Tom Leahy - One Martian Afternoon.pdf

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ONE
MARTIAN
AFTERNOON
By Tom Leahy
Illustrated by BRUSH
T
he clod burst in a cloud of red sand and the little Martian sand dog ducked
quickly into his burrow. Marilou threw another at the aperture in the ground
and then ran over and with the inside of her foot she scraped sand into it
until it was filled to the surface. She started to leave, but stopped.
The little fellow might choke to death, she thought, it wasn't his fault she
had to live on Mars. Satisfied that the future of something was dependent on
her whim, she dug the sand from the hole. His little yellow eyes peered out at
her.
"Go on an' live," she said magnanimously.
She got up and brushed the sand from her knees and dress, and walked slowly
down the red road.
The noon sun was relentless; nowhere was there relief from it. Marilou
squinted and shaded her eyes with her hand. She looked in the sky for one of
those infrequent Martian rain clouds, but the deep blue was only occasionally
spotted by fragile white puffs. Like the sun, they had no regard for her,
either. They were too concerned with moving toward the distant mountains,
there to cling momentarily to the peaks and then continue on their endless
route.
Marilou dabbed the moisture from her forehead with the hem of her dress. "I
know one thing," she mumbled. "When I grow up, I'll get to Earth an' never
come back to Mars, no matter what!"
She broke into a defiant, cadenced step.
"An' I won't care whether you an' Mommy like it or not!" she declared aloud,
sticking out her chin at an imaginary father before her.
Before she realized it, a tiny, lime-washed stone house appeared not a hundred
yards ahead of her. That was the odd thing about the Martian midday; something
small and miles away would suddenly become large and very near as you
approached it.
The heat waves did it, her father had told her. "Really?" she had replied,
and—you think you know so doggone much, she had thought.
"A
unt Twylee!" She broke into a run. By the Joshua trees, through the stone
gateway she ran, and with a leap she lit like a young frog on the porch. "Hi,
Aunt Twylee!" she said breathlessly.
An ancient Martian woman sat in a rocking chair in the shade of the porch. She
held a bowl of purple river apples in her lap. Her papyrus-like hands moved
quickly as she shaved the skin from one. In a matter of seconds it was peeled.
She looked up over her bifocals at the panting Marilou.
 
"Gracious, child, you shouldn't run like that this time of day," she said.
"You Earth children aren't used to our Martian heat. It'll make you sick if
you run too much."
"I don't care! I hate Mars! Sometimes I wish I could just get good an' sick,
so's I'd get to go home!"
"Marilou, you are a little tyrant!" Aunt Twylee laughed.
"Watcha' doin', Aunt Twylee?" Marilou asked, getting up from her frog posture
and coming near the old Martian lady's chair.
"Oh, peeling apples, dear. I'm going to make a cobbler this afternoon." She
dropped the last apple, peeled, into the bowl. "There, done. Would you like a
little cool apple juice, Marilou?"
"Sure—you betcha! Hey, could I watch you make the cobbler, Aunt Twylee, could
I? Mommy can't make it for anything—it tastes like glue. Maybe, if I could see
how you do it, maybe I could show her. Do you think?"
"Now, Marilou, your mother must be a wonderful cook to have raised such a
healthy little girl. I'm sure there's nothing she could learn from me," Aunt
Twylee said as she arose. "Let's go inside and have that apple juice."
The kitchen was dark and cool, and filled with the odors of the wonderful
edibles the old Martian had created on and in the Earth-made stove. She opened
the Earth-made refrigerator that stood in the corner and withdrew an
Earth-made bottle filled with Martian apple juice.
Marilou jumped up on the table and sat cross-legged.
"Here, dear." Aunt Twylee handed her a glass of the icy liquid.
"Ummm, thanks," Marilou said, and gulped down half the contents. "That tastes
dreamy, Aunt Twylee."
The little girl watched the old Martian as she lit the oven and gathered the
necessary ingredients for the cobbler. As she bent over to get a bowl from the
shelf beneath Marilou's perch, her hair brushed against the child's knee. Her
hair was soft, soft and white as a puppy's, soft and white like the down from
a dandelion. She smiled at Marilou. She always smiled; her pencil-thin mouth
was a perpetual arc.
Marilou drained the glass. "Aunt Twylee—is it true what my daddy says about
the Martians?"
"True? How can I say, dear? I don't know what he said."
"Well, I mean, that when us Earth people came, you Martians did inf ... infan
..."
"Infanticide?" Aunt Twylee interrupted, rolling the dough on the board a
little flatter, a little faster.
"Yes, that's it—killed babies," Marilou said, and took an apple from the bowl.
"My daddy says you were real primitive, an' killed your babies for some silly
religious reason. I think that's awful! How could it be religious? God
couldn't like to have little babies killed!" She took a big bite of the apple;
the juice ran from the corners of her mouth.
 
