The Project Gutenberg eBook of Homecoming
    
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Title: Homecoming

Author: Miguel Hidalgo

Illustrator: Ed Emshwiller

Release date: October 17, 2019 [eBook #60515]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOMECOMING ***




Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net









                              HOMECOMING

                           BY MIGUEL HIDALGO

                    _What lasts forever? Does love?
                     Does death?... Nothing lasts
                     forever.... Not even forever_

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
               Worlds of If Science Fiction, April 1958.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


The large horse plodded slowly over the shifting sand.

The rider was of medium size, with huge, strong hands and seemingly
hollow eyes. Strange eyes, alive and aflame. They had no place in
the dust-caked, tired body, yet there they were, seeking, always
seeking--searching the clear horizon, and never seeming to find what
they sought.

The horse moved faster now. They were nearing a river; the water would
be welcome on tired bodies and dry throats. He spurred his horse,
and when they reached the water's edge, he dismounted and unsaddled
the horse. Then both man and horse plunged headlong into the waiting
torrent, deep into the cool embrace of the clear liquid. They soaked it
into their pores and drank deeply of it, feeling life going once more
through their veins. Satisfied, they lifted themselves from the water,
and the man lay down on the yellow sand of the river bank to sleep.

When he awoke, the sun was almost setting. The bright shafts of red
light spilled across the sky, making the mountains silent scarlet
shadows on the face of the rippling water. Quickly he gathered
driftwood, and built a small fire. From his pack he removed some of
the coffee he had found in one of the ruined cities. He brought water
from the river in the battered coffee-pot he had salvaged, and while he
waited for it to boil, he went to his horse, Conqueror, stroking his
mane and whispering in his ear. Then he led him silently to a grassy
slope where he hobbled him and left him for the night.

In the fading light, he ate the hard beef jerky and drank the scalding
coffee. Refreshed and momentarily content, he sat staring into the
dying fire, seeing the bright glowing coals as living fingers clutching
at the wood in consuming embrace, taking all and returning nothing but
ashes.

Slowly his eyelids yielded. His body sagged, and blood seemed to fill
his brain, bathing it in a gentle, warm flood.

He slept. His brain slept.

But the portion of his brain called memory stirred. It was all alone;
all else was at rest. Images began to appear, drawn from inexhaustible
files, wherein are kept all thoughts, past, present, and future....

       *       *       *       *       *

It was the night before he was to go overseas. World War III had been
declared, and he had enlisted, receiving his old rank of captain. He
was with his wife in the living room of their home. They had put the
children to bed--their sons--and now sat on the couch, watching the
blazing fire. It was then that he had showed it to her.

"I've got something to tell you, and something to show you."

He had removed the box from his pocket and opened it. And heard her cry
of surprised joy.

"Oh, a ring, and it's a diamond, too!" she cried in her rich, happy
voice which always seemed to send a thrill through his body.

"It's for you; so long as you wear it, I'll come back, even from the
dead, if need be. Read the inscription."

She held the ring up to the light and read aloud, "It is forever."

Then she had slipped the ring on her finger and her arms around him.
He held her very close, feeling the warmth from her body flowing into
his and making him oblivious to everything except that she was there in
his arms and that he was sinking deep, deep into a familiar sea, where
he had been many times before but each time found something new and
unexplored, some vastly different emotion he could never quite explain.

"Wait!" she cried. "I've something for you, too."

She took off the locket she wore about her neck and held it up to the
shimmering light, letting it spin at the end of its chain. It caught
the shadows of the fire and reflected them, greatly magnified, over the
room. It was in the shape of a star, encrusted with emeralds, with one
large ruby in the center. When he opened it, he found a picture of her
in one side, and in the other a picture of the children. He took her in
his arms again, and loosened her long, black hair, burying his face in
it for a moment. Then he kissed her, and instantly was drawn down into
the abyss which seemed to have no beginning or any end.

The next morning had been bleak and gray. The mist clung to the wet,
sodden ground, and the air was heavy in his lungs. He had driven off
in the jeep the army had sent for him, watching her there on the porch
until the mist swirled around her feet and she ran back into the house
and slammed the door. His cold fingers found the locket, making a
little bulge under his uniform, and the touch of it seemed to warm the
blood in his veins.

Three days later they had landed in Spain, merged with another
division, then crossed the Pyrenees into France, and finally to Paris
where the fighting had begun. Already the city was a silent graveyard,
littered with the rubble of towers and cathedrals which had once been
great.

Three years later they were on the road to Moscow. Over a thousand
miles lay behind, a dead man on every foot of those miles. Yet victory
was near. The Russians had not yet used the H-bomb; the threat of
annihilation by the retaliation forces had been too great.

