Homeward Bound and Other Stories.indb

by Bruce Coville

  He would dream. In his dreams his father would reach out to take his hand. “We’re all lost,” he would whisper, as he had the day he died. “Lost, and aching to find our name, so that we can finally go home again.”

  When Jamie woke, his pillow would be soaked with sweat, and tears.

  The sorrow faded with the return of the other students, and the resumption of a daily routine. Even so, it was a relief when three months later his uncle sent word that he would be allowed to come back for the spring holiday.

  The man made a point of letting Jamie know he had hidden the horn, by taking him into the study soon after his arrival at the house. He watched closely as the boy’s eyes flickered over the walls, searching for the horn, and seemed satisfied at the expression of defeat that twisted his face before he closed in on himself, shutting out the world again.

  But Jamie had become cunning. The defeat he showed his uncle was real. What the man didn’t see, because the boy buried it as soon as he was aware of it, was that the defeat was temporary. For hiding the horn didn’t make any difference. Now that Jamie had touched it, he was bound to it. Wherever it was hidden, he would find it. Its call was too powerful to mistake.

  Even so, Jamie thought he might lose his mind before he got his chance. Day after day his uncle stayed in the house, guarding his treasure. Finally, on the morning of the fifth day, an urgent message pulled him away. Even then, the anger that burned in his face as he stormed through the great oak doors, an anger Jamie knew was rooted in being called from his vigil, might have frightened someone less determined.

  The boy didn’t care. He would make his way to the horn while he had the chance.

  He knew where it was, of course—had known from the evening of the first day.

  It was in his uncle’s bedroom.

  The room was locked. Moving cautiously, Jamie slipped downstairs to the servant’s quarters and stole the master key, then scurried back to the door. To his surprise he felt no fear.

  He decided it was because he had no choice; he was only doing what he had to do.

  He twisted the key in the lock and swung the door open.

  His uncle’s room was large and richly decorated, filled with heavy, carefully carved furniture. Above the dresser hung a huge mirror.

  Jamie hesitated for just a moment, then lay on his stomach and peered beneath the bed.

  The horn was there, wrapped in a length of blue velvet.

  He reached in and drew the package out. Then he stood, and placed it gently on the bed. With reverent fingers he unrolled the velvet. Cradled by the rich blue fabric, the horn looked like a comet blazing across a midnight sky.

  This time there could be no interruption. Hesitating for no more than a heartbeat, he reached out and clutched the horn with both hands.

  He cried out, in agony, and in awe. For a moment he thought he was going to die. The feelings the horn unleashed within him seemed too much for his body to hold. He didn’t die, though his heart was racing faster than it had any right to.

  More,” he thought, as images of the place he had seen in his dreams rushed through his mind. “I have to know more.”

  He drew the horn to his chest, and laid his cheek against it.

  He thought his heart would beat its way out of his body.

  And still it wasn’t enough.

  He knew what he had to do next. But he was afraid.

  Fear made no difference. He remembered again what his father had said about people aching to find their true name. He was close to his now. “No one can come this close and not reach out for the answer,” he thought. “The emptiness would kill them on the spot.”

  And so he did what he had to do, fearful as it was. Placing the base of the horn against the foot of the massive bed, he set the tip of it against his heart.

  Then he leaned forward.

  The point of the horn pierced his flesh like a sword made of fire and ice. He cried out, first in pain, then in joy and wonder. Finally the answer was clear to him, and he understood his obsession, and his loneliness.

  “No wonder I didn’t fit,” he thought, as his fingers fused, then split into cloven hooves.

  The transformation was painful. But the joy so far surpassed it that he barely noticed the fire he felt as his neck began to stretch, and the horn erupted from his brow. “No wonder, no wonder, no it’s all wonder, wonder, wonder and joy!”

  He reared back in triumph, his silken mane streaming behind him, as he trumpeted the joyful discovery that he was, and always had been, and always would be, a unicorn.

  And knowing his name, he finally knew how to go home. Hunching the powerful muscles of his hind legs, he launched himself toward the dresser. His horn struck the mirror, and it shattered into a million pieces that crashed and tinkled into two different worlds.

  He hardly noticed. He was through, and home at last.

  “No,” said a voice at the back of his head. “You’re not home yet.”

  He stopped. It was true. He wasn’t home yet, though he was much closer. But there was still more to do, and further to go.

  How could that be? He knew he was, had always been, a unicorn. Then he trembled, as he realized his father’s last words were still true. There was still something inside that needed to be discovered, to be named.

  He whickered nervously as he realized all he had really done was come back to where most people begin—his own place, his own shape.

  He looked around. He was standing at the edge of a clearing in an old oak wood. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, dappling patches of warmth onto his flanks. He paused for a moment, taking pleasure in feeling his own true shape at last.

  Suddenly he shivered, then stood stock still as the smell of the girl reached his nostrils.

  The scent was sweet, and rich, and he could resist it no more than he had resisted the horn. He began trotting in her direction, sunlight bouncing off the horn that jutted out from his forehead.

