by Adam Gidwitz
The king gasped.
The small beast approached Jorinda. His soft nose sniffed first at her open hand—at her palm, her wrist, her fingers. He sneezed. She laughed. Then he moved over to her closed hand, the one that held the sugar cubes.
Fänger nodded to the king. The king nocked an arrow in his bow, pulled the string back, and raised the arrow to his face. Fänger hefted his hatchet.
The unicorn had eaten the sugar cubes. Now he was licking the residue from Jorinda’s hand, her wrist, her arm. She laughed as he snuffled up to her neck, her face. “Stop!” she giggled, pushing his head away. “Stop!”
But then she stopped. For in the reflection of the beast’s round eye she saw a man astride a horse, a bow and arrow drawn and aimed, emerging from behind a wall of leaves.
She turned. The king’s eyes were flashing, and his red face was twisted into a horrific smile.
“DON’T!” Jorinda screamed. And she threw her little body in front of the foal’s neck at the very instant the king loosed his arrow.
Everything was moving very slowly. Jorinda saw the arrow wobble for a moment as it left the bow, and then the feathers caught the wind, it found its course, and it sailed, straight and true, for the unicorn and the little girl.
At first, it just burned. A dull burn below Jorinda’s neck. She looked to see what made her feel that way.
Then she saw the blood spattered on the black coat of the unicorn, and the arrow spinning wildly away from them through the air.
She looked at the little beast. The blood made a pattern on its side. She thought it looked like a juniper tree. Where is the wound? she wondered.
And then the pain lanced through her, and she screamed, and her arms squeezed the unicorn’s neck, and then she was on his back, and they were off.
* * *
The little unicorn careered through the wood, leaping logs and bushes and branches without an instant’s hesitation. Jorinda held on to his neck and his mane for dear life, as her blood flowed down his side, spraying the leaves as they galloped past.
The king’s horse was not far behind. They could hear the man cursing his missed shot and bellowing for Fänger to keep up. The king’s horse was larger than the little unicorn, and so less nimble. But its great legs pounded the bracken underfoot, and what time it lost by going around the shrubs it made up with its huge strides. The king spurred his horse mercilessly and held his bow tight.
Not far behind him, Fänger wove and ducked through the trees. And while he had not the agility of the little unicorn, nor the raw speed of the great horse, he was crafty and knew these woods well. He often fell behind, only to take a shortcut down an escarpment or through the thickest brush and arrive again just behind the chase.
And so it happened that Fänger lost sight of the king’s horse, but saw the blood on the leaves, guessed where the unicorn was going, and turned aside. He ran as fast as he could, unhooking his hatchet from his belt, ducking under branches and leaping beds of ivy, until he came to a steep hill. He slid down the hill on his side, ripping up the roots and ferns as he fell, and came crashing to the ground in a clearing with a cliff on one side and the steep hill on the other. Standing at one end of the clearing was the little unicorn. The girl was draped over his back, her head against his neck, heaving raggedly. Both of them were covered in blood. At the other end of the clearing was the king. His arrow was nocked, his bow raised, his shoulders rising up and down, up and down.
“I got ’em!” the king said aloud, grinning. “I got ’em!” His eyes narrowed. He pulled the bowstring back.
“Run!” Jorinda screamed to the unicorn. But there was nowhere to go. The cliff was behind him, the steep hill to his side. He shook his long black head and pawed the ground.
“Run!” Jorinda was crying now. “Please! Run! They’ll kill you!”
The king said, “I’ll get the beast. Afterwards, Fänger, you get her.”
“Please,” the little girl wept. “Plea—”
She stopped. She stared at the king.
Or, perhaps, not at the king. Perhaps just behind the king.
Fänger followed her gaze. “SIRE!”
The king had just raised the bow to his face. The string was taut, the arrow ready. He heard his huntsman’s cry. He released the arrow, but the shot was high and wide. He heard the sound of hoofbeats crashing through the wood behind him. He turned.
Fänger lifted his hatchet to hurl it.
Too late.
With the force of an explosion, the king was taken off his horse. A long black horn, smooth and twining and very, very sharp at the end, entered his back, passed through his spine, his lungs, and his heart, and emerged just under his chin.
Fänger gaped as another great black horn emerged from the forest. The thunder of hooves was deafening. He tried to change his hatchet’s target, from the first beast to the second, but the creature was moving too fast. All Fänger could do was lift his arms to his face.
The black horn went straight through his chest. He was driven backward, into the side of the steep hill, and the horn went so far through him that it stuck into the stony black earth.
The two adult unicorns withdrew their horns from the corpses of the two men. Then they pranced around the clearing, shaking their heads, either searching for more enemies or warning others off. At last, they approached their little foal. Jorinda slid to the ground, smearing blood across his black, glistening flanks.
