by Ruth White
With the Carriage, Chromians could leave the sad ruins of our once-splendid civilization and migrate in small groups to other, more promising worlds, where we could assimilate undetected into society.
Mom and Gramps chose Earth for its natural beauty, and the United States of America for its magnificent Constitution. The English language was also a plus. Mom learned it as a child from her teacher, who had learned it from his space travels. Mom taught English to Gramps, then to me and Meggie, along with Chromish, when we first began to speak.
As for our bodies, it was always a mystery to me why Earthlings imagined that someone alien to their planet would have to be grotesque. In Chroma kindergarten I learned that advanced life is similar all over the universe, except for some rare mutations on the far edges of the known galaxies. In fact, the major difference in appearance we found between ourselves and the Earthlings was size. Chromian adults were, on the average, about six inches shorter than Earthlings, and weighed much less. A petite figure was considered a trait of beauty and was desired by both men and women.
After much debate and soul-searching, Mom requested the services of Chroma’s physicians, who were among the most skilled in the universe, to treat each of us with growth enzymes, so that we would not be considered oddities among the natives of Earth. Mom and Gramps assumed these new bodies with great misgivings, because they seemed, as Meggie’s friend Kitty Singer might say, “Ooo-ooo, gross!” In only a matter of months, the change was complete and permanent. Meggie and I were too young to care very much, soon forgetting how we had looked before, and the adults, out of necessity, learned, in time, to adjust.
I was five and Meggie three when we arrived in the Carriage on the shores of California, USA, North America, Earth, expecting to find security and happiness—as we surely did for a time. Through all the amazing years of living on Earth, we did not speak of our secret even with each other, but harbored it close to our hearts. At times it seemed Meggie might have forgotten Chroma completely, and it was best, I thought, if she could forget who we really were. But I was wrong. She remembered much more than I suspected. In fact, I thought perhaps her memories of Chroma and the attack of the madman created her fears of being hunted like an animal.
Now here we are once again, homeless. The Carriage, however, cuts through the blackness with such stunning sureness that I feel strangely safe. If somebody were out there watching our flight, this superb vehicle might appear to be a glass rocket. But of course it’s not glass at all. It’s made from a fine and complex synthetic, unknown on Earth.
A dim light from the control panel allows us to see each other, and the Carriage temperature is perfectly regulated so that we are comfortable. Mom and Gramps appear almost to be in shock. They are still standing at the controls, but not touching anything, just staring ahead. Meggie and I sit huddled together against the wall. Far off we can see sporadic twinkles of light in the vast, cold blackness around us.
“We meant them … no harm.… We meant them … no harm,” Mom mumbles. “We wanted only to live, to survive, to raise healthy children on their lovely planet. We were good citizens. How could they …?”
For a while there is no sound but the hum of the Carriage.
“Where are we going, Gramps?” I whisper.
“I don’t know,” Gramps says, and gazes out into the nothingness.
“You don’t know?” Meggie says.
“I’ll be perfectly honest with you,” Gramps says. “I was in such a panic, you understand, so desperate to get away from those … those …”
“Those maniacs!” I finish for him, and Mom doesn’t scold me.
Remembering the hate-filled faces of the Earthlings who broke into our home, I shiver. Even Kitty’s grandpa! I’m sure that hurt Meggie’s feelings.
“I’m so sorry,” Gramps whispers at last. “I don’t know where we’re going. I remember entering a command for a place where the English language is spoken.”
“Do you think there is such a place, other than Earth?” says Mom.
“I don’t know,” Gramps says. “Perhaps another Earth in a parallel universe?”
“Perhaps,” Mom agrees.
“Next I requested a secluded landing site,” Gramps continues. “Then we were surrounded by those … those … eyes … those faces!” Gramps’s voice trembles as he speaks. “I was so alarmed, I’m not sure what commands I entered after that.”
“It’s all right, Dad,” Mom says sweetly. “You saved our lives.”
