Homeward Bound and Other Stories.indb

by Bruce Coville

  And now the night for choosing is upon us once more, and that is the tale of its beginning.

  His story finished, Grimwold came to stand beside Ivy.

  A deep silence filled the grotto.

  Into that silence came the voice of the queen, sighing across the glory like wind through clover. “Willing hero, willing victim, child of strength and pain, the chosen one must walk alone in paths of sorrow for the sake of those we have left behind. Who will step forward to try the wheel?”

  Silently, about a hundred stallions moved to the front of the glory. Then, to Ivy’s surprise, Madame Leonetti stepped forward, too. In her hands was a wreath made of white and yellow flowers that Ivy did not recognize. The old woman held the wreath to her side, at shoulder height. The first of the unicorns came forward, and took it with his horn. He held it for a moment, then—looking both disappointed and relieved—bent his head so that the next unicorn could take it from him.

  In this way the wreath passed from one unicorn to another, with no decision being made.

  “What are they waiting for?” asked Ivy. “How will they know?”

  Grimwold only shook his head and whispered, “Watch!”

  From horn to horn passed the wreath, without a sign of change, until only three volunteers remained. Though the queen appeared unworried, Grimwold was beginning to grow fretful.

  When the last unicorn took the wreath a cry of astonishment went up. The reason for the cry was not that something had happened, but that it hadn’t.

  No decision had been made. No new guardian had been chosen.

  The queen looked toward Madame Leonetti. “What does it mean? Can the magic have failed after all these centuries?”

  Madame Leonetti spread her hands. “I really don’t—”

  She was interrupted by an outburst from among the unicorns. “Let me try!” called Cloudmane, shouldering her way past a pair of stallions considerably taller than herself. “Let me try!”

  “This is not for you,” said one of the stallions gruffly. “Go back, Cloudmane.”

  “It’s clearly not for you,” she replied defiantly. “None of you have been chosen. Will we let our old world wither, then? Shall we give up being Guardians because of your stubborn male pride? Will we leave Night Eyes stranded there forever? Or will you let me try?”

  “Let her try,” whispered the queen.

  Madame Leonetti smiled, and extended the wreath.

  Moving carefully, Cloudmane thrust her horn through its center.

  For a moment the only sound was that of the waterfall. Then there was a crackle of power, and under it a murmur of astonishment from the gathered unicorns. The wreath began to vibrate. Light danced across its surface.

  Madame Leonetti dropped her hold on the wreath and stepped back. Suspended in the air, Cloudmane’s horn still at its center, the wreath began to spin. The light on its surface grew brighter, spiraling around the green leaves like mist made of fire. The crackle changed to a hum, the hum to a note like a bell. The wreath began to grow, and as it did, it became a window to the other world, the world the unicorns had fled; a window to Earth.

  The view was that of a mountaintop.

  At its peak stood Night Eyes, son of Manda Seafoam, who for twenty-five years had walked the hills of Earth, a Guardian of the ancient memory of unicorns, a silent, unseen reminder of lost joy and the possibility of healing. He looked toward them, but obviously could not see them, as if his attention had been drawn by the sound, but the door had not yet opened.

  Then, with a sudden flash of light, the door did open. The worlds were linked. The homeward path was complete.

  Trumpeting his joy, Night Eyes leaped forward, bounding through the circle of light to where the glory of unicorns stood waiting.

  But no sooner through than he stopped in shock.

  “Cloudmane!” he gasped. “You are the next Guardian?”

  “Who else?” she asked softly.

  “Quickly!” cried Madame Leonetti. “The magic will last but a moment longer.”

  “But why?” asked Night Eyes, his voice filled with sorrow. “Why, Cloudmane?”

  She rested her neck beside his. “I need to know what you know, my beloved. Before I can be your full partner I must walk the hills of Earth, know its people, experience its beauty and terror. Until I do, we cannot truly be together.”

  “But that does not explain how—”

  “No time!” said Madame Leonetti, even more urgently than before. “The door will not stay open much longer. You must go now, Cloudmane. Now!”

  The opening was shimmering. With a cry, Cloudmane leaped through the glowing cirle, onto the mountaintop where Night Eyes had stood but a moment earlier.

  The circle closed with a rush and a snap.

