A Game of Horns: A Red Unicorn Anthology
Page 14
“Show me your world.”
“Touch my horn.”
Squirral touched its horn and fell into a vortex of images. A world of vast forests and impossibly green pastures festooned with moss and veils of rainbow blossoms, rolling hills and ice-cold waterfalls, tiny winged things darting in bursts of pixie dust, verdant fields and cultivated gardens, modest dwellings that seemed to grow from the land itself, filled with families that laughed instead of scowled. And this powerful beast was its protector.
With a gasp she was back. As the vision tore away, it left an ache so profound she could scarcely catch her breath.
For a long time, she thought. The unicorn waited.
A demon snarled, Stab it! Gut it! Cut off its horn! Its magic will heal you.
Ix-nay on the orn-hay! another demon said.
Another whined, Don’t tell her that! We’ll lose her!
We must be good to our hostess, or she will no longer believe us.
“I don’t believe you now,” Krystal whispered.
See what I mean? the demon said to its cohorts. We must win back her trust! Only the truth.
The other demons gnashed their teeth and chewed on silence.
So, the first demon said, if you kill this unicorn, grind its horn into powder, bake the powder into bread, and eat it, you will be free of us forever.
Squirral’s heart clenched. There must be another way.
It is the only way. The Queen’s elixirs will never be more than temporary.
Squirral gripped Glamsting with anguished indecision. The unicorn was right there, no way for it to escape a single quick thrust.
“Why are you telling us this?” she said.
No reply came.
The unicorn still waited patiently, and Krystal thought hard about where she wanted to go—somewhere no one would look for her, somewhere she wouldn’t have to worry about Karl.
O O O
This time, Squirral made a nest in the deepest, darkest corner of the Great Library of Alexandria, thinking that it would be days before anyone found her, but it only took about half an hour for a bespectacled caretaker to discover her, surrounded by books and the cracked shells of her provisions.
The caretaker had a pleasant enough demeanor at first, but quailed before Squirral’s ferocious refusal to “vacate the premises.”
Then the orcs had come again with their manacles and brought her to this towering fortress. With its warm bed and delicious food, it wasn’t so bad for an orc fortress.
They asked her name a hundred times, and after a hundred refusals, they started calling her “Jane Doe.” Squirral just snickered. She was no deer. No matter what they said, she wouldn’t tell them her name, because once she did, they would call Krystal’s mother and father.
Krystal spent three quiet days in a hospital in the city, where her only companions were nurses and orderlies and the soothing hiss of the vents. She enjoyed it more than anything in recent memory. The nurses were kind and gentle and wore such pretty pajamas. One of them even let her borrow a book she had just finished.
The book was named The Forbidden Embrace, and the cover showed a half-naked man and woman. There were a lot of words and strange phrases she could not understand, but she finished the book in an afternoon. When she put it down, her fingers were cramped, her eyes scratchy from having blinked precisely three times while reading it, and her entire body trembled with yearning and loneliness. The book lay against her chest and jumped with the beat of her heart, as if it were a trapdoor beneath which some ravenous creature struggled for freedom.
And then one day, her mother and father stood in the door of her room.
Krystal hid while Squirral defied them.
“How on earth did you get a hundred and fifty miles from home?” they asked. “Do you have any idea how much trouble this is?”
Squirral just smiled.
Later that day, the Queen appeared, offered a smile, and asked Krystal how she was doing.
Krystal said, “Fine.”
“How did they find me?” Squirral asked.
“They filed a writ of missing person. The hospital told the police about an unidentified woman camped out in a locked library. It took a few days, but someone put two and two together.”
“Four,” Krystal said.
“What?”
“Two and two is four,” Krystal said.
The doctor smiled. “Do you want to stay here, just for a little while, get some rest, until we can stabilize you? They can help you here, better than the hospital back home.”
The demons screamed, No!
Squirral nodded. Yes.
“Yes,” Krystal said.
O O O
“No,” Mother said.
“I’m afraid at this point you don’t have a say,” the doctor said. “Krystal has voluntarily committed herself. She is free to go when she wishes, but she has expressed to me her desire to stay. According to the law, you cannot remove her without her consent.”
