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The War of the Worlds
Chapter 21. THE DEATH OF THE CURATE
It was on the sixth day of our imprisonment that I looked out for the last time, and soon found myself alone.
Instead of staying close to me and trying to push me away from the opening, the curate had gone back into the scullery.
A sudden thought struck me, I went back quickly and quietly into the scullery.
In the darkness I heard the curate drinking.
I grabbed in the darkness, and my fingers caught a bottle of burgundy.
For a few minutes we struggled, the bottle hit the floor and broke, and I stopped and stood up.
We stood there, panting and threatening each other.
In the end I placed myself between him and the food, and told him I had decided to start a discipline.
I divided the food in the pantry into rations to last us ten days.
I wouldn't let him eat any more that day.
In the afternoon he made a weak attempt to get at the food.
I had been dozing, but in an instant I was awake.
All day and all night we sat face to face, I tired but determined, and he crying and complaining about his immediate hunger.
It was, I know, a night and a day, but to me it seemed, it seems now, an endless length of time.
And so our growing conflict finally ended in open fight.
For two long days we struggled in low voices and wrestling matches.
I beat and kicked him wildly at times.
Other times, I tried to calm and persuade him.
Once, I tried to bribe him with the last bottle of burgundy.
There was a rain-water pump from which I could get water.
But neither force nor kindness worked, he was truly beyond reason.
He wouldn't stop his attacks on the food or his noisy talking to himself.
He wouldn't follow the basic rules to make our imprisonment bearable.
Slowly I began to realize the complete breakdown of his mind, to see that my only companion in this close and sickening darkness was a madman.
From certain unclear memories I think my own mind wandered at times.
I had strange and terrible dreams whenever I slept.
It sounds strange, but I think the weakness and madness of the curate warned me, strengthened me, and kept me sane.
On the eighth day he began to talk aloud instead of whispering, and nothing I could do would calm his speech.
"It's just, O God!" he'd say, over and over again.
"It's just. On me and mine be the punishment laid. We have sinned, we have fallen short. There was poverty, sorrow, the poor were crushed in the dust,"
"And I kept quiet."
"I preached acceptable foolishness, my God, what foolishness, when I should have stood up, though I died for it, and called on them to repent, repent! . . ."
"Oppressors of the poor and needy! . . ."
"The wine press of God!"
Then he'd suddenly return to the matter of the food I was keeping from him, praying, begging, crying, at last threatening.
He began to raise his voice, I begged him not to.
He saw he had power over me, he threatened he'd shout and bring the Martians on us.
For a time that scared me, but any concession would have shortened our chance of escape beyond measure.
I defied him, although I felt no certainty that he might not do this thing.
But that day, at any rate, he didn't.
His voice rose slowly, For most of the eighth and ninth days, he mixed threats and pleas.
He added half-mad, empty repentance for his sham of God's service, I pitied him.
Then he slept for a while, and began again with renewed strength, so loudly that I had to make him stop.
"Be quiet!" I begged.
He rose to his knees, for he had been sitting in the darkness near the copper.
"I have been quiet too long,"
He said, in a tone that must have reached the pit, "and now I must bear my witness."
"Woe to this unfaithful city! Woe! Woe! Woe! Woe! Woe! To the inhabitants of the earth because of other voices of the trumpet".
"Shut up!" I said, rising to my feet, terrified that the Martians might hear us.
"For God's sake, "
"No," shouted the curate, at the top of his voice, standing up as well and stretching out his arms.
"Speak! The word of the Lord is upon me!"
In three steps he was at the door leading into the kitchen.
"I must bear my witness! I go! It has already been too long delayed."
I reached out my hand and felt the meat chopper hanging on the wall.
In a flash I was after him.
I was fierce with fear, Before he was halfway across the kitchen I had caught up with him.
With one last touch of humanity I turned the blade back and struck him with the handle.
He fell headlong forward and lay stretched on the ground.
I stumbled over him and stood panting, he lay still.
Suddenly I heard a noise outside, the run and smash of falling plaster, and the triangular opening in the wall grew dark.
I looked up and saw the lower surface of a handling-machine coming slowly across the hole.
One of its gripping limbs curled among the debris, another limb appeared, feeling its way over the fallen beams.
I stood frozen, staring, I saw a face through a glass plate near the edge of the body.
It was a Martian, with large dark eyes peering out.
Then a long metallic tentacle came feeling slowly through the hole.
I turned with an effort, stumbled over the curate, and stopped at the scullery door.
The tentacle was now some way, two yards or more, into the room, and twisting and turning, with strange sudden movements, this way and that.
For a while I stood fascinated by that slow, uneven advance.
Then, with a faint, hoarse cry, I forced myself across the scullery.
I trembled violently, I could barely stand upright.
I opened the door of 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, very quietly.
Every now and then, it tapped against the wall.
It started its movements with a faint metallic ringing, like keys on a split ring.
Then a heavy body, I knew too well what, was dragged across the floor of the kitchen towards the opening.
Irresistibly attracted, I crept to the door and looked into the kitchen.
In the triangle of bright outer sunlight I saw the Martian, in its Briareus of a handling-machine, examining the curate's head.
I thought at once that it would guess my presence from the mark of the blow I had given him.
I crept back to the coal cellar and shut the door.
In the darkness among the firewood and coal there, I began to cover myself as much and as quietly as possible.
Every now and then I paused, stiff, to hear if the Martian had pushed its tentacles through the opening again.
Then the faint metallic jingle returned, I followed it slowly feeling its way over the kitchen.
Soon I heard it nearer, in the scullery, I thought.
I thought its length might not be enough to reach me.
I prayed a lot, it passed, scraping faintly across the cellar door.
An age of almost unbearable suspense passed, then I heard it fumbling at the latch!
It had found the door! The Martians understood doors!
It worked at the catch for a minute, perhaps, and then the door opened.
In the darkness I could see the thing, like an elephant's trunk, waving, touching and examining 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 time the tentacle was silent.
I could have imagined it had been withdrawn.
Soon, with a sudden click, it gripped 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 the chance to slightly shift my position, which had become cramped, and then listened, I whispered passionate prayers for safety.
Then I heard the slow, deliberate sound creeping towards me again.
Slowly, slowly it drew near, scratching against the walls and tapping the furniture.
While I was still unsure, it rapped smartly against the cellar door and closed it.
I heard it go into the pantry, and the biscuit tins rattled and a bottle smashed, and then came a heavy bump against the cellar door.
Then silence that turned into an infinity of suspense.
Had it gone? I held my breath and listened for any sign.
At last I decided that it had.
It came into the scullery no more.
But I lay all the tenth day in the close darkness.
I was buried among coals and firewood.
I didn't dare even to crawl out for the drink I wanted so badly.
It was the eleventh day before I dared to leave my hiding place.