F&SF BK OF UNICORN VOL1.indb

by Gordon Van Gelder

  “But are not unicorns mythical beasts, stranger?” The old man employed the word barbaros, a proper classical usage, but with a faint underlay of emphasis that vaguely disturbed Deverish.

  “Who can say for sure what is myth and what reality, Father?” he replied carefully, the ancient words creaking with disuse on his tongue. “We seek only truth.”

  The old man’s smile faded, and he sighed. Deverish watched with loathing as a louse crawled from the tangled mat of hair under his armpit and struggled laboriously along the tattered remnants of one sleeve.

  “If you seek only truth,” the hermit continued, “then I shall answer you with truth. But first I must know more of your purpose in coming here. Is it only the search for knowledge that impels you?”

  The startlingly blue eyes fixed on his, and suddenly the facile words caught in Deverish’s throat.

  He could only nod feebly, and the old man sighed again.

  “I can call no man a liar, because there are too many truths. So to answer you, yes, there is such a beast in these hills, the very last one in the entire world. He is old and tired, and sleeps much in the sun, but sometimes we meet and share our thoughts. He feeds on goodness, and that is why he is old and infirm, and soon shall die, for it is a meager diet today.”

  The old priest was obviously mad, but Deverish continued in order to keep Wallaby’s flickering interest in their quest alive, for with the sportsman’s intuitive flair, the fat Englishman had sensed the spoor of his elusive quarry and now was glancing back and forth at the two of them like a spectator at a match of lawn tennis, hoping by sheer intensity of will to fathom the alien words. “Where can we find this beast?” Deverish asked, choking back a smile. The momentary sense of discontinuity he’d experienced earlier had dissolved, and now he felt only contempt tinged with pity for the pathetic demented fool before him.

  “He lives on the slopes above Thanatakis mountain, five miles to the south of here. His legs are weak, and he seldom ventures far from his waterfall. He will not flee from you, for he is very tired and does not know fear.”

  Deverish turned to Wallaby and gave him a quick digest of their conversation, registering with satisfaction the glint of excitement in the other man’s eyes. Wallaby pulled himself to his feet and started towards the cave door, but before he could follow, the hermit’s hand shot out and clutched at his sleeve. Deverish noted with disgust that the fingernails were long, talon-like, and reamed in filth. He tried to shake his arm free, but the old man’s grip was inordinately strong, and suddenly the deep, distant eyes fastened on his, and again Deverish felt a vague disorientation, a falling away from reality.

  The old man spoke softly, never looking from Deverish’s face.

  “You are here to kill the unicorn, are you not?”

  For one irrational moment Deverish accepted the reality of the hunt as passionately as Wallaby. The priest repeated his question quietly, and Deverish did not have the strength to lie. He felt suddenly nauseous, and the hermit’s eyes were like twin stakes impaling him. He nodded weakly, and the old man shook his head and clasped his one free hand to the wooden crucifix about his neck.

  “I had known you were coming for some time now. The birds told me.”

  His grip tightened on Deverish’s arm.

  “I cannot stop you, for these things are ordained,” the old man whispered, “but I must tell you this: you go to slay the most precious creature left on earth.”

  He paused, and Deverish again felt the eyes tearing into his mind like arrows. Wallaby called something impatiently from the doorway, but he could not move.

  “Listen to me, my son,” the priest continued, the ancient words falling with liquid precision from his lips, “this beast you seek to slay is the last guardian of man’s innocence. Unicorns live on thoughts of beauty, and the radiance of their souls has fallen like sunlight on the world for thousands of years, even before the Old Ones were dreamed into substance on Olympus.” The priest’s voice fell even lower and the mad eyes filmed with grief. “But the day Christ died on the cross the King of the Unicorns took it upon his race to suffer penance for the act, for otherwise God’s wrath delivered on the heads of man would indeed have been terrible. And so on that day, while the heavens shook and the earth trembled on the brink of chaos, he ordered all the females of his race to die, and in great silver flocks they mounted the heights of Thessaly and threw themselves to death on the crags below, singing the ancient songs as they fell. Their voices reached the ear of God, and the tears of Christ rained upon Greece for three days and three nights, and beauty crept into the dreams of everyone.”