The foal trotted to the adults and bowed his head, and they came up alongside him and nestled their muzzles in his neck. After a moment, the little unicorn extricated himself from the equine embrace and approached Jorinda. He put his soft nose next to her cheek. She closed her eyes.
* * *
When she opened her eyes again, she saw the three unicorns disappearing into the forest.
Jorinda stood in the center of the corpse-strewn, blood-drenched clearing. Blood flowed swiftly from her shoulder. Tears cut lines down her filthy cheeks.
And the only thought she had was, Even unicorns have parents.
Then she fell to her knees and wept.
Everyone okay out there?
Are you sure?
’Cause I’m just barely hanging on myself. . . .
Okay?
You sure?
All right.
Here we go.
The Ivory Monkey
Once upon a time, a boy wandered through distant lands. He traversed dark forests, he scaled enormous mountains, he waded through spring-swollen rivers, he sat on great rocks overlooking the sea.
Something was not right. He felt ill. All the time. Like he was carrying a small lake inside his stomach.
Over his shoulder, the three ravens flew. Sometimes they tried to engage him in conversation. Other times, they let him sulk.
But one day, as Joringel pushed through the heavy brush of a red and yellow wood, the ravens became excited.
“Hey!” cried the second, coming to perch on a gnarly branch. “Do you know where we are?”
“We know everything,” answered the third, gliding down beside him.
“It’s sort of what we do,” added the first, landing beside his brothers.
“Well?” smiled the second. “Where?”
The first raven put his beak into the air. “49.173 longitude, 9.435 latitude.”
Joringel kept walking. He was used to them saying things that made absolutely no sense.
“Which means . . . ?” The second raven led them on, expectantly.
“We’re near a McDonald’s?” the third said.
“Yeah, not for another seven hundred years,” scowled the second raven. “Come on! You’re not trying.”
The first raven furrowed his black brow. “49.173, 9.435 . . . north of the Crystal Mountain . . . south of the kingdom of Märchen . . . west of the Schwarzwald . . .”
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br /> “THE MONKEY!” the third raven screamed.
The second raven broke into a wide grin. (I have no idea what a raven grinning looks like. You’ll have to try to picture that yourself.) “The monkey!”
The first raven’s eyes lit up. “The monkey!”
“THE MONKEY!!!!!!!” the third raven howled. Then he did a little dance on the branch of the tree.
The second raven swooped down into Joringel’s path. “Come this way,” he instructed him. “We have something we want to show you.”
Joringel had been wrestling ferociously with the sickness in his stomach. When he spoke, he tasted bile. “What is it?”
The second raven sang, “You’ll like it . . .”
The first swooped down and sat on Joringel’s head. “We promise!”
“Get off!” the little boy snapped, waving his arms at the raven. The first raven leaped up into the air and then landed on his head again. “Come on, grumpy! Let’s go!”
The third raven was already flying off into the trees, roaring, “THE MONKEY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
* * *
Joringel followed the three ravens through the thick foliage, all red and yellow and orange in the cool autumn air. Fallen leaves lay wet and slick over the earth, and the pop of branches under his feet was muted, soft, from recent rain.
Joringel grumbled to himself, fought with whatever was pushing up from the bottom of his stomach, and emerged into a clearing. His breath caught.
In the center of the clearing was a statue. It was of a beautiful young person—made of smooth marble. Its face was calm and clear and was neither boy nor girl. Its eyes reminded Joringel of his sister. But Joringel knew it would have reminded you of anyone you missed. It was that kind of statue. His heart hurt.
The statue’s arm was outstretched. In its extended hand sat a little monkey, carved from ivory.
Joringel approached it.
The white monkey sat on its haunches, and its round eyes peered up at Joringel as if it might speak at any moment. It was the most lifelike, adorable carving of a monkey Joringel had ever seen.
“Cute, isn’t it?” said the first raven, landing on the statue’s head.
Joringel nodded.
“It is very powerful,” said the second raven, landing on the statue’s shoulder.
The third raven landed right on the statue’s outstretched arm, no more than a foot away from the little monkey. “Well?” he asked. “What do you see?”
Joringel glanced up at him, and then back to the monkey. “What do you mean?”
The third raven said, “Just tell me what you see.”
“Uh . . .” said Joringel. “I see a monkey?”
“Go on,” said the third raven.
“An ivory monkey?”
“Yes . . . ?”
“A cute ivory monkey?”
And as soon as Joringel had said it, his eyes grew wide, he went stiff as a board, and he tumbled like a felled tree to the ground.
“YES!” shrieked the third raven.
“Works every time!” crowed the second.
“Never gets old!” chuckled the first.
The third raven continued to shriek, “I LOVE THE MONKEY!!!!!!”
After a few minutes, Joringel came to. He sat up, rubbed his head, and said, “What happened?”
The third raven was singing, “The monkey go-o-ot you! You didn’t kno-o-ow it! But then it g-o-ot you! ’Cause it’s so aw-w-wesome!”
