The Return

by Christopher Pike

  "We're all stars," I told Peter.

  "Yes. I was thinking how when my father died when I was ten years old I used to search for him in the sky."

  A wave of sorrow swept over me, but it was sweet as well, bittersweet like sour candy. "When you died I looked for you in the sky." I reached out, across the light-years, and took his hand. My love for him then was like the light of the stars that shone all around us, and I knew it would burn for ages. "And now I have found you."

  He squeezed my hand. He didn't have to say anything.

  We floated for ages, seeing more wonders than any starship log could ever record. Eventually we found ourselves at the center of the galaxy. Here the stars were older, as were the myriad races, and the peace and bliss they radiated were like that from a million Venuses combined. Inside, I understood that these people had learned all that this universe had to offer, and that they were merely waiting for the "rest of us" to catch up so that they could go on, where, I didn't know, another dimension perhaps, another creation surely, where God was as real as the sky, and as easy to touch as water in the sea. In the center of this floated what I believe our astronomers would call a galactic black hole. The light that streamed from both the stars and the worlds swirled around the object in a cosmic whirlpool, disappearing down a shaft that seemed to have no bottom. Fascinated, I moved toward it but Peter stopped me.

  "We don't know where it goes," he said, and for the first time since he had told me about the Shadow in the days after my death, there was fear in his voice.

  "Nothing can harm us," I said. "I want to go inside."

  "If you go inside, you might not get out."

  I studied him. Throughout our starry journey he had been as enthralled as I was. But now I sensed not only his fear but the reason for it, something had happened to him while we were still on Earth. Yet I couldn't pinpoint the cause, and what it had to do with the portal to infinity that yawned before us. The black hole drew me like a magnet, and I realized we had not stumbled upon it by chance. I had to go in it before I could return to Earth and accomplish my mission.

  "I am going," I said. "You can follow me if you wish."

  He hesitated. "I'll wait for you, Shari. Take care."

  "I am taken care of," I said.

  I moved toward the portal.

  As stars vanished behind me, so did the I that was Shari Cooper. Words fail me here. How to describe the knowledge of anything without the presence of a knower? In the interior of the black hole the knowledge and the knower were one. I ceased to be aware of things. I was awareness itself.

  Still, here, outside of all places, I sensed my true place and finally understood the Rishi's words.

  "Our relationship is a beautiful thing. We are, ultimately, the same person, the same being. But if that is too abstract a concept for you, then think of a huge oversoul made up of many souls. Throughout many lives on many worlds, these different souls learn and grow..."

  I was not singular. Many people were I, and yet we were one as well. All that they had experienced, I had experienced. The different lives the Rishi had spoken of, I had lived them all. I was the Master in Egypt instructing the young student outside in the pyramid. The student was also me. I was enlightened and ignorant at the same time, and I saw it was not possible to have one without the other. No light without darkness. No day without night. No compassion without suffering. No good without evil. Everything worked together, ultimately—a weave of different-colored threads forming an unfathomably rich tapestry. How foolish we were to try to explain the mystery of life, I thought. The mystery could be lived but never explained. Any more than the mind of God could be explained. I felt so close to God right then I imagined myself a perfect fool. And I was happy.

  I sensed something else as well. Peter was part of me, as much as the Rishi. It was right that he should be with me enjoying this glimpse of our higher selves.

  But he was not with me because he was still supposed to be on Earth. He had committed suicide, I remembered that now, and I could see the effect that act had set in motion throughout our oversoul, like a ripple set out across a mountain lake that was finally settling down to freeze for the winter. He had feared to follow me because his fear still followed him. Even this far into eternity. It was this realization that jerked me back into normal space time.

  Normal as far as ghostswere concerned. I materialized outside the black hole beside Peter.

  "What happened?" he asked.

  "How long have I been gone?"

  "Just an instant."

  "It felt like ages." Looking at him I remembered his comment about how the situation on Earth was no longer our concern. I had not discussed what the Rishi told me about my going back as a Wanderer. Now I realized it was because his destiny was separate from mine. I could have fun with him for now, but the fun would have to end.

  "What's the matter?" he asked.

  "Nothing."

  "What happened to you in there?" There was an edge to his voice.

  "It's difficult to explain." I reached over and took his hand again. "We have to go back. I have to speak to the Rishi."

  "Why?"

  Would I miss him on Earth? I asked myself. I missed him now and I hadn't even left him. And he was a part of me. It was such a paradox. How could I succeed as a Wanderer without the love of Peter beside me?

  "Because I need his help," I said.

  CHAPTER IX

  JEAN RODRIGUES drove with Carol Dazmin toward the cemetery where Debra Zimmerer was buried. It was late August; over two months had elapsed since Jean's fall off Lenny Mandez's balcony. The summer had been warm even by Los Angeles standards. Jean had spent the weeks working at her Subway Sandwich job as well as doing volunteer work at the hospital. She had also tried to raise her basic skills in math and science to enter junior college. She was to be tested the next week to see if she could ayoid being placed in idiot classes. While she was in high school she had never considered going to college, but now it seemed inevitable that she should go. She was presently trying to talk Carol into joining her.