  He is mad, thought Deverish feebly, why does he keep looking at me, why does he not let me out into the sunlight?

  “Since then,” the priest went on, “the remaining unicorns have died one by one, always by the violence of man’s hand, because Christ in his love has spared them pain or illness or suffering or death, save that inflicted by his own tormentors. And with the death of each unicorn over the centuries, something of beauty, something of innocence, has gone out of the world, and a candle has been extinguished in the heart of every man, and the darkness has grown. This poor tired beast you plan to kill is the sole custodian of that ancient, guttering flame. When he is slain the last light of God’s mercy is snuffed out, and even children’s hearts shall become soiled, and wonder will die slowly, strangled until it becomes only a word, and innocence shall never return. A vast darkness hovers over the earth, peopled with the horrors of the apocalypse, and this beast is man’s last solitary light. So God intended it, and so shall it be. Go and destroy him.” The bony fingers released Deverish’s sleeve, and he was free. With a wrenching effort he staggered forward and rejoined Panayotis and Wallaby. The priest’s eyes followed him, but at a slightly wrong angle, and it was only then that he realized that the old man was blind.

  As Deverish stumbled into the sunlight, Wallaby looked at him inquisitively.

  “What was the old beggar whispering to you about just now?” he inquired, and then scowled as he saw Deverish’s face. “You look white as a ghost, man. Have a swig of cognac, it’ll do you good.”

  Deverish accepted numbly, noticing with clinical detachment as he raised the flask to his lips that his hands were trembling. His legs felt like jelly, but he followed Panayotis and Wallaby across the clearing, and it was only when they reached the edge of the copse of white spruce trees that he realized all the birds in the glen had fallen silent.

  Wallaby was anxious to set out at once on foot for Thanatakis mountain and the lair of his quarry, but Panayotis dissuaded him.

  “For such a trip you need pack animals, milord,” he protested. “I have a cousin with a farm less than a kilometer away and I will go fetch mules and more supplies. While I am gone, rest here and eat so you will be strong for your journey.”

  Wallaby negligently tossed him a five-hundred-drachma note to pay his cousin, and the old Greek scampered off gleefully. Deverish had little desire to remain in such close proximity to the madman in the cave—he could still feel those dead, empty eyes fastened on him as if they could read his soul—but the experience had been so unsettling and had so jarred his already taut nerves that he could not have continued in any case, and now he eased himself gratefully to the ground at the foot of a birch, the tension gradually seeping from his body until he lay in a luxuriantly languid stupor in the dappled pool of shade beneath the tree. Wallaby lay stretched out beside him, gorging on a packed lunch of cold lamb, goat’s cheese, olives, and brandy, but Deverish had no appetite.

  Panayotis returned within the hour, just as Deverish had begun to doze, leading on a tether two bony mules that appeared barely capable of supporting Deverish’s weight, let alone Wallaby’s twenty stone.

  “My cousin let you keep these for two days, if you wish to stay overnight, but he say you should come back before sunset because the spirits of the old gods still walk the high hills at night and are sometimes thirsty for Christian blood.” He cr
ossed himself and then grimaced self-consciously. “My cousin is superstitious, of course, milord—he is just an uneducated man. He speaks no English.”

  Wallaby ignored the Greek’s chatter but looked quizzically at the decrepit mules.

  “Why have you brought only two animals?”

  Panayotis’ eyes shifted from Wallaby’s and he shuffled his right foot nervously.

  “Milord, it is impossible for me to go with you. You understand, there is the inn, I must be there in case other travelers come . . .”

