They left through Hunters’ Gate and went north on Central Park West. The streets were hushed and empty of cars. A few pedestrians hurried along on the far side of the road, none of them looking in her direction, though as they passed, Julia noticed, they slowed and straightened, brows smoothing, hands falling to their sides.
She was shivering with cold and shock. Every now and then she leaned against the unicorn’s side, and its breath was a deep rumble in her ear. The long, spiraling horn wrote eights in the air as they walked.
At intersections, the traffic lights flared green in all directions. Above them, one by one, lit windows snapped out. A shouted argument that had spilled onto a fire escape subsided to a murmur, and the high, inconsolable wail of an infant faded. Soon they were enveloped in quiet.
“Will you help her?” Julia said. “I can’t lose her. She’s the best thing in my life.”
The unicorn did not answer. As if it knew the way, it went up Seventh Ave and turned onto 119th. Its hooves printed moist, silvered daguerreotypes on the sidewalk behind them.
Vivian’s building was dark. Julia led the unicorn up the stoop and through the narrow doorway, watching anxiously as its flanks twitched and shuddered between the jambs. She had not planned for the two flights of stairs to Vivian’s apartment. But the unicorn placed one foot, then the next, on the threadbare runner, each step making a muffled chime. Less graceful, Julia groped hand over hand along the railing. Though she left the light switch alone, the unicorn gave off a fragile, glowworm light.
A neighbor’s tabby sat on the second-floor landing, its eyes two small bright moons. As the unicorn passed, it tucked in its paws and purred.
On the third-floor landing, Julia unlocked the door, and she and the unicorn entered Vivian’s apartment. Moonlight cut black paper silhouettes out of the flowers on the kitchen table. Everything was stark and sharp, but Julia still stumbled over a single shoe and skidded on a magazine before she grasped the loose brass doorknob and let them both into the bedroom.
Vivian was sitting in bed, resting against Gregory. His arms were around her, his cheek against her bare head. When he saw them, his face softened with wonder.
“Julia?”
Vivian opened her arms to them. Their arrival might have been the most ordinary thing in the world.
“You did find a unicorn.”
“I did.”
It went to her. Vivian cradled the long white head, touching their foreheads together. “How lovely you are. You’re so much more than I imagined.”
“You can cure her, right?” Julia said. Her shoes were icy puddles, and she was swaying on her feet. The unicorn paid no attention to her. With a pang, she saw that the story was no longer hers. It had slipped through her fingers as easily as the end of the braid, leaving her a witness at its periphery.
“Of course,” Vivian said, to a question no one else had heard. “Yes.”
The unicorn lowered its horn and nudged up the hem of Vivian’s oversized T-shirt, exposing the pale skin of her belly. Julia gritted her teeth, afraid to watch, unable to look away.
The tip of the horn plunged through the skin and withdrew.
Moonlight spilled out of the hole, an icy light that made the room swim. Vivian convulsed, whimpering. Gregory stroked her face, her hands, her arms, whispering to her, soothing, pleading. Julia ached to see them.
When the spasms had passed, and Vivian lay exhausted among the tangled quilts, there was no sign of the wound. But a glimmering light suffused her skin.
“Is it over?” Julia said. “Are you okay?”
“It hurts, but it will be all right.” Vivian clasped Gregory’s hand. “Help me.”
Gregory gathered her up, one arm around her shoulders, another under her knees. As the unicorn knelt, he settled her onto its back. She wrapped a fistful of its mane around each hand and smiled at Julia, through Julia, her eyes fixed somewhere else now.
“You shouldn’t be afraid,” Vivian said.
The unicorn clambered to its feet and tensed. Then the two of them leapt out of the open window—but the window had not been open, Julia thought—and landed with a sound like church bells on the pavement two stories below. Ringing and pealing, the unicorn’s hooves sang down the sidewalk, fading with distance.