  "I'm not saying a college degree guarantees happiness," Jean said. "But not having one guarantees that you'll be working grunge jobs the rest of your life."

  "I don't know," Carol said. "I could become a hairdresser. They make pretty mucha lana."

  "You can't spend the rest of your life cutting hair. You'd go mad from boredom."

  "But how can I go to college? I'm too stupid. I was hardly able to graduate from high school."

  "You're not stupid. You're just lazy. You need to focus. If you could be anything you wanted, what would you choose?"

  Carol thought a moment as she steered them down the freeway off-ramp.

  Debra had been buried across the town from them, at Rose Hills in uptown Whittier.

  "I'd like to be a rock 'n' roll star."

  "You can't go to college to study to be a rock 'n' roll star. Pick something else."

  "But that's what I want to do."

  "But you can't sing. You can't play an instrument. You can't even dance."

  "That's what I'm saying. That's why I should be a hairdresser."

  Jean sighed. "You don't have just two choices in life. You have a million. Why don't you study to be a nurse? I think you'd make a great one."

  "Would I have to give people shots? Sporty once asked me to shoot him up with heroin and I couldn't do it. I told him to find his own goddamn vein."

  "Giving someone a shot that's good for him is a lot different from shooting someone up with heroin.

  Which reminds me. I heard through the grapevine that Darlene was looking to buy a piece."

  Carol nodded. "I heard she's shopping."

  "If you heard, then everybody's heard. Surely she can't be planning to go after Juan after all this time."

  "I don't know. The timing makes sense to me."

  "What do you mean?" Jean asked, although she knew the answer.

  Carol shrugged. "Lenny just got out of rehab. He's i
n a chair. He's mobile.

  Maybe she's buying the piece for him. Maybe he still wants Juan." Carol added gently, "Maybe he figures he doesn't have much to lose trying for him."

  "Damn you! You have to give yourself time. If you can't think of a reason to live, then you have to find one. Think, Lenny, of everything and everyone in the world. Think of something you want to do. Hold on to that, at least until you get out of here. "

  Jean had not seen Lenny since they had transferred him from the hospital to the rehab clinic in the valley. He had not wanted to see her, which killed her.

  But she heard from friends that he was looking a lot better, and that gave her some comfort. It was her hope that now that he could get around, he'd call her.

  She waited for that call.

  "He has everything to lose," Jean whispered.

  Carol glanced over, concerned. "You're not going to want to hear this, but I'm going to say it anyway. You should start dating other guys."

  "You sound like my mama. "

  "You should listen to your mother. You love the guy, sure, I love him, too. But his body's wrecked. His life's wrecked. You can't fix it pining away for him."

  "His life is not wrecked! He can do everything any other guy can do except walk. That's it. Who needs to walk nowadays? We have cars."

  "Can he have sex?"

  "I don't know if he can have sex. Many crippled people can. Many crippled people can't. It just depends. And who cares? Despite what all these stupid magazines say, sex isn't everything." Jean was suddenly close to crying. "I can't walk away from him. He needs me. And I need him. You're my best friend.

  Can't you understand that?"

  Carol spoke carefully. "But he doesn't even call you, Jean."

  Jean nodded. "He will. When he's feeling better, he'll call. I know it."

  Carol stopped at a light and stared at her. "You're still so different from when we were growing up. Before your fall, you would have been out with another guy while Lenny was still in surgery."

  Jean forced a smile. "I wasn't that bad."

  "You were no saint." Carol sighed. "I'm sorry I said what I did. If you want to go on loving Lenny, more power to you. Look at me, I can't even make up my mind whether I want to sleep with guys or girls."

  "Are you still seeing Scarface?"

  "No. But I go out with his sister every now and then." She nodded at the manila envelope Jean carried.

  "Is that your story for Debra?"

  "Yes. It was the first story I ever thought up. I told her the beginning, but I only figured out how it should end last week. I hope she likes it." Jean laughed at her own foolishness, and also got a little teary. "I know she's not there in that hole in the ground where they put her body. But I want to read it to her at her grave because I think maybe she'll know I'm there somehow. Does that make sense?"

  "It does to me." Carol paused. "Maybe I should become a mortician."

  "Just keep driving."

  "Can I read the story after you've read it to Debra?"

  "Seguro. "

  "Are you going to try to get it published?"

  "I hadn't really thought about that. But the main character is a successful author. I wonder if I subconsciously patterned her after myself." Jean added, wiping at her eyes, "I see myself being like her some day."

  "Have you been working on other stories?"

  "Yes. Late at night. I write in a spiral notebook with a Flair pen."

  Carol cast her another look. "You never did that before your fall."

  Jean nodded thoughtfully. "I know."

  She never got headaches before her fall, either. They had become less frequent, but had never left completely. Sometimes she wondered if she had hurt herself worse than the doctors knew. She tried not to think about it.

  Rose Hills was lovely. Many acres of well-tended lawns weaving in and around the Whittier Hills. Jean had attended Debra's funeral and still kept in loose contact with her father. Jean directed Carol toward a shaded meadow. Carol offered to stay in the car without being asked, and for that Jean was grateful.