Squirral cheered.
“Nonsense!” Mother said. “She is sick. She belongs at home, close to the bosom of Jesus.”
The doctor took a deep breath as if struggling to compose herself.
“You cannot keep her in a ward where there are men,” Mother said. “They might damage her fragile nature!”
“I’m inclined to think she is in more danger at home,” the doctor said.
Mother stiffened as if slapped, her cheeks reddening. “You’ll be hearing from our attorney.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
Mother and Father stormed out.
The doctor shook her head with a sigh, then smiled at Krystal. “You’re going to be fine.” She offered her hand, and Krystal took it, and it was warm and soft and kind. Then the doctor departed.
Krystal peeked through the window blinds, and even from this distance, several floors up, she could see her mother trembling with rage as she crossed the parking lot. Father ambled behind, arms swallowed by his pockets to hide his orc-claws.
O O O
“Your parents are petitioning the court for guardianship of you,” the doctor said. “Do you know what this means?”
“Aren’t they already my guardians?”
“Actually, no, since you’re no longer a minor.”
“Oh.”
“If the judge agrees, they’ll be able to make all decisions for you. You’ll be declared incompetent, stripped of your civil rights, and relegated to the status of a child for the rest of your life. Your wishes will no longer matter.”
Squirral jumped up. “No! She—I mean, I’m feeling better now!”
The doctor patted her hand and smiled. “I know. I can tell. There are programs—charities—that can help you get your own place when you choose to leave here. You don’t have to go home if you don’t want to. The medication seems to be working. The voices …”
“I haven’t heard them for a while.”
“That’s wonderful!” the doctor said. “Pretty soon, you can get out of here and start up on your own. Get your GED, meet someone special. You’re so pretty, Krystal, and kind. Once you learn how to manage your illness, with medication, therapy, and lifestyle choices, you can have a fabulous life. Doesn’t that sound good?”
Squirral’s heart melted. “It does.” She almost sobbed, but warriors didn’t cry.
O O O
Herds of crimson war-unicorns plastered the walls of her room, creatures of ferocious majesty and regal bearing.
Many of them had guardian protectors. Royal mastiffs, all.
At mealtimes and med checks, the nurses complemented her on her talent. She just smiled, tucked her tongue into the corner of her mouth, and kept drawing.
Occasionally a voice would whisper to her, as if from the bottom of a deep well. Gut it! Grind its horn for bread! You will never need the hospital again! You will never hear us again!
All she could do at those times was sit in the corner and wring her hands.
O O O
The doctor’s eyes were wet. “I’m so sorry, Krystal.”
The sadness on her face was so profound Krystal wanted to comfort her. “They won, didn’t they.”
“I did everything I could, but the judge …”
“It’s okay,” Krystal said. “I’m ready.” She sat up straighter on the floor and placed her colored pencils calmly on the paper.
The unicorn would come tonight.
“You’re so talented, you should be illustrating children’s books or drawing graphic novels or something.”
Krystal’s eyes wandered over the hand-drawn wallpaper. Could she aspire to such a thing?
No! the demons roared, with her parents’ voices.
“They’re coming to get you tonight,” the doctor said.
O O O
With frenzied abandon, Krystal scribbled, shaded, outlined. The harder she scribbled, the more she could hear distant galloping hoof beats, as if echoing under a verdant canopy, where life mattered and everything was part of something else, alive with verve and hunger for laughter and not locked away in a dusty attic where orcs lurked at the bottom of the stairs.
As the minutes ticked by, Squirral left Krystal drawing on the floor and paced the room.
Silhouettes appeared on the blinds. The door swung open and her parents held papers in hand, expectant, smug, self-righteous, flanked by orc guards.
Glamsting burst into Squirral’s hand. She raised it in a two-handed grip, teeth clenched.
The unicorn burst into the room in a shower of stardust and crimson mist, skidding to a halt between them. It snorted, brandishing its horn.
Her parents stood agape in the doorway.
“Do you still want to come away with me?” the unicorn said.
“Yes,” Squirral said.
“Forever?”
