“’ … my brain reeled as I saw the mighty walls rushing asunder—there was a long tumultuous shouting sound like the voice of a thousand waters—and the deep and dank tarn at my feet closed sullenly and silently over the fragments of the House of Usher.’”
The helicopter rose over the steaming lake and flew into the west.
August 2005 The Old Ones
And what more natural than that, at last, the old people come to Mars, following in the trail left by the loud frontiersmen, the aromatic sophisticates, and the professional travelers and romantic lecturers in search of new grist.
And so the dry and crackling people, the people who spent their time listening to their hearts and feeling their pulses and spooning syrups into their wry mouths, these people who once had taken chair cars to California in November and third-class steamers to Italy in April, the dried-apricot people, the mummy people, came at last to Mars …
September 2005 The Martian
The blue mountains lifted into the rain and the rain fell down into the long canals and old LaFarge and his wife came out of their house to watch.
“First rain this season,” LaFarge pointed out.
“It’s good,” said his wife.
“Very welcome.”
They shut the door. Inside, they warmed their hands at a fire. They shivered. In the distance, through the window, they saw rain gleaming on the sides of the rocket which had brought them from Earth.
“There’s only one thing,” said LaFarge, looking at his hands.
“What’s that?” asked his wife.
“I wish we could have brought Tom with us.”
“Oh, now, Lafe!”
“I won’t start again; I’m sorry.”
“We came here to enjoy our old age in peace, not to think of Tom. He’s been dead so long now, we should try to forget him and everything on Earth.”
“You’re right,” he said, and turned his hands again to the heat. He gazed into the fire. “I won’t speak of it any more. It’s just I miss driving out to Green Lawn Park every Sunday to put flowers on his marker. It used to be our only excursion.”
The blue rain fell gently upon the house.
At nine o’clock they went to bed and lay quietly, hand in hand, he fifty-five, she sixty, in the raining darkness.
“Anna?” he called softly.
“Yes?” she replied.
“Did you hear something?”
They both listened to the rain and the wind.
“Nothing,” she said.
“Someone whistling,” he said.
“No, I didn’t hear it.”
“I’m going to get up to see anyhow.”
He put on his robe and walked through the house to the front door. Hesitating, he pulled the door wide, and rain fell cold upon his face. The wind blew.
In the dooryard stood a small figure.
Lightning cracked the sky, and a wash of white color illumined the face looking in at old LaFarge there in the doorway.
“Who’s there?” called LaFarge, trembling.
No answer.
“Who is it? What do you want!”
Still not a word.
He felt very weak and tired and numb. “Who are you?” he cried.
His wife entered behind him and took his arm. “Why are you shouting?”
“A small boy’s standing in the yard and won’t answer me,” said the old man, trembling. “He looks like Tom!”
“Come to bed, you’re dreaming.”
“But he’s there; see for yourself.”
He pulled the door wider to let her see. The cold wind blew and the thin rain fell upon the soil and the figure stood looking at them with distant eyes. The old woman held to the doorway.
“Go away!” she said, waving one hand. “Go away!”
“Doesn’t it look like Tom?” asked the old man.
The figure did not move.
“I’m afraid,” said the old woman. “Lock the door and come to bed. I won’t have anything to do with it.”
She vanished, moaning to herself, into the bedroom.
The old man stood with the wind raining coldness on his hands.
“Tom,” he called softly. “Tom, if that’s you, if by some chance it is you, Tom, I’ll leave the door unlatched. And if you’re cold and want to come in to warm yourself, just come in later and lie by the hearth; there’s some fur rugs there.”
He shut but did not lock the door.
His wife felt him return to bed, and shuddered. “It’s a terrible night. I feel so old,” she said, sobbing.
“Hush, hush,” he gentled her, and held her in his arms. “Go to sleep.”
After a long while she slept.
And then, very quietly, as he listened, he heard the front door open, the rain and wind come in, the door shut. He heard soft footsteps on the hearth and a gentle breathing. “Tom,” he said to himself,
Lightning struck in the sky and broke the blackness apart.
In the morning the sun was very hot.
Mr. LaFarge opened the door into the living room and glanced all about, quickly.
The hearthrugs were empty.
LaFarge sighed. “I’m getting old,” he said.
He went out to walk to the canal to fetch a bucket of clear water to wash in. At the front door he almost knocked young Tom down carrying in a bucket already filled to the brim. “Good morning, Father!”
