The Red Weed, and the Parson

While my dear friend Ogilvy was beset with his own travails and trivialities, I, naturally, had my own to deal with. Directionless, I wandered, seeking refuge from the Martians, same as Donatello and his band of followers. I, too, had to deal with the pink smoke the Martians laid down, and with no small amount of luck, I happened to cluster into a house on a hill-peak with a number of others. Though there was adequate space for us all in the house, out of terror and the need for comfort, we massed together into a pile in one of the upper rooms.

The Martians came by to clear the smoke the next day, and timid as mice, we finally dared venture out, all going our separate ways. But what greeted us at the rosy dawn was far from the landscape we were familiar with, for the red weed, which gives Mars its red color, had taken root on Earth. Whether by intent or accident, the Martians had carried its seeds with them, and its vines had immediately invaded as well. As we had succumbed to the Martians, had our land now succumbed to the red weed.

I wandered through a weird and lurid landscape, over vines that caught at my feet, they grew so rapidly. One could hear them creaking as they widened and spread, though unlike the Martians, seemed to pose Britain's remaining humans no harm nor ill will… invasive, but a mere mindless plant, doing what a plant normally did, albeit at a much faster and more aggressive rate. It gravitated toward any water source, choking it out, and once it did, formed upward like great, viny trees which waved and occasionally snapped like whips in the wind, grabbing at or fending off God only knows what, echoing the motions of the Martians in their base form, with their tentacles.

Wherever there was a stream, the weed clung and grew with a frightening voraciousness.

Its clawlike fronds choking the movement of the water, and then it began to creep, like a slimy, red animal, across the land,

covering field, and ditch, and tree, and hedgerow with scarlet feelers, crawling… crawling…

I had not dared to eat of it, though one of my temporary companions had, reporting that it was quite watery and flavorless… edible, but neither pleasant nor nourishing. I made the mistake of lying down upon it only once, and could scarcely fight my way free of it once I had awoken, all but bound to the ground but for a bit around my face. That piece alone had grayed and become brittle, as if from my very breath. (I should be insulted, but for that my hygiene, in my plight, had suffered severe neglect. Should the plant have been up and blighted from my halitosis, I could hardly argue, though I found its reaction quite overdramatic.) The easily broken dead vine allowed me enough purchase to claw my way out and to a sitting position, whereupon I could release my legs with the aid of the short knife I keep in my belt. From then on, I was sure to clear a wide area around myself when I needed to rest, lest I become fully ensnared.

As I wandered the tangled, viny land, I passed near a humble cottage, next to a churchyard. All the headstones were now overrun with the weed, though likely having crumbled and fallen long before its vulgar takeover. As I crossed through it, I came across the body of a parson—who also happened to be a turtle like myself—on the ground, with the weed spreading across him, though not all of the red I spotted lying across him was the vine… Though quite out of season, months too late for the holiday, he wore a red Pentacostal stole. He must have perished quite recently for the weed not to have overcome and obscured him completely. I felt it improper to simply leave him to the mercy of the red weed, and thus, decided he should have a proper burial.

I was clearing the weed, strand by strand from his body, when I smelled smoke, and looked up to see flame blossoming from the tiny church. In my awe, my hand chanced to land upon his chest. At the touch, his eyes flickered open, and his hand seized my wrist in a powerful grip. He was alive!

Before I could question the hows or whys, a sweet, worried voice called from the door of the cabin. "Raphael? Raphael!" A tall, blue-mottled Salamandrian woman hustled over to us as I helped the parson to sit up. "I saw the church burst into flame! Are you all right?"

"The Martian heat-ray?" I queried, scanning about in near panic to locate the Martian tripod, but the parson let out and eerie giggle.

"A final burnt offering to the Lord! I doused the walls of the His House with the rest of His sacramental wine! May He lick it up with his Tongues of Flame!"

She looked puzzled, yet horrified. "Why would you do such a thing?"

I feared not all of the wine ended up on the walls but a great deal also within the pastor, but held my piece for the woman's sake.

Her face full of concern, she reached out to pull Parson Raphael to his feet, but he yanked his arm away. "Don't touch me!"

Her brow furrowed more in confusion. "But, it's me, Mona Lisa… your wife!"

"No! You're one of them! A devil!"

She looked to me, shaking her head. "He's delirious!"