Joringel was blinking. “What?”
“You fell under the power of the monkey,” the first raven explained.
“I did?”
“Don’t you feel it?” asked the second.
“My head hurts,” Joringel replied.
“Stand up,” the first raven instructed him.
Joringel pulled himself to his feet.
“Jump up and down,” the second raven said.
Joringel began to jump up and down.
“Slap yourself in the face!” the third raven shouted.
Joringel continued to jump up and down while he slapped himself in the face.
“I LOVE THE MONKEY!!!!!!!” the third raven shrieked.
“Say, ‘cute ivory monkey’ again,” the first raven commanded.
“Cute ivory monkey again,” replied Joringel.
The first raven muttered, “Close enough.”
Joringel suddenly stopped jumping up and down and slapping himself in the face.
“Hey!” Joringel cried. “Wow!”
“Now do you understand the power of the monkey?” asked the second raven.
“If I’m holding the monkey, or touching this statue,” explained the first, “and you say ‘cute ivory monkey,’ you will fall under my control.”
Joringel squinted at the first raven. “But you just said it.”
“I know, but I’m touching the statue. So it has no effect on me. Likewise if you were holding the monkey.”
“Huh,” said Joringel. He looked up at the ravens. “Can I take it?”
“No!” cried the first raven.
“Absolutely not!” gasped the second.
“Under no circumstances!” shrieked the third.
“Why not?” Joringel asked.
The three ravens looked at one another. Silently, they decided that the first raven should explain it.
“This stone is cursed,” he began. “For while, it is a funny trick—”
“Hilarious!” the third raven shouted.
“It is not to be taken from this grove,” the first went on. “The greatest misfortune will befall whoever takes it from here.”
The three ravens fell into an ominous silence.
But Joringel was not in the mood to be impressed. “Greater misfortune than having your head cut off?”
The three ravens looked at one another.
“Or being eaten by your mother?”
“You remember that?” the first raven whispered. “We thought you didn’t remember—”
“Or turning into a bird?”
“Hey! What’s so bad about being a bird?” the second raven objected.
“Or having your sister abandon you? Or playing with corpses? Or wandering for weeks and weeks with no one to talk to except some ravens who can see the future?”
“Are we really that bad?” the third asked, trying not to let on that Joringel had hurt his feelings.
Joringel didn’t care. Whatever was sloshing around his stomach and pushing at his eyes and twining around his throat like an out-of-control weed was winning, and he didn’t care anymore. He grabbed the ivory monkey from its perch on the statue’s outstretched hand and stormed from the clearing without another word.
The three ravens stared after him.
Suddenly, the third shrieked, “THE MONKEY!!!!!!!!”
But the second just sighed.
And the first said, “Let him go. After all, he’ll need it.”
“He’ll need a lot more than that,” the second added.
But the third just said, “The monkey . . .”
The Tyrants
Once upon a time, a little girl walked past two mangled corpses, through a great wood, tracing the path of blood and broken branches back to the great oak laden with acorns. She wound her way out of the forest, past the hunting lodge—empty now, save for the skulls—past the kennels, past the hedge.
She entered the castle’s kitchens. A cook caught sight of her and screamed.
The little girl collapsed in a bloody heap.
* * *
When Jorinda awoke, two days later, all of the king’s most important courtiers were gathered around her bedside. Their long, gray faces hovered over her, their cracked lips hanging open.
“What?” demanded the little girl.
The cour
tiers gasped.
“She lives!”
“It’s a miracle!”
“A blessed miracle!”
Jorinda blinked and wiped the crust from her mouth.
“And?” asked the senior courtier, who had the longest and grayest face of the lot. “Where is the king?”
“Dead,” Jorinda replied. “The huntsman, too.”
The room fell deathly still.
“How?” the courtier asked.
Jorinda opened her mouth—and then she closed it again. Unicorns? Either they wouldn’t believe her, or they would set out to hunt them. Likely both. So instead, she responded, “We were attacked. I don’t know by whom.”
The courtiers gasped. Attacked? In the Kingswood? “Could you see what the assailants looked like? What they were wearing?”
Jorinda thought. “They were covered in black. They had long spears. And they rode horses.”
The senior courtier straightened his back and stared into the distance. “Assassins,” he muttered. “This is grave. Very grave indeed.”
“We must consider our options.”
“We must consult with the prince.”
“Well . . . perhaps we’ll consider our options before we consult with the prince.”
“Right. Good thinking.”
And the courtiers fled the room in a storm of voices.
Jorinda put her head back on the pillow and closed her eyes.
* * *
Late that night, the door to her room opened, and four serving women bustled in. They carried a candelabra, and in the arms of one lay a long white dress.
Jorinda sat up. “What’s that for?”
“What do you think? Your wedding!”
“What? When?”