“Morning Tom.” The old man fell aside. The young boy, barefooted, hurried across the room, set the bucket down, and turned, smiling. “It’s a fine day!”
“Yes, it is,” said the old man incredulously. The boy acted as if nothing was unusual. He began to wash his face with the water.
The old man moved forward. “Tom, how did you get here? You’re alive?”
“Shouldn’t I be?” The boy glanced up.
“But, Tom, Green Lawn Park, every Sunday, the flowers and … ” LaFarge had to sit down. The boy came and stood before him and took his hand. The old man felt of the fingers, warm and firm. “You’re really here, it’s not a dream?”
“You do want me to be here, don’t you?” The boy seemed worried.
“Yes, yes, Tom!”
“Then why ask questions? Accept me!”
“But your mother; the shock … ”
“Don’t worry about her. During the night I sang to both of you, and you’ll accept me more because of it, especially her. I know what the shock is. Wait till she comes, you’ll see.” He laughed, shaking his head of coppery, curled hair. His eyes were very blue and clear.
“Good morning, Lafe, Tom.” Mother came from the bedroom, putting her hair up into a bun. “Isn’t it a fine day?”
Tom turned to laugh in his father’s face. “You see?”
They ate a very good lunch, all three of them, in the shade behind the house. Mrs. LaFarge had found an old bottle of sunflower wine she had put away, and they all had a drink of that. Mr. LaFarge had never seen his wife’s face so bright. If there was any doubt in her mind about Tom, she didn’t voice it. It was completely natural thing to her. And it was also becoming natural to LaFarge himself.
While Mother cleared the dishes LaFarge leaned toward his son and said confidentially, “How old are you now, Son?”
“Don’t you know, Father? Fourteen, of course.”
“Who are you, really? You can’t be Tom, but you are someone. Who?”
“Don’t.” Startled, the boy put his hands to his face.
“You can tell me,” said the old man. “I’ll understand. You’re a Martian, aren’t you? I’ve heard tales of the Martians; nothing definite. Stories about how rare Martians are and when they come among us they come as Earth Men. There’s something about you—you’re Tom and yet you’re not.”
“Why can’t you accept me and stop talking?” cried the boy. His hands completely shielded his face. “Don’t doubt, please don’t doubt me!” He turned and ran from the table.
“Tom, come back!”
But the boy ran off along the canal toward the distant town.
“Where’s Tom going?” asked Anna, returning for more dishes. She looked at her husband’s face. “Did you say something to bother him?”
“Anna,” he said, taking her hand. “Anna, do you remember anything about Green Lawn Park, a market, and Tom having pneumonia?”
“What are you talking about?” She laughed.
“Never mind,” he said quietly.
In the distance the dust drifted down after Tom had run along the canal rim.
At five in the afternoon, with the sunset, Tom returned. He looked doubtfully at his father. “Are you going to ask me anything?” he wanted to know.
“No questions,” said LaFarge.
The boy smiled his white smile. “Swell.”
“Where’ve you been?”
“Near the town. I almost didn’t come back. I was almost”—the boy sought for a word—“trapped.”
“How do you mean, ‘trapped’?”
“I passed a small tin house by the canal and I was almost made so I couldn’t come back here ever again to see you. I don’t know how to explain it to you, there’s no way, I can’t tell you, even I don’t know; it’s strange, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“We won’t then. Better wash up, boy. Suppertime.”
The boy ran.
Perhaps ten minutes later a boat floated down the serene surface of the canal, a tall lank man with black hair poling it along with leisurely drives of his arms. “Evening, Brother LaFarge,” he said, pausing at his task.
“Evening Saul, what’s the word?”
“All kinds of words tonight. You know that fellow named Nomland who lives down the canal in the tin hut?”
LaFarge stiffened. “Yes?”
“You know what sort of rascal he was?”
“Rumor had it he left Earth because he killed a man.”
Saul leaned on his wet pole, gazing at LaFarge. “Remember the name of the man he killed?”
“Gillings, wasn’t it?”
“Right. Gillings. Well, about two hours ago Mr. Nomland came running to town crying about how he had seen Gillings, alive, here on Mars, today, this afternoon! He tried to get the jail to lock him up safe. The jail wouldn’t. So Nomland went home, and twenty minutes ago, as I get the story, blew
