Mars (Planet) -- Fiction; Martians -- Fiction; Science fiction
"I would rather," said the boy, relapsing again into his state of
kindly lethargy, "that you learnt things as you went, for talking is
work, and work we hate, but today we are all new and fresh, and if ever
you are to ask questions now is certainly the time. Come with me to
the city yonder, and as we go I will answer the things you wish to
know;" and I went with him, for I was humble and amazed, and, in truth,
at that moment, had not a word to say for myself.
All the way from the plain where I had awoke to the walls of the city
stood booths, drinking-places, and gardens divided by labyrinths of
canals, and embowered in shrubberies that seemed coming into leaf and
flower as we looked, so swift was the process of their growth. These
waterways were covered with skiffs being pushed and rowed in every
direction; the cheerful rowers calling to each other through the leafy
screens separating one lane from another till the place was full of
their happy chirruping. Every booth and way-side halting-place was
thronged with these delicate and sprightly people, so friendly, so
gracious, and withal so purposeless.
I began to think we should never reach the town itself, for first my
guide would sit down on a green stream-bank, his feet a-dangle in the
clear water, and bandy wit with a passing boat as though there were
nothing else in the world to think of. And when I dragged him out of
that, whispering in his ear, "The town, my dear boy! the town! I am
all agape to see it," he would saunter reluctantly to a booth a hundred
yards further on and fall to eating strange confections or sipping
coloured wines with chance acquaintances, till again I plucked him by
the sleeve and said: "Seth, good comrade--was it not so you called your
city just now?--take me to the gates, and I will be grateful to you,"
then on again down a flowery lane, aimless and happy, wasting my time
and his, with placid civility I was led by that simple guide.
Wherever we went the people stared at me, as well they might, as I
walked through them overtopping the tallest by a head or more. The
drinking-cups paused half-way to their mouths; the jests died away upon
their lips; and the blinking eyes of the drinkers shone with a
momentary sparkle of wonder as their minds reeled down those
many-tinted floods to the realms of oblivion they loved.
I heard men whisper one to another, "Who is he?"; "Whence does he
come?"; "Is he a tribute-taker?" as I strolled amongst them, my mind
still so thrilled with doubt and wonder that to me they seemed hardly
more than painted puppets, the vistas of their lovely glades and the
ivory town beyond only the fancy of a dream, and their talk as
incontinent as the babble of a stream.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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