Julia blinked, and the room was as dim as before, the window shut and locked against the night. Vivian was motionless in bed, Gregory feeling along her wrist with clumsy, desperate fingers, listening, waiting. Then he raised his head, loss naked in his eyes. On either side of the cold white bed they stood, unable, for a very long time, to say the impossible thing that had occurred.
Billy and the Unicorn
Terry Bisson
ONE DAY BILLY saw a unicorn. He could tell what it was by the big horn growing out of its head. It was standing at the edge of the woods.
“Want a unicorn?” the unicorn asked. It was white.
Billy shook his head. “Girls like unicorns,” he said. “I’m a boy.”
“Boys would like unicorns too,” said the unicorn, “if they knew what unicorns were really like.”
Billy thought about that. “What are they really like?” he asked.
“Take me home and you’ll see,” said the unicorn.
“You’re too big,” said Billy.
“Yes, but unicorns don’t eat anything,” said the unicorn. “Plus, we’re invisible.”
Billy took the unicorn home. It was hard to get it in the door. His mother couldn’t see it, though.
He put it in his room and stood it in the corner. Its horn glowed in the dark.
“Turn out that light,” said Billy’s mother. “Go to sleep.”
Cool! thought Billy. She could see the light but not the unicorn.
Billy hung a T-shirt over the unicorn’s horn. It looked like a little ghost in the dark.
“Hey,” said Billy.
The unicorn was going to the bathroom.
“You can’t go to the bathroom in my room,” said Billy.
“Too late,” said the unicorn. A big blue jewel dropped down between its legs.
It was as big as a Brussels sprout. It had lots of square sides.
“Pick it up,” said the unicorn.
“No way,” said Billy.
After a while, the blue jewel disappeared.
“Get a load of this,” said Billy’s father. He was reading the paper. “Unicorn Escapes from Zoo.”
“I thought they were make-believe,” said Billy’s mother.
“It went to the bathroom in my room,” said Billy.
“Shut up,” said Billy’s father. “Go to your room. Both of you.”
When Billy got back to his room, the unicorn was going to the bathroom again.
“Hey,” said Billy.
“Go ahead, pick it up,” said the unicorn. “It doesn’t stink.”
Billy picked it up. It was warm, but it didn’t stink.
“It’s like money,” said the unicorn. “You can buy magazines with it.”
Billy liked magazines. He went to the store and picked one out.
“Dale Earnhardt,” said the store owner. “That’s a special memorial issue. Got any money?”
Billy shook his head.
“Then you’re out of luck,” said the store owner. “He was one of the Greats.”
“This is like money,” said Billy. He showed the store owner the blue jewel. It was still warm.
The store owner sniffed it. “You get two for that,” he said. He gave Billy another magazine. It was all about girls.
“I don’t like girls,” said Billy.
“Give it to your unicorn,” said the store owner.
“Did you really escape from the zoo?” Billy asked.
“No,” said the unicorn. It was looking at the girls. Billy had to turn the pages. The unicorn had no hands.
“The paper says you did.”
“I planted that story,” said the unicorn. “There is no zoo.”
Billy thought about that.
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“Turn the page,” said the unicorn.
“I thought you didn’t like girls,” said Billy.
“These aren’t wearing any clothes,” said the unicorn. “It’s their clothes I don’t like.”
“Can I ride on your back?” Billy asked.
“After you go to bed,” said the unicorn.
That night Billy rode the unicorn around the yard. Its horn was like a headlight. It left little tracks in the sandbox.
“How come my mother can’t see you?” Billy asked.
“She never tried,” said the unicorn. “Plus, unicorns are invisible.”
“How come I can see you, then?”
“We’re not that invisible,” said the unicorn.
Billy thought about that. “Can I take you to school?” he asked.
“Unicorns don’t like school,” said the unicorn.
Billy was watching TV when the phone rang.
It was the store owner. “I want my magazines back,” he said. “That jewel disappeared.”
“It’s like money,” said Billy.
“Money doesn’t disappear,” said the store owner. “Bring back my magazines or I will call the FBI.”
“I’m not afraid of the FBI,” said Billy.
But he was. His hands were trembling as he hung up the phone.
