellar again. For a minute, I wasn’t sure.

Apparently, it had taken a lump of coal to examine.

I took advantage of being a little stiff and shifted my spot, then I listened. I silently begged for everything to be okay. Then I heard this slow, creepy sound coming closer again. It inched forward, scraping against the walls and tapping the furniture.

I was still unsure when it knocked hard on the cellar door and shut it. I heard it go into the pantry, and the biscuit tins clattered and a bottle broke, and then it bumped hard against the cellar door. Then there was this heavy silence - like, a seriously intense quiet. Was it gone?

Finally, I decided it had to be. It didn't come back into the scullery, but I stayed hidden in the super-dark space for a whole ten days, surrounded by coals and firewood, too scared to even sneak out for a drink. It wasn’t until the eleventh day that I dared to move from my hiding spot.