The "blasted heath" they called it. Five acres of grey desolation, like a sore eaten into the land. West of Arkham, the hills rise wild. There are dark little glens where the trees hang precariously and where thin brooklets trickle, never having been touched by sunlight. There was once a road over the hills and through the valley, but people ceased to use it. The old folk have died or gone away, and the farms and villages are slowly decaying back into dark woods and narrow clearings. A family died up there.
It is a story told many times in the century since the Great Martian Invasion - of a devastating and irresistible assault, of mankind in panicked flight, and of humanity's miraculous salvation. Every man and woman, girl, and boy across the globe knows the tale and hears it with reverence and gratitude. And yet - is that the whole story? Did the invaders have all the advantages? All the technology? Not all the brains were on their side. Not all the guile. Certainly not all the ruthless determination.