  He found her beneath an apple tree, singing to herself while she brushed her honey-colored hair. Doves rustled and cooed at the edges of the clearing. They reminded him of the pigeons his father had raised.

  As he stood and watched her, every fiber of his being cried out that there was danger here. But it was not in the nature of a unicorn to resist such a girl.

  Lowering his head, he walked forward.

  “So,” she said. “You’ve come at last.”

  He knelt beside her, and she began to stroke his mane. Her fingers felt cool against his neck, and she sang to him in a voice that seemed to wash away old sorrows. He relaxed into a sweet silence, content for the first time that he could remember.

  He wanted the moment to go on forever.

  But it ended almost instantly, as the girl slipped a golden bridle over his head, and his uncle stepped into the clearing.

  The man was wearing a wizard’s garb, which didn’t surprise Jamie. Ten armed soldiers stood behind him.

  Jamie sprang to his feet. But he had been bound by the magic of the bridle; he could neither run nor attack.

  Flanks heaving, he stared at his wizard uncle.

  “Did you really think you could get away from me?” asked the man.

  “I have!” thought Jamie fiercely, knowing the thought would be understood.

  “Don’t be absurd!” snarled his uncle. “I’ll take your horn, as I did your father’s. And then I’ll take your shape, and finally your memory. You’ll come back with me, and be no different than he was—a dreamy, foolish mortal, lost and out of place.”

  “Why?” thought Jamie. “Why would anyone want to hold a unicorn?”

  His uncle didn’t answer.

  Jamie locked eyes with him, begging him to explain.

  No answer came. But he realized he had found a way to survive. Just as the golden bridle held him helpless, so his gaze could hold his uncle. As long as he could stare into the man’s eyes, he could keep him from moving.

  He knew, too, that as soon as he flinched, the battle
would be over.

  Jamie had no idea how long the struggle actually lasted. They seemed to be in a place apart, far away from the clearing, away from the girl, and the soldiers.

  He began to grow fearful. Sooner or later he would falter and his uncle would regain control. It wasn’t enough to hold him. He had to conquer him.

  But how? How? He couldn’t win unless he knew why he was fighting. He had to discover why his uncle wanted to capture and hold him.

  But the only way to do that was to look deeper inside the man. The idea frightened him; he didn’t know what he would find there. Even worse, it would work two ways. He couldn’t look deeper into his uncle, without letting his uncle look more deeply into him.

  He hesitated. But there was no other way. Accepting the risk, he opened himself to his uncle.

  At the same time, he plunged into the man’s soul.

  His uncle cried out, then dropped to his knees and buried his face in his hands, trembling with the humiliation of being seen.

  Jamie trembled too, for the emptiness he found inside this man could swallow suns and devour planets. This was the hunger that had driven him to capture unicorns, in the hope that their glory could fill his darkness.

  Then, at last, Jamie knew what he must do. Stepping forward, he pressed the tip of his horn against his uncle’s heart.

  He had been aware of his horn’s healing power, of course. But this was the first time he had tried to use it. He wasn’t expecting the shock of pain that jolted through him, or the wave of despair that followed as he took in the emptiness, and the fear, and the hunger that had driven his uncle for so long.

  He wanted to pull away, to run in terror.

  But if he did, it would only start all over again. Only a healing would put an end to the pursuit. And this was the only way to heal this man, this wizard, who, he now understood, had never really been his uncle, but only his captor. He had to be seen, in all his sorrow and his ugliness; seen, and accepted, and loved. Only then could he be free of the emptiness that made him want to possess a unicorn.

  Jamie trembled as the waves of emptiness and sorrow continued to wash through him. But at last he was nearly done. Still swaying from the effort, he whispered to the man: “Go back. Go back and find your name. And then—go home.”

  That was when the sword fell, slicing through his neck.

  It didn’t matter, really, though he felt sorry for his “uncle,” who began to weep, and sorrier still for the soldier who had done the deed. He knew it would be a decade or so before the man could sleep without mind-twisting nightmares of the day he had killed a unicorn.

  But for Jamie himself, the change made no difference. Because he still was what he had always been, what he always would be, what a unicorn had simply been one appropriate shape to hold. He was a being of power and light.

  He shook with delight, as he realized that he had named himself at last.

  He turned to the wizard, and was amazed. No longer hampered by mere eyes, he could see that the same thing was true for him—as it was for the girl, as it was for the soldiers.

  They were all beings of power and light.

  The terrible thing was, they didn’t know it.

  Suddenly he understood. This was the secret, the unnamed thing his father had been trying to remember: that we are all beings of power and light. And all the pain, all the sorrow—it all came from not knowing this simple truth.

  Why? wondered Jamie. Why don’t any of us know how beautiful we really are?

  And then even that question became unimportant, because his father had come to take him home, and suddenly he wasn’t just a unicorn, but was all unicorns, was part of every wise and daring being that had worn that shape and that name, every unicorn that had ever lived, or ever would live. And he felt himself stretch to fill the sky, as the stars came tumbling into his body, stars at his knees and at his hooves, at his shoulder and his tail, and most of all a shimmer of stars that lined the length of his horn, a horn that stretched across the sky, pointing out, for anyone who cared to look, the way to go home.