"Lies!" the turtle parson spat back. "I saw the Devil's sign!"

"What are you saying?"

He wheeled an arm around himself, heedless that I had to duck out of its way. "The green flashes in the sky! His demons were here all along, in our hearts and souls, just waiting for a sign from him! And now they're here, destroying our world!"

The Salamandrian woman caught his elbow, trying to lead him back toward the little cottage. "They're not devils, they're Martians!" she tried to explain, but it was clear he was having none of it.

I heard the movement of the workings of a Martian tripod's legs, at a closer than comfortable distance. "We must leave this place."

"The house is still standing—come, Raphael, quickly!"

"No!"

Not waiting for Father Raphael to concede, his wife stooped, and with a strength I could not have dreamed she possessed, scooped him up into her arms, running toward the house with him. He continued his protests much like those of a toddler, flailing his legs at her side, for she had his arms pinned against her chest. She looked to me, ushering me toward the house with a look.

No sooner had we made it inside than a fighting machine marched through the deteriorated graveyard, toppling and crushing headstones under its metal foot with no reverence for our dead. The three of us huddled together, away from the windows, praying that we would not be spotted, that the terrible heat ray would not find us. The parson would terrify his wife and myself with the occasional shouted sermon line about demons and the end of days, and she and I strove to hush him before we were noticed. At one point he reached such a fevered pitch that I clapped my hand over his mouth, only to have it bitten. His volume reduced, but I was awarded a fervent glare for my efforts.

The fighting machine stopped, its hood spinning around, aimed up at the sky. "KRAANG! KRAANG! KRAANG!" it announced.

Raphael stabbed a finger toward it. "The voice of the Devil is heard in our land!"

"Listen! Do you hear them drawing near in their search for the sinners?!

Feeding on the power of our fear, and the evil within us!

Incarnation of Satan's creation of all that we dread;

When the demons arrive, those alive would be better off dead!"

"It's too late for us now," Raphael moaned, clutching his head as he sank to the floor. "Our reign on this world is ended. We've let the evil inside of us take us over, and it's led to our doom! It's best that we accept that."

Mona Lisa closed her eyes, defiantly shaking her head. "I don't believe that, not for a minute. People aren't evil, not inherently. There must be some part of us that's worth saving, some reason to keep fighting for our home!"

"There must be something worth living for,

There must be something worth trying for!

Even some things worth dying for!

And if one man can stand tall,

There must be hope for us all…

Somewhere, somewhere in the spirit of man…"

Father Raphael shook his head, denying his wife's hope and optimism.

"Once, there was a time when I believed without hesitation

That the power of love and truth could conquer all in the name of salvation!

Tell me, what kind of weapon is love when it comes to the fight?

And just how much protection is truth against all Satan's might?

At his words, the pastor lunged, as if with a stabbing weapon of some sort, at the nearest wall. Had it been a true opponent and blade, it surely would have been a devastating blow. But, having vanquished nothing but a shadow, he once again fell into despair, though Mona Lisa tried again to sway him to her line of thinking.

"People loved you, and trusted you… came to you for help!" She took his hand, trying to catch his eye, but he only stared mournfully at the floor.

"Didn't I warn them this would happen?" he said, shaking his head with disappointment. "'Be on your guard,' I said, 'for the Evil One never rests!' I said, 'Exorcise the Devil!' But no, they wouldn't listen! The demons inside them grew and grew…" He suddenly leaped to his feet, screaming out, "…until Satan gave his signal, and destroyed the world we knew!"

We both leapt for him, hauling him back, away from the windows. "No, Raphael!" the salamander woman pleaded. "Oh, no, Raphael!" she said again, this time appealing to him.

No, Nathaniel, no… there must be more to life.

There has to be a way that we can restore to life the love we used to know!

No, Nathaniel, no… there must be more to life!

There has to be a way that we can restore to life the light that we have lost!

"There is still light and life within people, not merely darkness, but you must give them a chance to show it!" She gestured to me. "This gentleman, for instance, who helped me to bring you inside!" I wanted to point out that she had literally done everything in bringing her husband inside their cottage; I had not even thought to hold the door open for her before she had tended to it herself. I had only hastened them out of the churchyard, desperate to hide from the eyes of the Martians. My motivation has been, perhaps, selfish, but I found myself taking Mona Lisa's side: one of hope, and striving for better, despite the adversities we were faced with. As such, I found it not the time to point out my lack in part of help.