Meggie and I murmur agreement.
“I should have studied the tutorial more thoroughly when I had time,” Mom says. “But I guess I was hoping we would never have to use the Carriage again. I thought we were settled for life.”
Mom and Gramps sit down against the wall with me and Meggie, and we watch the distant twinkles. As we each slip into our own private fears and imaginings, a great pall of wretchedness settles over us.
It seems hours later that Mom brings forth clothes she has stashed under the control panel.
“I have jeans, T-shirts, caps, shoes, and socks for all of us,” she says. “I placed them here a few days ago in case we had to leave in a hurry—which, as it turns out, we did.”
In the dim light we turn our backs to each other and change clothes quickly. For the time being we don’t put on shoes. Mom stuffs our pajamas into a backpack, and we settle against the wall again.
“Why didn’t they like us?” Meggie asks sadly. “Especially when we liked them so much?”
“They were afraid,” Gramps says. “Earthlings have an unreasonable fear of the unknown.”
“Why can’t we go back and live in another state where nobody knows us?” Meggie goes on.
“Yes. Nebraska, maybe,” I say eagerly. “Or Oregon.”
“Alaska!” Meggie adds.
“I’m afraid not,” Gramps says. “You realize, don’t you, that within hours our faces will be on every television screen, every magazine cover, and every newspaper on Earth?”
“CNN is probably at the old Fischer place already,” Meggie says.
“It will become a tourist attraction,” Mom adds, smiling a bit.
“Maybe my paintings will sell!” Gramps says, and we laugh out loud.
“Well, before we get to wherever we’re going,” Mom says with a great sigh, “we must record our memories of Earth. We may never see that fine planet again, so we don’t want to forget anything important.”
Gramps tugs the Log from under his T-shirt and places it between his thumb and index finger. He raises it to his mouth and begins to blow softly. Mom snaps on another light so that we can see the whistle mist. This unique musical instrument came with us from our own native and ancient planet. In fact, during our trip to Earth from Chroma, we used it to store memories of the home we were leaving.
“So we won’t completely forget who we are,” Mom told us then.
Presently its nostalgic murmurings fill the Carriage. We close our eyes and share the same memories of living on Chroma when Meggie and I were very young. There we are in our small bodies, and the adults proudly displaying their fluorescent-streaked hair. But the mist is gray and foul-smelling because that was our planet’s condition at the time of our departure. With the help of the Log, we remember with awful clarity the ravaged forests and rivers, the wasted mountains and valleys.
Then all else melts away as the spirit of my father moves among us. We can feel his strength and his love. In fact, he is so real, I gasp and reach out a hand for him, but he is gone. I can hear Mom sniffing.
Gramps takes the whistle away from his lips. “Now express what you want to remember from Earth,” he says softly. “We’ll all concentrate on that memory, and it’ll be saved forever.” He resumes playing the music.
“The swallows coming back to Capistrano,” Meggie says dreamily.
We all murmur agreement and remember.
Golden retrievers. Strawberries. Spring.
An azure mist curls from the Log, encircling our h
eads. It smells of Earth’s wind and briny seas. A green mist follows. It smells of wild mint, cut grass, and more, much more.
We remember swimming, playing basketball, watching videos, the old Fischer place.
Meggie takes a deep breath and says the name of Kitty Singer. The rest of us tactfully don’t mention the role Kitty’s grandpa played in driving us away from Earth. We help Meggie remember Kitty as the cool kid she is, as we add her to the other wonders of the world we have left behind. We store them all in the Log.
Then Mom takes the Log from Gramps, so that he can add his own memories to ours. She plays with an aching sweetness.
“The smell of October,” Gramps says. “Let’s never forget that!”
Yeah, Halloween. And snow. And Christmas.
On and on we remember, while spearing through space in our crystal-clear rocket, as the Log records the sights and smells of Earth.
Wild geese. Sleeping in the moonlight. Fireflies.
Blue hills.