“Who was that?” asked Billy’s mother.
“Nobody,” said Billy.
“Where’s my Dale Earnhardt magazine?” asked Billy. He couldn’t find it anywhere.
“I found out he’s dead,” said the unicorn. “So I tore it up with my horn.”
“Oh no,” said Billy. “He was one of the Greats.”
“Dead people don’t belong in magazines,” said the unicorn.
“The store owner wants his magazines back,” said Billy. He tried to get the girl magazine back but the unicorn was standing on it. It had sharp feet like a deer.
“You’re going to get us both in trouble,” said Billy. “He’ll call the FBI.”
“Just turn the page,” said the unicorn. “Let me worry about him.”
“Get a load of this,” said Billy’s father. He was reading the paper. “Store Owner Killed by Unicorn.”
“I thought they were make-believe,” said Billy’s mother.
“It’s invisible,” said Billy. “It has a sharp horn.”
“Shut up, both of you,” said Billy’s father.
“That was cool,” said Billy. “But I think you should hide somewhere else.” He was getting tired of the unicorn.
“I like here,” said the unicorn. “But I need another magazine. I’m finished with this one.”
Billy had an idea. “You would like it at school,” he said. “There are lots of girls there.”
“Do they wear clothes?” asked the unicorn. “It’s their clothes I don’t like.”
“Girls like unicorns,” said Billy. “They will let you look up their dresses.”
The next day, Billy took the unicorn to school. The teacher couldn’t see it. The boys couldn’t either.
The girls could, though. “Billy has a unicorn,” they said, clapping their hands together. “Can we ride on it?”
“You can have it,” said Billy. He was tired of the unicorn. “Jewels come out of its butt.”
“That’s cool,” said the girls. “It can sleep in the girls’ bathroom.”
“It doesn’t sleep,” said Billy.
“Get on,” said the unicorn. It took all the girls for a ride. It looked up their dresses as they got on and off.
“What’s going on?” asked the boys.
Billy told them about the unicorn. “It’s invisible,” he said. He left out the part about the store owner.
“Invisible stuff is make-believe,” said the boys. “Plus, unicorns are strictly for girls.”
“Boys would like unicorns too, if they knew what they were really like,” said Billy.
But the boys couldn’t see it. “Billy has a unicorn,” they said. “Billy the girl!”
They made fun of Billy.
This was their big mistake.
“Home from school already?” asked Billy’s mother.
“They let us out early,” said Billy.
“Get a load of this,” said Billy’s father. He was reading the paper at the supper table. “Unicorn Kills School Boys.”
“That must be why they let Billy out early,” said Billy’s mother. “It was a tragedy.”
“It says here that it tore them up with its horn,” said Billy’s father. “Then it ran into the girls’ bathroom.”
“Girls like unicorns,” said Billy’s mother.
“The teacher called the FBI,” said Billy’s father. “They will investigate.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” said Billy.
“Nobody said it was,” said Billy’s father. “Pass the Brussels sprouts.”
“I’m pretty sure unicorns are make-believe,” said Billy’s mother.
“Boys would like unicorns too if they knew what they were really like,” said Billy.
“No they wouldn’t,” said Billy’s father. “Now shut up, both of you.”
The Final Quarry
Eric Norden
THE LAST UNICORN on earth lay dozing in the sun on a hilltop in northern Thessaly, memories buzzing softly through his brain like the murmur of distant bees. As unicorns go, he was not a noticeably distinguished specimen, for age had dulled the gloss of his ivory pelt, and here and there along his withered flanks tufts of hair had fallen out, lending him a patched, faintly moth-eaten quality. But his eyes, even now when filmed with dream, were luminous with wisdom, as if they had drunk in the centuries like dew, and his imperious spiral horn rested lightly on the grass, a gleaming golden icicle in the summer sunlight. He stirred once in his sleep, as the thoughts of a child in the valley reached him, crystalline as the chime of a steeple bell, and then, replenished, lapsed into deeper slumber. The dark, demanding voices of the earth no longer spoke to him, and it had been a thousand years since silent wings beat the air above his head, or tingling laughter pealed in ageless mockery as he sipped from the waterfall below the gorge, but the old unicorn did not begrudge the new masters of earth, and was content to savor the endless tapestry of his dreams. A zephyr prematurely tinged with autumn brushed his horn gently as a butterfly’s wings, perhaps in warning, but he slept on.