  “The inn!” Wallaby roared, his face flaming, the cheeks puffing like twin blood sausages. “That flea-bitten hovel! Your only customers are a few pig farmers guzzling your foul pinecone wine, and there are no travelers in this area except ourselves. You’re our guide, man, albeit a paltry excuse for one at best.” His voice dropped and he looked almost imploringly at Panayotis. “Without you we’ll never find this place the priest spoke of. Surely you will not desert us now, just when we’re so close to our goal?”

  Panayotis was shamefaced. “Perhaps I can lead you to the foot of the mountain, milord, but no farther.” The faintest edge of a whine tinged his voice. “From there you will have no trouble finding this place by the waterfall of which you speak. But I cannot go up the mountain with you.”

  Panayotis cast a quick, fearful look over his shoulder at his holy man’s cave, and Deverish realized with a surge of elation that the innkeeper had somehow picked up the old priest’s apprehensions about their journey and was reluctant to be further involved. Deverish struggled lest his face register his joy, for this meant that at last he would be alone in the mountains with Wallaby.

  He called Panayotis aside, cutting off Wallaby’s sputtered protests over the guide’s desertion, and spoke swiftly in colloquial Greek, striving to impart an earnest ring to his words.

  “My dear Panayotis, I wish you would accompany us all the way up the mountain. My friend does not like to admit that he is no longer a young or agile man, and a climb like this could prove too much for him. With the two of us along the chances of any ill befalling him lessen appreciably.”

  He watched the Greek’s face with wry amusement as servile respect for Wallaby struggled with superstitious awe of his cherished holy man in the cave. As Deverish had known, the latter conquered. “It is impossible, Kyrios,” he muttered miserably, looking down at his feet. “I do not know why you have come here, but I cannot accompany you beyond the foot of the mountain.” He looked up anxiously. “Perhaps you can convince milord to call off this trip, since you feel he is not strong enough for it.” His eyes brightened. “You come back to the tavern and I will prepare a fine meal, with much wine and brandy. He forget about the mountain then, no?”

  Deverish spoke with quiet sincerity. “No, Panayotis, I am afraid he will not forget. We must go on. I only pray he will not injure himself again, as he has in the past on mere piddling slopes. But you have done your best, and I am grateful for your presence on the initial stage of our journey.”

  As Panayotis dejectedly led the mules from the hermit’s glen, Deverish reflected with fierce elation that it would come as no surprise to the old innkeeper when he returned alone.

  The journey took the better part of the day, and when they finally reached the foot of Thanatakis mountain, Deverish was soaking with sweat. Wallaby’s scarecrow mule had miraculously accommodated its rider’s bulk, although the beast’s belly sagged and nearly scraped the ground as they proceeded up the lowland slopes, luxuriantly carpeted with wildflowers, and reached the more rugged terrain leading to the Kanakatos mountain range. Unable to adjust comfortably to the jarring gait of his beast, Deverish had walked most of the way, and by the time they approached the mountain his feet were numb and his legs moved with the jerky, automaton stride of a mechanical toy. The cool, pine-scented air was honied with bee song, and the countryside was a study in brilliant color, its blues and greens scraped fresh from a painter’s palette, but Deverish stumbled on obliviously, anxious only to reach their destination and to be alone at last with Wallaby. The climb had been uphill all the way, but never steeply, and it was difficult for Deverish to imagine they were really in the mountains unless he assayed a glance down into the valley and saw the cluster of rude cottages in Panayotis’ village, as if through the wrong end of a telescope, the inn itself a dollhouse study in miniature. Then Panayotis finally halted the party before a small gorge slashed into the barren face of the hillside. The sky was paling to rose and a breeze tinged with evening coolness lightly stirred the pines. The old Greek, anxious to depart, doffed his hat obsequiously to Wallaby.

  “Whatever you search for, milord, I hope you find. I return now to the village to keep your rooms in readiness for your return.” He glanced anxiously at Wallaby, who in fact had weathered the journey far better than Deverish and was now breathing in the cool air with greedy gulps, and added in humble benediction: “May God be with you both.”