He had done well in the war, and had been decorated many times for
bravery in action. Now he felt the victory that seemed to be in the
air, and he had wished it would come quickly, so that he might return
to her. Home. The very feel of the word was everything a battle-weary
soldier needed to make him fight harder and live longer.

Suddenly he had become aware of a droning, wooshing sound above him. It
grew louder and louder until he knew what it was.

"Heavy bombers!" The alarm had sounded, and the men had headed for
their foxholes.

But the planes had passed over, the sun glinting on their bellies,
reflecting a blinding light. They were bound for bigger, more important
targets. When the all-clear had sounded, the men clambered from their
shelters. An icy wind swept the field, bringing with it clouds which
covered the sun. A strange fear had gripped him then....

Across the Atlantic, over the pole, via Alaska, the great bombers
flew. In cities, great and small, the air raid sirens sounded, high
screaming noises which had jarred the people from sleep in time to die.
The defending planes roared into the sky to intercept the on-rushing
bombers. The horrendous battle split the universe. Many bombers fell,
victims of fanatical suicide planes, or of missiles that streaked
across the sky which none could escape.

But too many bombers got through, dropping their deadly cargo upon the
helpless cities. And not all the prayers or entreaties to any God had
stopped their carnage. First there had been the red flashes that melted
buildings into molten streams, and then the great triple-mushroom cloud
filled with the poisonous gases that the wind swept away to other
cities, where men had not died quickly and mercifully, but had rotted
away, leaving shreds of putrid flesh behind to mark the places where
they had crawled.

The retaliatory forces had roared away to bomb the Russian cities. Few,
if any, had returned. Too much blood and life were on their hands.
Those who had remained alive had found a resting place on the crown
of some distant mountain. Others had preferred the silent peaceful
sea, where flesh stayed not long on bones, and only darting fishes and
merciful beams of filtered light found their aluminum coffins.

The war had ended.

To no avail. Neither side had won. Most of the cities and the majority
of the population of both countries had been destroyed. Even their
governments had vanished, leaving a silent nothingness. The armies that
remained were without leaders, without sources of supplies, save what
they could forage and beg from an unfriendly people.

They were alone now, a group of tired, battered men, for whom life held
nothing. Their families had long since died, their bodies turned to
dust, their spirits fled on the winds to a new world.

Yet these remnants of an army must return--or at least try. Their
exodus was just beginning. Somehow he had managed to hold together the
few men left from his force. He had always nourished the hope that
she might still be alive. And now that the war was over he had to
return--had to know whether she was still waiting for him.

They had started the long trek. Throughout Europe anarchy reigned. He
and his men were alone. All they could do now was fight. Finally they
reached the seaport city of Calais. With what few men he had left, he
had commandeered a small yacht, and they had taken to the sea.

After months of storms and bad luck, they had been shipwrecked
somewhere off the coast of Mexico. He had managed to swim ashore,
and had been found by a fisherman's family. Many months he had spent
swimming and fishing, recovering his strength, inquiring about the
United States. The Mexicans had spoken with fear of the land across the
Rio Grande. All its great cities had been destroyed, and those that had
been only partially destroyed were devoid of people. The land across
the Rio Grande had become a land of shadows. The winds were poisoned,
and the few people who might have survived, were crazed and maimed by
the blasts. Few men had dared cross the Rio Grande into "El Mundo gris
de Noviembre"--the November world. Those who had, had never returned.

In time he had traveled north until he reached the Rio Grande. He had
waded into the muddy waters and somehow landed on the American side. In
the November world.

It was rightly called. The deserts were long. All plant life had died,
leaving to those once great fertile stretches, nothing but the sad,
temporal beauty that comes with death. No people had he seen. Only the
ruins of what had once been their cities. He had walked through them,
and all that he had seen were the small mutant rodents, and all that he
had heard was the occasional swish of the wind as it whisked along what
might have been dead leaves, but wasn't.

He had been on the trail for a long time. His food was nearly
exhausted. The mountains were just beginning, and he hoped to find food
there. He had not found food, but his luck had been with him. He had
found a horse. Not a normal horse, but a mutation. It was almost twice
as large as a regular horse. Its skin seemed to shimmer and was like
glassy steel to the touch. From the center of its forehead grew a horn,
straight out, as the horn of a unicorn. But most startling of all were
the animal's eyes which seemed to speak--a silent mental speech, which
he could understand. The horse had looked up as he approached it and
seemed to say: "Follow me."

And he had followed. Over a mountain, until they came to a pass, and
finally to a narrow path which led to an old cabin. He had found it
empty, but there were cans of food and a rifle and many shells. He had
remained there a long time--how long he could not tell, for he could
only measure time by the cycles of the sun and the moon. Finally he
had taken the horse, the rifle and what food was left, and once again
started the long journey home.