• 6 •
Back to Meggie
I hear Gramps whispering. “It’s a kind of gazebo.”
When the music of the Log put me to sleep, I dreamed of Kitty in the strawberry patch, and her voice still echoes in my head: All good things start with a dream.
I sit up and look out. Yes, it’s night, but I can see that we have landed beside a gazebo in what looks like a public park.
Now David is sitting up too.
“Make haste,” Mom whispers. “Put on your shoes and socks. We must get out and dismantle the Carriage before we’re sighted.”
We are quick but quiet. Gramps unsnaps the control panel from the Carriage wall. Mom folds it up to the size of a book and places it inside the backpack. Then we step outside. The air is warm.
It’s a nice park. The trees, shrubbery, and grass are well cared for. There are picnic tables, barbecue grills, and playground equipment. I see a far pale moon and scattered stars. We can see tall buildings silhouetted against the night sky a short distance away.
Mom and Gramps together pull dowels from crucial points of the Carriage, until it collapses at our feet. I’m reminded of the melting of the witch in The Wizard of Oz, when Dorothy throws water on her. What’s left of the Carriage is a heap of material as fine as silk. Mom picks it up and shakes it out; then, with each of us taking a corner, we fold it like a very large sheet. This and the dowels are placed inside the backpack with the control panel. Gramps removes the Log from around his neck and tucks it in as well. Then he shoulders the pack and moves toward the city, motioning to us to stay behind him.
At the park entrance both Gramps and Mom hesitate. We stand still in the dark, looking at the city. It could be any city in America, except that there are few streetlights and no traffic. In fact, there’s not a sign of life.
“Perhaps we should wait until daylight to go into the city,” Mom whispers. “Then we can blend in with the natives as we did on arriving in California.”
We agree.
We can barely make out words on the archway over the entrance.
FASHION CITY PARK
A GIFT TO THE PEOPLE FROM THE FATHERS
“English!” Gramps exclaims with relief.
He herds us back into the park, where we settle down on the grass behind some shrubbery to wait for daylight. Soon my head is resting on Mom’s lap. The silence of the place is deafening. Not a car horn, train whistle, siren, or airplane. Not a single voice, or a barking dog.
David breaks the stillness. “Gramps, you said Earthlings fear the unknown.”
“That’s right,” Gramps says.
“But how did they know we were from another world? For the most part, we managed to hide our differences from them.”
“Yeah,” I say. “What gave us away?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Gramps says. “Maybe blue hair?”
David loves reminding me that he wasn’t quite eleven when he achieved blue, but here I am almost twelve and I haven’t yet.
“But don’t worry about it, Meggie,” he has said to me several times. “People are different, and I think Chromian boys, as a group, grow up faster than girls.”
I could just barf when he says that. And now I have this new fear to add to all the others. What if I never achieve blue? Some few Chromians don’t.
Then I’m back and forth. Maybe, being in another world, I’m lucky not to have to deal with it.
And back and forth. But all Chromians know it’s a mark of maturity. Who doesn’t want to grow up?
Anyway, on Earth, Mom discovered that vinegar solves the problem of the blue streaks. She explained to me that somehow the chemical reaction between Earth vinegar and these metallic elements from Chroma neutralizes the color, so that it dissolves. Since nobody knows when the streaks might pop up, we have learned to routinely check heads before leaving home. We also carry some kind of head covering with us wherever we go, and when practical, we carry small vials of vinegar in our pockets.
Still we were not always successful in hiding that particular secret from Earthlings. David was sent home from school more than once for having “weird paint” in his hair.
“Yeah, my Gramps is an artist,” David told his teacher one time.
Later, in recounting the story to us, David said that he turned to his classmates at that point and teased them.
“Well, at least it’s only paint, and not something worse!”
He was referring to the fact that some of them had recently been sent home for head lice. Of course everybody laughed. And that’s how things have always gone for David. Even though other kids are just as put out with his everlasting perfection as I am, when he decides to charm you, he gets away with it.