  Jean had brought Debra a handful of flowers as well as her story. Jean laid the daisies beside the simple metal marker that was all that was left to say Debra had come and gone. Yet Jean felt her friend close as she lifted up the handful of pages to read aloud.

  "Debra, I've reworked this three times and I don't know if I can make it any better," she said. "It's either completely brilliant or totally stupid. But it's my first story and I'm proud of it. If I ever do get it published, I'll be sure to dedicate it to you. Please forgive the crude spots ahead of time. What can I say?

  I have a dirty mind." She cleared her throat. "The story, as you might remember, is entitled, 'Where Do You Get Your Ideas?' If you get bored fly back to heaven. I won't hold it against you.

  *****

  Debra Zimmerer was working on her latest novel when the creature came out of her bedroom closet. She almost fell off her chair when she saw the thing.

  She rubbed her eyes, hoping he'd go away, but he didn't. He was ugly, short, and dark as a dwarf from a deep cave, scaly and smelly as a troll from beneath an ancient bridge. Clearly, he was not human. As he walked toward her desk she couldn't help but notice his big yellow teeth and wide green eyes. He didn't smell especially pleasant, either. She had no idea what he'd been doing in her closet.

  "Hi, Debbie," he said. "What's happening?"

  Debra took an immediate dislike to him. She let no one call her Debbie. She was either Debra or Melissa Monroe, the pen name she wrote under, or else simply Ms. M & M. She had a few names because she was one of America's best-selling authors, and she felt it only fitting that someone as popular as she should be able to slip in and out of several identities. Just before the troll had come out of her closet, she had been typing hard on her new novel, The Color of Pain. She had a tight deadline, and as always was late. Indeed, she had been up most of the previous night working on the last chapters and was exhausted.

  She wondered if her fatigue had something to do with her seeing the troll. Her novel was in the horror genre, but otherwise it had nothing to do with the creature standing beside her desk.

  "Who the hell are you?" she asked.

  He smiled, and as he did so gray-colored slobber leaked out the sides of his wide toothy mouth. His nose was thick, the nostrils pointing almost straight out, choked with white hairs. He wore a baggy pair of black shorts, snakeskin slippers, no shirt. The muscles on his hairy green chest were knotted and hard.

  Even though he was only three feet tall, he looked strong, perhaps stronger than she was, she didn't know.

  "My name's Sam," he said. "I'm your muse."

  Debra reached over and turned off her computer screen. "Come again?"

  "I'm your muse. You know, the one who gives you your ideas. You get asked that question all the time where do you get your ideas? Well, now you know.

  You're looking at him."

  Debra shook her head. "That's ridiculous. Muses are supposed to be beautiful angels. You look like something the dog dug up."

  He lost his smile. "Careful, Debbie. I don't like cracks about my looks. And if you think you have an angel for a muse, then you better think again. Look at the kind of stories you write. They're filled with ghouls and vampires and psychos. Somebody's always getting murdered in them. What do you think—an angel would give you those stories? Get a clue, sister. You want to write horror—you get a muse like me. It's that simple."

  Debra frowned. "What is your name?"

  "Sam. Sam O'Connor."

  "Are you Irish?" He had a trace of the accent.

  "On my mother's side. But I'm no leprechaun, if that's what you're thinking."

  "What were you doing in my closet?"

  "That's where I live. I have to stay close or you wouldn't be able to write nothing."

  "You used a double negative. What you mean to say is, I wouldn't be able to write anything. That's pretty basic grammar. You should know that if you're re
ally my muse."

  Sam waved his hand. "I don't care about all that crap. Grammar is for editors and pansies. I'm the one who gives the blood and guts to your stories. If it wasn't for me, you would be writing about teen problems and teacher-student conflicts. You wouldn't be selling anything and you'd be living in a dump." He reached out to turn her monitor back on. "You sure as hell wouldn't be writing a book as clever as The Color of Pain. Let me see that last chapter. I think I can tell you how it should end."

  She slapped his hand away. "Don't you dare look at my work. I don't let anyone see it till it's done."

  Sam stared at his hand as if she had stabbed a knife in rather than knocked it aside. His face darkened; his teeth seemed to lengthen; the pupils of his eyes narrowed to hard green slits. He took a step back and glared up at her.

  "Let's get one thing straight from the start," he said.

  "It's not your work, it's our work. And if you want our work to continue, you're going to have to learn to play by a few new rules. Understand, Debbie?"

  "Don't call me that. No one calls me that."

  "Liar. When you were in school all your friends called you that. But now that you think you're such a big shot, you go by Debra or that other stupid name you put on our books. But you're no big shot to me. You're nothing without me."

  Debra gave a smug chuckle. "You keep saying that, but this house and everything in it belongs to me. I bought it with the money I made selling thirty million books. How many books have you sold? None, I bet. You look like a loser to me, Sam O'Connor. You look like a—something despicable."

  Sam smiled grimly. "You were about to call me a colorful simile, but you couldn't think of one, could you? You can't think of anything clever without me. Go ahead, try, I dare you. I look like a what?"