  The wreath fell to the ground, no longer green but a brittle, burnt brown.

  Earth was gone.

  The door was gone.

  Cloudmane was gone.

  A song rose from the unicorns, a new version of the prayer they always uttered for the Guardian of Memory. “Guide her and guard her, Powers that Be. Love her and watch over her on her journey. Bring her home safe to us.”

  Soaring above all the other voices was that of Night Eyes. On the very last word he differed in what he sang, ending with a sob on, “Bring her home safe to me.”

  For a moment, all stood in silence. Then Night Eyes bowed to the queen.

  “I still don’t understand,” he said, his voice husky with loss. “How can this be? I know why she wanted to go. But how could it happen?”

  The queen shook her head from side to side, the tip of her horn inscribing an arc of light. “I do not know.”

  “I do,” said Madame Leonetti. Her voice was frail, and she had to work hard to be heard above the waterfall, which was sounding again. But the shape of the grotto brought her words to even the most distant ears.

  “You have forgotten the nature of the magic. The exact wording of the spell as first created called for the Guardian of Memory to be ‘the unicorn with the deepest love for those left behind.’ Clearly, that was Cloudmane.”

  The queen shook her head. “Since the beginning of our connection, the deepest ties between human and unicorn have been between the stallions and young maidens. And since the time of the first Guardian, young stallions are taught an understanding of humans, and compassion for them, in preparation for the possibility that they may be chosen to return to Earth. How could Cloudmane have more love for those left behind?”

  After a long silence Ivy said, “I think I know.”

  The queen turned to her. “Speak, child.”

  Ivy glanced around, trying to fight down a surge of panic. So many eyes were gazing at her! Tangling her fingers in her long red hair, she gathered her courage. Finally she spoke.

  “When Night Eyes went to be the Guardian, Cloudmane was left behind. That’s why she can love those left behind on Earth. She knows what it’s like, because she’s been left behind herself.”

  “As have I,” said Madame Leonetti, moving to place a hand on Night Eyes’ shoulder.

  “You were left behind?” he asked.

  “Actually, I have both left someone behind, and been left behind by him. His name was Balan, and he was my brother.”

  Ivy gasped. “You can’t be—”

  The old woman drew back her hood. Her face was lined with deep wrinkles, but in her eyes was something strong and wonderful. “Alma Leonetti? Of course I am. With the blessings of the unicorns, one can live a long time in this place. Not, alas, without growing old. I left Balan behind when I came to Luster to beg the unicorns to return home, and left him even further behind when I chose to come back and live here. And now I have been left behind, too, because my brother is long dead, as are all the humans I knew when I was your age. It’s been a rich life, child. But it is lonely. To leave. To be left. It’s lonely, but it’s what we do.”

  Ivy moved to stand beside the old woman. Alma Leonetti wrapped one arm around the girl�
��s shoulder, the other around Night Eyes’s neck. Together they looked toward the spark that still hung, flickering and fading, in the sky where Cloudmane had disappeared.

  A reminder of a reminder, it burned its way into their hearts, even as it vanished. . . .

  Ragged John

  Tattered clothes all fluttering,

  Worn out voice still muttering,

  Ragged John comes knocking

  At all the doors in town.

  And when a door swings open

  Then you can hear the hope in

  The thin, cracked voice that wonders

  If you’ve seen his unicorn.

  And we all know John is crazy

  And his mind has gone all hazy

  And the only thing we really wish

  Is that he just would let us be.

  But John he keeps on questing

  And the poor man knows no resting

  For there’s something hurt within him.

  And the pain won’t go away.

  I’ve heard when John was younger

  He was taken with a hunger

  To see the white-horned wonder

  They call the unicorn.

  But when that star-horned, moon-maned dancer

  Finally called, John could not answer;

  Fear held him like a prisoner,

  And he watched it walk away.

  So now empty-eyed John hobbles

  Across the village cobbles

  And the only fear he feels is

  That it will never come again.

  Oh, when I watch old Ragged John

  Go staggering by and wandering on,

  I know there’s nothing sadder

  Than a heart that feared its dreams.

  If a unicorn should call to you

  Some moon-mad night all washed in dew,

  Then here’s the prayer to whisper:

  “Grant me the heart to follow.”