Like "Solaris Considered", this story was written to fulfill an assignment in an English class, this time to write about Bradbury's Martian Chronicles. While I can't argue the merit of Bradbury's work in the history of science fiction, or even as literature, there were always a number of things that bothered me about the story. One of the major nags I have with it is that when word comes of war back on Earth, the colonists all board their ships and fly toward the center of the conflict. If I were in that situation, Earth is the last place I would want to be. Better to remain on peaceful Mars and give hope for the survival of the human species than to return to almost certain death, no matter the political or ideological issues. But it is my nature to try to see multiple sides to a situation, so I tried to imagine some sort of motivation for the colonists to go back to Earth. It was presumptuous of me to imitate Bradbury's style, of course, but I was young.
COME HOME, the message said, WAR. And they came: the old, the black, the thousands and hundreds of thousands, in their shining ships with tails of fire to the world of fire.
Arthur Whitney, called Grand-dad by most, came with his family, and did not know why.
"I have nothing to go back to," he said. "That's why I went to Mars."
"C'mon, Grand-dad," said Ronny Whitney, tugging on the old man's cardigan sweater. "Mom needs you."
"You mother's strong, Ronny. She can get along." He looked out over the new country of Mars: the young trees, the green grass, the replenished canals. So different from Earth, where the trees stood like ancient monarchs and the rivers flowed as they had for millennia.
"But who'd play ball with me? And what about that fishin' hole you told me about? The one where the fish jump into your net?"
"You can find it by yourself. I told you just where it is."
"But it wouldn't be the same without you."
As the Earth had never been the same without Marie. His wife of forty-five years lay buried in a mossy cemetery in a shady valley. He could see it in his mind, smell the great oaks and sycamores. It would be winter in Ohio now, but he always saw the grave as he had seen it last, in the buzzing height of summer.
"You just gotta come, Grand-dad." The freckled boy pleaded with the grayed man, a would-be tear twinkling in the corner of a serious brown eye.
"Grand-dad can stay here if he wants," said the boy's mother, coming up behind them at the bank of the canal. She slipped off her sandals and sat beside Ronny.
"Don't worry, Ronny, I'll come with you." He tousled the red-gold hair, and the boy smiled.
His mother smiled too. "Supper's ready," she said. "Run and wash up." Ronny jumped up and ran toward the house.
"Thank you," she said to the old man. "I was hoping you'd come, but didn't want to ask you."
He looked at his daughter-in-law. Locks of straight brown hair fell over her face. With one hand she fingered the hem of her blue plaid cotton dress. She had done such a good job of raising Ronny after Christopher died, and he had enjoyed helping another boy grow up.
"I couldn't leave you now."
She looked up and brushed the hair from her eyes. They looked at each other for a moment.
"What kind of madness is it? This war?"
"The oldest kind. Sometimes I think there's only one war. It started millions of years ago with the first two human tribes and it's been going on ever since, getting bigger all the time. Nobody ever wins, not in the long run." In his mind came the question: Why go back? He had no answer, but he knew he would return to the Earth to see this, the end of the eternal war.
"Why does it keep going?"
He shrugged. "Some say it's human nature. I hope not."
She hung her head and started to cry.
"Don't cry, Leona. Ronny's waiting for his supper."
On the trip back to Earth, Grand-dad told Ronny stories about his days in the United States Navy. In those days the war was quiet, like black coals smoldering under a temporarily doused fire. He had seen the great wonders of Egypt and Greece and Rome, the crumbling monuments to past excesses and forgotten kings, reduced to sand by the ages.
"You remember the old Martian cities? Egypt is kind of like that, except the sand is yellow instead of red. And now we've turned their ruined cities into green parks and neon towns. I wonder if someone will do the same to New York someday."
And he told of Ohio. The lazy river in its broad valley, the stream where he fished as a boy.
"I'm from Nebraska," said a girl with braces and braids. "Tell me about Nebraska."
"Oh, I never went there much," said Grand-dad. "But I think is was mostly corn fields, green as far as the eye could see. Don't you remember?"
The girl shook her head. "I was just a baby when we moved to Mars. I don't remember Earth much at all."
Grand-dad thought that it might be very different now, but he said nothing. He settled back in his chair on the space ship and thought about visiting Marie's grave. And Christopher's – he'd almost forgotten his son, who was buried beside his wife. The Army had never said how Chris was killed, or where, but they had awarded him a posthumous medal for gallantry. At least Marie had died in a sensible manner: asleep in her own bed of a comprehensible cause, heart attack.
"Tell us about the time you climbed the pyramid, Grand-dad." The little black boy shook his knee to get his attention.