“Having a kid who babbles a Blue streak might have tipped them off too,” Mom adds with a laugh. “Pardon the pun.”
Since David and I learned English and Chromish at the same time, both of us used to get so mixed up sometimes that we swapped words and sounds of the two languages back and forth. Sometimes we had to stop and think if a word was Chromish or English. But some of Chromish sounds way different from any Earth language because it has tongue clicks in it, and lip whistles, even some gurgles and other throat sounds. I’m sure it must sound funny to an Earthling. That would explain why one person thought I had Tourette’s syndrome! And another thought I had a bad stutter. Mr. Bleep simply called it gibberish.
David, naturally, never gets his languages mixed up anymore. In fact, I don’t think he even remembers Chromish. But Chromish is much better for expressing yourself. So when I get nervous, all those clicks and whistles and gurgles come automatically.
“What about a kid who talks like a professor?” I say, trying not to sound peevish.
“That’s not a trait unknown to Earthlings,” Mom says.
“People were always saying what a brain David is,” I go on, “but you know what? It actually annoyed the other kids, and grown-ups thought he was odd.”
David shrugs. “They just thought I was a nerd,” he says. “So what? Bill Gates was a nerd too. Anyway, I think Mrs. Raskin started all the talk about us. She thought Meggie and I had something to do with Mr. Bleep’s stroke. The other day she actually cornered me at the drugstore and said, ‘Y’all can’t fool me, boy. Mr. Bleep found out something about you Blues, didn’t he? He called you alien kids! Alien kids!’ ”
We laugh, because David is talking through his nose, and he sounds just like Mrs. Raskin—real witchy and gossipy.
“But they had no substantial evidence to support their suspicions,” Mom says. “Not until they actually saw us in the Carriage, ready to escape.”
“Perhaps they assumed we were aliens because I told them so,” Gramps says.
“You told!”
After a long sigh, Gramps makes his confession. “It was the day I went to the barbershop to get a haircut. The place was full of geezers—you know the ones who hang out there all the time. But it was that old busybody Henry Singer who was running his mouth the most.
He was talking when I went in. He didn’t see me.”
“Kitty’s grandpa?” I exclaim. “What did he say?”
“ ‘Them dirty aliens out at the old Fischer place musta done something pretty creepy to give poor old Bleep a stroke’ is what he said. ‘I say we don’t need their kind around here.’ That’s all I heard, but it was enough to provoke my wrath.”
“And you just had to respond!” Mom scolds him. “You couldn’t drop it.”
“Naturally I had to defend my family. So I said, ‘You’re right, Henry. We are aliens from a dying world, and we came to Earth to get away from a great big stink, but now that I’ve met you, I guess we’ll have to move again!’ ”
“You did not!” I cry out.
“I’m afraid I did. I thought everybody would take it as a joke and laugh about it, and that would be the end of it,” Gramps says. “Because you know, sometimes truth is stranger than fiction, and when you put it out there bluntly, it sounds so outrageous, you have to laugh at yourself for ever believing such a thing. At least, that was my theory. I never dreamed they would take me seriously. Actually, a few of them did laugh, but most didn’t even crack a smile. And they sat there staring at me with their mouths hanging open.
“That’s when I caught my reflection in one of the mirrors, and right there above my left ear, shining brightly for all the world to see, was a strand of hair as royal blue as a king’s robe!”
“No way!” I cry.
“Way,” Gramps says without enthusiasm. “Way indeed. You see, once before, Bob the barber commented on a small blue spot at my temple, and I used the same excuse David used at school. I told him it was paint, and he believed me then, but this time I could see that that explanation wouldn’t fly.
“That’s when I said to them, ‘So, can I expect you gentlemen to come at midnight and burn a cross in my yard?’
“But they said not a word, and I left quickly. As I was walking back to my car, I could feel their eyes on me, and I did not like the sensation. I think that’s when and where the plot for vigilante activity was hatched.”