The farther north he went, the more life seemed to have survived. He
had seen great herds of horses like his own, stampeding across the
plains, and strange birds which he could not identify. Yet he had seen
no human beings.

But he knew he was closer now. Closer to home. He recognized the land.
How, he did not know, for it was much changed. A sensing, perhaps, of
what it had once been. He could not be more than two days' ride away.
Once he was through this desert, he would find her, he would be with
her once again; all would be well, and his long journey would be over.

       *       *       *       *       *

The images faded. Even memory slept in a flow of warm blood. Body and
mind slept into the shadows of the dawn.

He awoke and stretched the cramped muscles of his body. At the edge of
the water he removed his clothes and stared at himself in the rippling
mirror. His muscles were lean and hard, evenly placed throughout the
length of his frame. A deep ridge ran down the length of his torso,
separating the muscles, making the chest broad. Well satisfied with his
body, he plunged into the cold water, deep down, until he thought his
lungs would burst; then swiftly returned to the clean air, tingling in
every pore. He dried himself and dressed. Conqueror was eating the long
grass near the stream. Quickly he saddled him. No time for breakfast.
He would ride all day and the next night. And he would be home.

Still northward. The hours crawled slower than a dying man. The sun
was a torch that pierced his skin, seeming to melt his bones into a
burning stream within his body. But day at last gave way to night, and
the sun to the moon. The torch became a white pock-marked goddess, with
streaming hair called stars.

In the moonlight he had not seen the crater until he was at its
very edge. Even then he might not have seen it had not the horse
stopped suddenly. The wind swirled through its vast emptiness,
slapping his face with dusty hands. For a moment he thought he heard
voices--mournful, murmuring voices, echoing up from the misty depths.
He turned quickly away and did not look back.

Night paled into day; day burned into night.

There were clouds in the sky now, and a gentle wind caressed the sweat
from his tired body. He stopped. There it was! Barely discernible
through the moonlight, he saw it. Home.

Quickly he dismounted and ran. Now he could see a small light in the
window, and he knew they were there. His breath came in hard ragged
gulps. At the window he peered in, and as his eyes became accustomed
to the inner gloom, he saw how bare the room was. No matter. Now that
he was home he would build new furniture, and the house would be even
better than it had been before.

Then he saw her.

She was sitting motionless in a straight wooden chair beside the
fireplace, the feeble light cast by the embers veiling her in mauve
shadows. He waited, wondering if she were.... Presently she stirred
like a restless child in sleep, then moved from the chair to the pile
of wood near the hearth, and replenished the fire. The wood caught
quickly, sending up long tongues of flame, and forming a bright pool of
light around her.

His blood froze. The creature illuminated by the firelight was a
monster. Large greasy scales covered its face and arms, and there was
no hair on its head. Its gums were toothless cavities in a sunken,
mumbling mouth. The eyes, turned momentarily toward the window, were
empty of life.

"No, no!" he cried soundlessly.

This was not his house. In his delirium he had only imagined he had
found it. He had been searching so long. He would go on searching.
He was turning wearily away from the window when the movement of the
creature beside the fire held his attention. It had taken a ring from
one skeleton-like finger and stood, turning the ring slowly as if
trying to decipher some inscription inside it.

He knew then. He had come home.

Slowly he moved toward the door. A great weakness was upon him. His
feet were stones, reluctant to leave the earth. His body was a weed,
shriveled by thirst. He grasped the doorknob and clung to it, looking
up at the night sky and trying to draw strength from the wind that
passed over him. It was no use. There was no strength. Only fear--a
kind of fear he had never known.

He fumbled at his throat, his fingers crawling like cold worms around
his neck until he found the locket and the clasp which had held it
safely through endless nightmare days and nights. He slipped the clasp
and the locket fell into his waiting hand. As one in a dream, he opened
it, and stared at the pictures, now in the dim moonlight no longer
faces of those he loved, but grey ghosts from the past. Even the ruby
had lost its glow. What had once been living fire was now a dull glob
of darkness.

"Nothing is forever!" He thought he had shouted the words, but only a
thin sound, the sound of leaves ruffled by the wind, came back to him.

He closed the locket and fastened the clasp, and hung it on the
doorknob. It moved slowly in the wind, back and forth, like a pendulum.
"Forever--forever. Only death is forever." He could have sworn he heard
the words.

He ran. Away from the house. To the large horse with a horn in the
center of its forehead, like a unicorn. Once in the saddle, the spurt
of strength left him. His shoulders slumped, his head dropped onto his
chest.

Conqueror trotted away, the sound of his hooves echoing hollowly in the
vast emptiness.







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