Grand-dad smiled. "All right, Eli, I'll tell the pyramid story again."
All the children on the rocket loved his stories and called him Grand-dad. Their parents loved the hours of peace he brought them and called him Grand-dad too. It was not easy to keep children happy on a rocket. The view out the windows was pretty, but changed far too slowly to keep a child's attention. In the crowded cabins there was not much room for toys.
On the last day of the trip, Ronny asked, "Who started the war, Grand-dad?"
He shrugged and shook his head. "I don't know, Ronny. Nobody. Everybody. It doesn't matter. Once a fire gets started, it doesn't matter who struck the match – the house still burns."
And he thought of his house, a great rambling mansion built by his grandfather. It had seemed old even when he was a boy, with its gables and bay windows. It stood on a hill outside of town, not far from the cemetery. He saw himself once again sitting in the yard with a glass of lemonade. Inside he could hear Marie playing Bach's "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring" on her beloved piano. The sweet smell of an apple pie in the oven made him drowsy, and he slept in his chair.
A crackle on the ship's intercom woke him.
"This is Captain Fried. We are now preparing to land. All passengers please return to you cabins and fasten your safety harnesses."
Leona came into the room with a taut expression on her face. She managed a brief smile, but her forehead remained furrowed.
"Well," she said. "This is it."
He nodded as she fastened Ronny into his seat.
"Any word on how the war's going?" he asked.
"None. The radio's mostly silent, except for a few strange words now and then. The Captain thinks they're from Africa."
"Maybe we should go there." He strapped himself in and closed his eyes. He thought again of the old house, Marie, Earth. What would they be like now? "We'll know soon enough," he said quietly.
After the roaring and vibrating of the landing, all was still. The people on the rocket seemed afraid to face the home they had come back to see. After a long pause, Grand-dad heard the soft whish of the doors being opened and the clicking of Leona and Ronny's harnesses. He looked at them as they waited at the cabin door.
"Go ahead," he said. "I'll be along soon."
He stayed strapped into his chair, thinking about the past and the future. Did he fear the past he had returned to? Or did he fear its loss?
When he stepped out of the rocket, most of the passengers had disappeared, mostly toward the ruins of the town in the distance. Around him, the Ohio hills lay gray and brown in an unnatural autumn. He recognized this place: less than a mile from his house, a mile and a half from the cemetery.
He looked in the direction of his home, though he knew he could not see it from here. "Come home," called the echo of Marie's voice.
The house still stood, almost intact. It leaned a little toward the back, and the paint had mostly worn off. It looked wrinkled, like the old man who walked through it. Bits of glass crunched beneath his shoes, and dust stirred at his passing. The wallpaper was torn, the curtains pulled down. This was the damage of men, not bombs. He imagined the vandals attacking the old hose as a symbol of everything wrong with the world, the mistakes of the past, and he could not blame them.
A foul-smelling breeze assaulted his face through the shattered window. It carried the scent of death and decay. Yes, the world was dying. He could almost see the silvery particles of poison floating in the air, hurrying eagerly into his lungs with every breath. He too was dying.
"Come home. Come home." Again he heard the echo of his wife's voice.
"Yes, Marie."
He left behind the doddering mansion.
The gravestones still stood, undisturbed by the death throes of the world, more gloomy now in the middle of the day than ever before on Halloween. A layer of gray ash coated everything, and all the trees had died. He sat on the ground before Marie's grave, and smiled at the incongruity. Not long ago, he had sat with his grandson on a grassy hill on Mars, which had so recently been dry and barren. Now the Earth, so recently green and full of life, was desert.
"Foolish old man," he said to himself. "Is this what you came for? You should have stayed on Mars."
But he knew that he had had no choice. Even across the void of space, Marie had called him. "Come home. Come home."
He lay down on her grave and reached out a hand to touch the stone. Tears welled up in his eyes. It was fitting that an old man should come home to die. But Ronny and the other children– Now they would die for their parents' folly, returned to a place that was not their home, for reasons they could not understand.
He gritted his teeth with bitterness. This was murder most foul, like the slaughter of Macduff's family. We deserve to die. He hoped he would die soon; he did not want to see Ronny come down with radiation sickness. Better to go now, and believe that somehow, beyond hope, the children could return to Mars.
He turned his head to read the words he had put on Marie's headstone.
MARIE ELIZABETH WHITNEY
JUST 22, 1941 - SEPT. 19, 2002
REMEMBER ME WITH KINDNESS
WHEN YOU THINK OF FORMER DAYS
©1979 Jon L. Davis