Рэй Брэдбери: The Exiles

«Good William.» Poe turned. He let the crimson drape fall shut. He stood for a moment to observe the raw stone room, the black-timbered table, the candle flame, the other man, Mr. Ambrose Bierce, sitting very idly there, lighting matches and watching them bum down, whistling under his breath, now and then laughing to himself.

«We'll have to tell Mr. Dickens now,» said Mr. Poe. «We've put it off too long. It's a matter of hours. Will you go down to his home with me, Bierce?»

Bierce glanced up merrily. «I've just been thinking-what'll happen to us?»

«If we can't kill the rocket men off, frighten them away, then we'll have to leave, of course. We'll go on to Jupiter, and when they come to Jupiter, we'll go on to Saturn, and when they come to Saturn, we'll go to Uranus, or Neptune, and then on out to Pluto―»

«Where then?»

Mr. Poe's face was weary; there were fire coals remaining, fading, in his eyes, and a sad wildness in the way he talked, and a uselessness of his hands and the way his hair fell lankly over his amazing white brow. He was like a satan of some lost dark cause, a general arrived from a derelict invasion. His silky, soft, black mustache was worn away by his musing lips. He was so small his brow seemed to float, vast and phosphorescent, by itself, in the dark room.

«We have the advantages of superior forms of travel,» he said. «We can always hope for one of their atomic wars, dissolution, the dark ages come again. The return of superstition. We could go back then to Earth, all of us, in one night.» Mr. Poe's black eyes brooded under his round and luminant brow. He gazed at the ceiling. «So they're coming to ruin this world too? They won't leave anything undefiled, will they?»

«Does a wolf pack stop until it's killed its prey and eaten the guts? It should be quite a war. I shall sit on the side lines and be the scorekeeper. So many Earthmen boiled in oil, so many Mss. Found in Bottles burnt, so many Earthmen stabbed with needles, so many Red Deaths put to flight by a battery of hypodermic syringes-ha!»

Poe swayed angrily, faintly drunk with wine. «What did we do? Be with us, Bierce, in the name of God! Did we have a fair trial before a company of literary critics? No! Our books were plucked up by neat, sterile, surgeon's pliers, and flung into vats, to boil, to be killed of all their mortuary germs. Damn them all!»

«I find our situation amusing,» said Bierce.

They were interrupted by a hysterical shout from the tower stair.

«Mr. Poe! Mr. Bierce!»

«Yes, yes, we're coming!» Poe and Bierce descended to find a man gasping against the stone passage wall.

«Have you heard the news?» he cried immediately, clawing at them like a man about to fall over a cliff. «In an hour they'll land! They're bringing books with them-old books, the witches said! What're you doing in the tower at a time like this? Why aren't you acting?»

Poe said: «We're doing everything we can, Blackwood. You're new to all this. Come along, we're going to Mr. Charles Dickens' place―»

«— to contemplate our doom, our black doom,» said Mr. Bierce, with a wink.

They moved down the echoing throats of the castle, level after dim green level, down into mustiness and decay and spiders and dreamlike webbing. «Don't worry,» said Poe, his brow like a huge white lamp before them, descending, sinking. «All along the dead sea tonight I've called the others. Your friends and mine, Blackwood- Bierce. They're all there. The animals and the old women and the tall men with the sharp white teeth. The traps are waiting; the pits, yes, and the pendulums. The Red Death.» Here he laughed quietly. «Yes, even the Red Death. I never thought-no, I never thought the time would come when a thing like the Red Death would actually be. But they asked for it, and they shall have it!»

«But are we strong enough?» wondered Black-wood.

«How strong is strong? They won't be prepared for us, at least. They haven't the imagination. Those clean young rocket men with their antiseptic bloomers and fish-bowl helmets, with their new religion. About their necks, on gold chains, scalpels. Upon their heads, a diadem of microscopes. In their holy fingers, steaming incense urns which in reality are only germicidal ovens for steaming out superstition. The names of Poe, Bierce, Hawthorne, Blackwood-blasphemy to their clean lips.»

Outside the castle they advanced through a watery space, a tarn that was not a tarn, which misted before them like the stuff of nightmares. The air filled with wing sounds and a whirring, a motion of winds and blacknesses. Voices changed, figures swayed at campfires. Mr. Poe watched the needles knitting, knitting, knitting, in the firelight;

knitting pain and misery, knitting wickedness into wax marionettes, clay puppets. The caldron smells of wild garlic and cayenne and saffron hissed up to fill the night with evil pungency.

«Get on with it!» said Poe. «I'll be back!»

All down the empty seashore black figures spindled and waned, grew up and blew into black smoke on the sky. Bells rang in mountain towers and licorice ravens spilled out with the bronze sounds and spun away to ashes.

Over a lonely moor and into a small valley Poe and Bierce hurried, and found themselves quite suddenly on a cobbled street, in cold, bleak, biting weather, with people stomping up and down stony courtyards to warm their feet; foggy withal, and candles flaring in the windows of offices and shops where hung the Yuletide turkeys. At a distance some boys, all bundled up, snorting their pale breaths on the wintry air, were trilling, «God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen,» while the immense tones of a great clock continuously sounded midnight. Children dashed by from the baker's with dinners all asteam in their grubby fists, on trays and under silver bowls.

At a sign which read SCROOGE, MARLEY AND DICKENS, Poe gave the Marley-faced knocker a rap, and from within, as the door popped open a few inches, a sudden gust of music almost swept them into a dance. And there, beyond the shoulder of the man who was sticking a trim goatee and mustaches at them, was Mr. Fezziwig clapping his hands, and Mrs. Fezziwig, one vast substantial smile, dancing and colliding with other merrymakers, while the fiddle chirped and laughter ran about a table like chandelier crystals given a sudden push of wind. The large table was heaped with brawn and turkey and holly and geese; with mince pies, suckling pigs, wreaths of sausages, oranges and apples; and there was Bob Cratchit and Little Dorrit and Tiny Tim and Mr. Fagin himself, and a man who looked as if he might be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato-who else but Mr. Marley, chains and all, while the wine poured and the brown turkeys did their excellent best to steam!

«What do you want?» demanded Mr. Charles Dickens.

«We've come to plead with you again, Charles;

we need your help,» said Poe.

«Help? Do you think I would help you fight against those good men coming in the rocket? I don't belong here, anyway. My books were burned by mistake. I'm no supernaturalist, no writer of horrors and terrors like you, Poe, you, Bierce, or the others. I'll have nothing to do with you terrible people!»

«You are a persuasive talker,» reasoned Poe. «You could go to meet the rocket men, lull them, lull their suspicions and then-then we would take care of them.»

Mr. Dickens eyed the folds of the black cape which hid Poe's hands. From it, smiling, Poe drew forth a black cat. «For one of our visitors.»

«And for the others?»

Poe smiled again, well pleased. «The Premature Burial?»

«You are a grim man, Mr. Poe.»

«I am a frightened and an angry man. I am a god, Mr. Dickens, even as you are a god, even as we all are gods, and our inventions-our people, if you wish-have not only been threatened, but banished and burned, torn up and censored, ruined and done away with. The worlds we created are falling into ruin. Even gods must fight!»