Ray Bradbury - The Martian Chronicles

“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 his brains out with a gun. I just came from there.”

“Well, well,” said LaFarge.