"Your daddy is a very intelligent man, Marilou, but he's partially wrong. It
is true—but not for religious reasons. It was a necessity. You must remember,
dear, Mars is very arid—sterile—unable to sustain many living things. It was
awful, but it was the only way we knew to control the population."
M
arilou looked down her button nose as she picked a brown spot from the apple.
"Hmmph, I'll tell 'im he's wrong," she said. "He thinks he knows so damn
much!"
"Marilou!" Aunt Twylee exclaimed as she looked over her glasses. "A sweet
child like you shouldn't use such language!"
Marilou giggled and popped the remaining portion of the apple in her mouth.
"Do your parents know where you are, child?" Aunt Twylee asked, as she took
the bowl from Marilou's hands. She began dicing the apples into a dough-lined
casserole.
"No, they don't," Marilou replied. She sprayed the air with little particles
of apple as she talked. "Everybody's gone to the hills to look for the boys."
"The boys?" Aunt Twylee stopped her work and looked at the little girl.
"Yes—Jimmy an' Eddie an' some of the others disappeared from the settlement
this morning. The men're afraid they've run off to th' hills an' the renegades
got 'em."
"Gracious," Aunt Twylee said; her brow knitted into a criss-cross of wrinkles.
"Oh, I know those dopes. They're prob'ly down at th' canals—fishin' or
somep'n."
"Just the same, your mother will be frantic, dear. You should have told her
where you were going."
"I don't care," Marilou said with unadulterated honesty. "She'll be all right
when I get home."
Aunt Twylee shook her head and clucked her tongue.
"Can I have another glass? Please?"
The old lady poured the glass full again. And then she sprinkled sugar down
among the apple cubes in the casserole and covered them with a blanket of
dough. She cut an uneven circle of half moons in it and put it in the oven.
"There—all ready to bake, Marilou," she sighed.
"It looks real yummy, Aunt Twylee."
"Well, I certainly hope it turns out good, dear," she said, wiping her
forehead with her apron. She looked out the open back door. The landscape was
beginning to gray as heavier clouds moved down from the mountains and pressed
the afternoon heat closer, more oppressively to the ground. "My, it's getting
hot. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if we didn't get a little rain this
afternoon, Marilou." She turned back to the little girl. "Tell me some more
about your daddy, dear. We Martians certainly owe a lot to men like your
father."
 
"That's what he says too. He says, you Martians would have died out in a few
years, if we hadn't come here. We're so much more civi ... civili ..."
"Civilized?"
"Yeah. He says, we were so much more 'civ-ilized' than you that we saved your
lives when we came here with all our modern stuff."
"Well, that's true enough, dear. Just look at that wonderful Earth stove,"
Aunt Twylee said, and laughed. "We wouldn't be able to bake an apple cobbler
like that without it, would we?"
A
rumble of thunder shouldered through the crowded hot air.
"No. He says, you Martians are kinda likeable, but you can't be trusted. He's
nuts! I like you Martians!"
"Thank you, child, but everyone's entitled to his own opinion. Don't judge
your daddy too severely," Aunt Twylee said as she scraped spilled sugar from
the table and put little bits of it on her tongue.
"He says that you'd bite th' hand that feeds you. He says, we brought all
these keen things to Mars, an' that if you got th' chance, you'd kill all of
us!"
"Gracious," said Aunt Twylee as she speared scraps of dough with the point of
her long paring knife.
"He's a dope!" Marilou said.
Aunt Twylee opened the oven and peeked in at the cobbler. The aroma of the
simmering apples rushed out and filled the room.
"Could I have some cobbler when it's done?" Marilou asked, her mouth filling
with saliva.
"I'm afraid not, child. It's getting rather late."
The thunder rumbled again—a little closer, a little louder.
The old lady washed the blade of the knife in the sink. "Tell me more of what
your father says, dear," she said as she adjusted the bifocals on her thin
nose and ran her thumb along the length of the knife's blade.
"Oh, nothin' much more. He just says that you'd kill us if you had th' chance.
That's the way the inferior races always act, he says. They want to kill th'
people that help 'em, 'cause they resent 'em."
"Very interesting."
"Well, it isn't so, is it, Aunt Twylee?"
The room was filled with blinding blue-white light, and the walls quaked at
the sound of a monstrous thunderclap.
The old Martian glanced nervously at the clock on the wall. "My, it is getting
late," she said as she fondled the knife in her hands.
 
"You Martians wouldn't do anything like that, would you?"
"You want the truth, don't you, dear?" Aunt Twylee asked, smiling, as she
walked to the table where Marilou sat.
"'Course I do, Aunt Twylee," she said.
Her scream was answered and smothered by the horrendous roar of the thunder,
and the piercing hiss of the rain that fell in sheets. In great volumes of
water, it fell, as though the heavens were attempting to wash the sins of man
from the universe and into non-existence in the void beyond the void.
M
arilou lay beside the other children. Aunt Twylee smiled at them, closed the
bedroom door and returned to the kitchen.
The storm had moved on; the thunder was the faint grumbling of a pacified old
man. What water fell was a monotonous trickle from the eaves of the
lime-washed stone house. Aunt Twylee washed the blood from the knife and wiped
it dry on her apron. She opened the oven and took out the browned cobbler.
Sweet apple juice bubbled to the surface through the half moons and burst in
delights of sugary aroma. The sun broke through the thinning edge of the
thunderhead.
Aunt Twylee brushed a lock of her feathery white hair from her moist cheek.
"Gracious," she said, "I must tidy up a bit before the others come."
THE END
 

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