The older and immeasurably grosser of the two Englishmen shoved his plate of cold stuffed eggplant across the rough-planked wooden table with a violent, stabbing motion and snarled at the innkeeper.
“If this is the best you have to offer us, we shall ride on to Pharanakos tonight!”
His florid face was suffused with a darker flush of fury as he wrenched the coarse linen napkin from his neck and hurled it to the packed dirt floor. His companion, a slim youth in his early twenties, elegantly attired in a fawn-gray cheviot lounge suit of a cut popularized by the late king and a resplendent waistcoat of brocaded maroon silk, languidly surveyed the room and tapped a cone of ash from his thin black cheroot onto the remains of his own dinner.
“My dear Marius,” he drawled, “for once I do wish you could forget your belly and remember the purpose of our visit. We are not here as scouts for the Guide Michelin, and as for myself, I should rather grub like a pig for roots than spend one more hour in that infernal coach.”
As the innkeeper hastily snatched the plate from the table and scurried towards the kitchen amidst a flurry of apologies in broken English, Sir Marius Wallaby, Bart., turned his wrath on his traveling companion.
“God’s blood, Deverish, don’t let me hear from you what the purpose of this journey is. If I hadn’t been gulled by your mad tale back in Athens, I wouldn’t be sitting in this miserable excuse for an inn, two hundred miles from the last pretense of civilization, feeding on warmed-over table scraps and guzzling mare’s piss for wine.” He groaned piteously. “And my last bottle of hock gone two days back, with no decent cellars between here and the coast.”
&
nbsp; Nigel Deverish sipped with overtly sadistic relish from his glass of white Retsina.
“As for myself, I rather enjoy its clean, piney bite,” he said. “But then I am obviously no connoisseur in such matters.”
“The matters in which you are a connoisseur I tremble to contemplate.” The older man’s anger crumpled abruptly as his huge frame slumped back into a rickety rattan chair precariously accommodating his twenty stone, and he ran one hand, plump and livid as a baby lobster, through thinning sandy hair before speaking in a voice thickly edged with fatigue.
“I must caution you I don’t intend going on like this much longer, Deverish. Don’t think I’m not up to it physically—God knows. I’ve been on treks in Africa and Brazil that make this expedition look like a walking tour of Surrey.” He grimaced wearily. “But then I was always after something tangible, something that left a spoor I could follow, something I could fix in the sights of my rifle. We must have passed through thirty of these half-arsed villages in the past three weeks and no one even knows what we’re talking about. The whole idea is so damned vague, it’s like trying to grab a handful of smoke, and it’s getting on my nerves, Deverish, I’m not ashamed to confess.”
Nigel Deverish eyed his companion with thinly veiled contempt. Sir Marius Wallaby was a huge, corpulent man in his early fifties, with a flaccid basketball of a head, candid, hyperthyroid eyes of a pale, china-blue prominent in his ruddy face, now stubbled by a two-day growth of orangy beard, and a mouth pursed like a querulous rosebud. He was dressed with customary carelessness in a rumpled Norfolk hacking jacket, multi-darned cardigan of muddy-brown wool, heather-green tweed knickers, and battered Peal’s brogues. Hardly the picture, Deverish reflected grimly, of a man worth half a million if a guinea, but Wallaby cared nothing for appearances, or money. His only passions were, in interchangeable order, the table, the hunt, and the bottle. Wallaby’s tempers were fierce but transient, for like a toothless dog he had learned long ago to rely on his bark. He was as petulant as a child, Deverish had perceived on their first meeting, and as innocent; an easy man to use, but only if one were willing to cosset him like a nanny.
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