  The Boy With Silver Eyes

  A Tale from the Unicorn Chronicles

  THERE is always one unicorn on Earth, come as a reminder of what the world has lost. This is an ancient promise, made by the unicorns after they fled to the world called Luster because the hunt for them had become so savage they feared they could not survive.

  There is always one unicorn on Earth, a unicorn who risks his life by returning from Luster so we will not forget the sweetness and the magic that were once our birthright.

  There is always one unicorn on Earth, who is come to spend twenty-five years as the Guardian of Memory, the sweet reminder of what we once had.

  Alas, this unicorn does not always survive that service.

  This is how it was with Streamstrider, who liked to dance on water and could prance across a river on the tips of his hooves. At least, he could until the day a Hunter’s arrow found his heart.

  A shiver ran through the unicorns of Luster when Streamstrider fell, for they always know, at once and without question, when one of their own has died. The queen, Arabella Skydancer, wept the most bitter tears of all, for it was she who had given the pledge to send a unicorn back to Earth. Though she had known when she made the promise that it was not without danger, it still pierced her own heart like an arrow every time that price was paid.

  The Hunter who had slain Streamstrider cut off the glimmering horn and took the trophy to the woman called Beloved, who was the leader of the Hunter clan, and the ancient enemy of all unicorns. She clutched it to her chest and crooned with delight that another of the foe had fallen.

  And then the Hunter did something else, something no Hunter had ever done before, and none has dared do since. He skinned the carcass and cut up the meat, which he took home to feed his family—his wife, Therese, and his son, Nils, who was but four years old. But Therese would not touch the meat, for though it sizzled tantalizingly on the spit, the smell of it—a smell of clear water and mountain breezes, of fresh spring grass and flowers not yet open—was strange, and it frightened her. Nor did Nils want to eat, for he saw his mother’s fear, and it made him afraid as well. But the boy feared his father’s wrath even more, and when the Hunter raised his fist and roared, “You’ll eat, by God, or I’ll know the reason why!” Nils put a piece of the meat to his lips.

  When the Hunter saw this he was satisfied, and cut a huge chunk of the unicorn meat for himself. Silvery blood ran over his chin as he crammed the gobbet into his mouth. But he was a hasty man, and he chewed only two or three times before he tried to swallow. The meat lodged in his gullet and he began to choke. Eyes bulging, he clutched at his throat. No sound came from his open mouth.

  Nils watched in terror as his mother screamed and pounded on his father’s back. Her efforts were of no avail; moments later the Hunter lay on the floor, his face blue, his chest unmoving.

  Only then—and mostly because he did not know what else to do—did Nils swallow the piece of meat he had been holding in his own mouth.

  In that moment he was changed forever.

  Nils and his mother lived in a cottage at the edge of the great northern forest. Though they were far from rich, they did not want for any of the necessities of life. In part this was because Therese was a skilled gardener and seamstress. But it was also because Beloved sent Therese a small bag of gold every year, as a token of her appreciation for what her husband had done. And, though the two did not know it, other Hunters kept watch on the cottage, to make sure they remained safe.

  After the first year, Therese did not say anything to Nils about the gold. This was because the first time he saw it he shrieked in horror and fled the cottage, and it took her seven hours to find him.

  Despite being safe and having enough to eat, Therese did not rest easy, for two things gnawed at her heart. The first was sorrow for her lost husband, who had been gruff and demanding but also a cherished companion. The second was Nils, who grew
stranger and more dreamy with every passing month. Something in the boy’s eyes when he gazed into the woods troubled her. Even worse were the days when he sat at the side of the cottage, staring into the forest and singing wordlessly to himself—a song so filled with longing that it made his mother weep, which was something the boy himself never did.

  Sometimes she would sit down beside him and ask, “What are you looking for, Nils?”

  “I don’t know,” he would whisper. “Something. I want something, Mother. But I don’t know what it is.”

  These were strange words to hear from a boy who was but five years old, and they troubled Therese greatly.

  Once he woke her in the middle of a rainy night, saying, “Listen! Listen!”

  “It’s only the rain,” she said, caressing his golden hair.

  “No, not the rain. The voices in the rain. What are they saying? I can’t understand them!”

  When Therese told Nils there were no voices, at least none that she could hear, his eyes grew wide and he crawled into bed beside her, where he spent the rest of the night shivering in terror.

  Despite these things, much of the time Nils was one of the happiest creatures in all the north. This was partly because he loved the great forest behind their home, and spent most of his hours playing there.

  At first his love for the forest worried Therese, who feared he would get lost in the deep strangeness of the place. When the boy was still little she tried putting him in a sort of harness and tying him to a tree so he could not wander more than thirty feet away. The first time he escaped from the harness—he was six, and she never did figure out how—she was seized with panic and she plunged into the forest in search of him. She had been looking for over an hour when he ambled up to her, seeming surprised to find her so upset. When she snatched him up he patted her cheeks with his little hands and crooned, “Don’t cry, Mama! Don’t cry!”