In any circumstance, her words seemed to fall on deaf ear-holes. "Come," she suggested to him, "lead us in a prayer."

He turned a fiery look upon her.

Now darkness has descended on out land, and all your prayers cannot save us!

Like fools, we've let the Devil take command of the souls that God gave us!

To the altar of evil like lambs to the slaughter we're led…

When the demons arrive, the survivors will envy the dead!

Mona Lisa tried again to reason with him. "There must be something worth living for!"

"No," he wailed, "there is nothing!"

"There must be something worth trying for!"

He shook his head fervently. "I don't believe it's so!"

"Even something worth dying for!" she exclaimed, searching out the window as though that something would suddenly appear in order to justify her. When it did not, she turned back to Raphael, taking his hands in hers and pulling him to his feet. "If just one man could stand tall, there would be some hope for us all, somewhere… somewhere in the spirit of Man!"

She looked to me for a moment, pointing me out as an example. If I could only serve as a visual aid in all this, so be it. "Surely there can still be goodness in the world! Surely there is still mercy! Look at this man, who stopped to help you!"

Her husband turned a snarl on her, tossing her hands away. "Forget about goodness and mercy! They're gone!" He moved across the room, where he was able to see the burning church as it crumbled in on itself. "We only rebuilt it three years ago…" he mourned lowly. His fists clenched. Tears appeared at the corners of his eyes. "Didn't I warn them?! 'Pray!' I said! 'Destroy the Devil,' I said!" He shook his head piteously. "They wouldn't listen! I could have saved the world, but now it's too late!" He collapsed to his knees with a great wail. "Too late!"

Mona dove to her own knees to catch him, as though her love would rescue his defeated soul as easily as her arms halted his backward collapse. "No, Raphael! Oh, no, Raphael!" she gasped, crying the tears that he refused to. I moved in to add another comforting hand to the back of his shell, to let him know of my support; a weak candle against the shining love of his wife, but present nonetheless. "No, Raphael, no! There must be more to life!" She ventured toward one of the windows, its light bathing her blue skin and pastel calico dress in delicate golden rays as she peered out. "There has to be a way that we can restore to life the love we used to know! No, Raphael, no… There must be more to life! There has to be a way that we can restore to life…" She lifted her chin toward the light, letting her eyes fall closed as a tear trickled down her cheek. "…the light that we have lost!"

Just as she turned back, to see if her message had reached the pastor in any way, a horrible shudder and crash took us all off our feet. Timbers from the roof fractured, coming down at us. Glass shattered, throwing shards in all directions. The floorboards, impacted by the rest, heaved upward, then snapped below our feet, dumping the parson and I into the cellar. A blistering heat rolled over us, and we retreated as far as we could, among fallen racks and broken jars, to the far end of the room.

Raphael threw an arm in front of his eyes to protect them from the onslaught of the heat. "Satan has sent the very fires of Hell to torture us!"

I rolled my eyes, my patience for his fire and brimstone draining rapidly. "It's a Martian cylinder. It must have landed right on top of the house!"

"And we are trapped below it, in the pit! Mona Lisa?" he called out softly, but no response came. Once the dust cleared enough to see through, we caught sight of her, broken and bent backward, hanging limply among the rubble, her eyes wide and motionless. "Mona Lisa!" he called her name again, and I could hear the genuine concern in his voice. He had loved her, despite his accusations toward her in his delirium. I lifted a slab of brick enough for Father Raphael to pull her loose and lay her on the floor. His eyes passed back and forth over her before he looked up to me. "She's dead! Crushed by the rubble!" He turned his eyes upward, though not at the broken fragments of his home, and shouted, "Why?! Satan, why did you take one of your own?!"

He sought around, finding a cloth among the debris, and draped it over her face, pausing only to brush her eyes closed, and made the sign of the cross over her. Then he turned back to me. "There is a curse on mankind… We may as well be resigned to let the Devil…" he paused to sob, "…the Devil take the spirit of Man!"

There we remained trapped for several days, with no possible exit but out the broken cellar windows, in plain sight of the Martians. The Parson wrestled endlessly with his doubts. His occasional outcries invited death for us both, yet, I pitied him.