  “Well, Deverish,” Wallaby bellowed as the Greek departed, slapping his hands together in eager anticipation, “you’re the unicorn expert. What now? Is he a nocturnal beastie, or shall we make camp and wait for morning?”

  Deverish looked around him, at the empty gray crags thrusting desolate fingers into the darkening sky, and then let his eyes travel down past the rocky hillside, bare save for a few sparse pines, and on to the thickly forested valley below. Once Panayotis was well on his way there would be no other human being within miles of them, but this business was still best done at night.

  “It’s best we fortify ourselves with a light meal and proceed forthwith,” Deverish told him. “I fear my expertise is less than you imagine, but once in the beast’s territory I advise we strike quickly, lest he become alarmed by our presence.”

  “Good, good,” Wallaby cried, “the sooner the better! This shall be a splendid hunt, my dear Deverish, a positively splendid hunt.” His eagerness dissolved abruptly, the beetling eyebrows knitted, and he scowled.

  “If, of course, that holy man of Panayotis’ isn’t just a lunatic amusing himself by inventing tales to send us traipsing down the garden path.”

  “My dear Marius,” Deverish swiftly appeased him, “I can assure you the old priest knows this countryside as no one else, and claims with certitude to have seen such a beast. Wrong he may conceivably be, but of his sincerity there can be no doubt.”

  And thank God, Deverish added fervently to himself, that this tiresome child’s charade shall soon be done for good and all.

  His words served to rekindle Wallaby’s enthusiasm, and they both wolfed a quick meal of goat’s cheese and dates. Deverish’s appetite had returned; the doubts and fears that inexplicably assailed him in the presence of the old hermit had dissolved like mountain mist the moment Panayotis departed, and he was now exultant in anticipation of his final triumph.

  As the sun passed below the pines and darkness settled gently over the peaks, Wallaby and Deverish tethered the mules, left behind the better part of their supplies, and proceeded through the gorge and up a hilly slope surmounted by a small clearing sentried by a solid ring of stunted spruce trees. The carpet of grass in the glade had been beaten flat, obviously by the feet of living creatures, and was curiously free of wildflowers and weeds, as if cleared by the pruning hand of man. Deverish looked about uneasily for a moment, but nothing moved in the foliage, and the light of the full moon illuminated the hillside in photographic clarity.

  Wallaby walked ahead gingerly, for all his bulk still nimble on his toes, clutching his Mauser .465 in both hands, while Deverish’s own rifle remained slung negligently over one shoulder.

  “Go softly now,” Wallaby murmured, his eyes bright. “This is our quarry’s terrain and one careless move may warn him off for good.”

  As they passed through the glade, a faint murmuring broke the preternatural stillness, which Wallaby swiftly traced to a small stream meandering along the rocky hillside.

  “You said the priest spoke of a waterfall,” Wallaby whispere
d, and Deverish nodded contemptuously. It would be over soon now, but to savor fully his victory he must play the game out a bit longer.

  They followed the stream for a few hundred more yards, as the whisper of running water rapidly swelled to a muted thunder. Deverish heard Wallaby’s grunt of excitement ahead as they passed through a small grove of spruce trees and found themselves in another clearing facing on a steep ravine, where the stream ended in a foaming miniature white waterfall churning gently over a brief expanse of rocky hillside to form a tiny pool of clear crystal water.

  Wallaby held Deverish back and scrutinized the area closely before scrabbling down the cliff side.

  “Look!” he exclaimed, pointing at some imprints in the moist earth by the edge of the pool. “Hoofprints!” Wallaby bent down to look closer, and his voice sang with excitement.

  “Cloven hoofs! And no deer this far up! We’ve found him!”

  Deverish held the rock he’d picked up as they passed through the gorge lovingly in his right hand, its roughly pitted surface sensuously caressing his palm.