“Forever.”
“Are you willing to pay the cost?”
“What is the cost?”
The unicorn said, “Blood.”
I will pay it, Squirral said.
“I won’t!” Krystal said. “I’ll never see Karl again. I’ll never see my room again!”
Karl is dead! Squirral cried, snatching at Krystal’s hospital robe. And your room is a prison!
Kill it NOW! the demons raged. Be free!
No. Squirral faced the demons but kept her hold on Krystal’s robe. Never.
Krystal stammered, “I …”
Listen to me! Squirral said. I’m the only one in this room who loves you, all of you.
Krystal saw the truth. “Will Karl be there?”
I don’t know, perhaps, Squirral said. But we both know he is no longer here.
“Then okay.”
Together, they slung their leg over the unicorn’s back. The unicorn snorted and tossed its exquisite mane.
“Krystal!” Her mother’s voice shrilled to the precipice of a strangled shriek. “What are you doing?”
Glamsting was sharp. Squirral wouldn’t be taken alive by the orcs again. She twisted her fingers in the unicorn’s mane.
The unicorn reared, cleaving the air with its hooves, slicing the boundaries between worlds with its horn.
And then, they were gone.
About the Author
Freelance writer, novelist, award-winning screenwriter, editor, poker player, poet, biker, and roustabout, Travis Heermann is a graduate of the Odyssey Writing Workshop and the author of Death Wind, The Ronin Trilogy, The Wild Boys, and Rogues of the Black Fury, plus several short fiction pieces in anthologies and magazines and a metric ton of role-playing game material (both in print and online).
He enjoys cycling, martial arts, torturing young minds with otherworldly ideas, and zombies. He has three long-cherished dreams: a produced screenplay, a NYT bestseller, and a seat in the World Series of Poker.
The Setting Sun
Victoria D. Morris
Deep within the ancient trees,
where no one ventures but a breeze.
The branches dance to an age-old rhyme,
whispering words: once upon a time.
Inside the glen, beneath their shield,
a magic lives in an open field.
There all creatures of the wood,
are free to frolic under nature’s hood.
But in all of these, the protected host,
even there—there is a ghost.
For none still walk out with the sun;
the barrier fell, the only one.
She once paced freely through their gaze,
and in her wake, rose a crimson haze.
She held the balance of dark and light,
though never once did she choose to fight.
Her mighty heart held strong and true,
the world’s emotion, within her view.
She gave to each and every soul,
just what they’d need or what they’d hold.
She took it in, all that black and hate,
the emotional strife, the damaged fate.
She held it fast within her sight;
no creature’s hurt could give her fright.
But when the world turned darker still,
the human condition broke through her will.
She traveled long through every night.
Her walks grew slower; she gave less light.
But tarry on, she did her best.
She could not leave, not like the rest.
The creatures closest to that glen,
they watched her close—they remember when.
They sadly mention to this very day,
how once the unicorn was there to stay.
How she graced the wood with sentient peace,
but could ne’er find a path for her own release.
Then one twilight, lit in gorgeous hue,
she stumbled into their shocked review.
She fell on broken legs and cried;
the world’s growing rage had turned the tide.
She tried to stand, but her body could not.
Then beneath her frame, the ground grew hot.
The creatures there say a tear slid free.
Down her muzzle now came two—then three.
The last fell free—touched forest floor,
and there the magic opened a door.
She rose within a brightly lit wave.
The earth now holds no unicorn grave.
For when she died, beneath ancient wood,
the magic proved her heart so good.
Instead of death, she changed anew.
And we still see her, in all our view.
On special days, she’s with us still,
and those that believe can see her will.
Her brilliance flashes as the day is done.
She is the red in each setting sun.
Remember then, when the world goes dark,
that you—a believer—carry her spark.
Though you may be but one in a crowd,
every voice is special—every heart is loud.
Speak your truth, and live life well.
Defeat the dark, and ring light’s bell.
For on those days when hate hasn’t won;
the Red Unicorn dances in the setting sun.
About the Author
Victoria lives on the edge of a misty forest in the Pacific NorthWest with her husband and two daughters, a big white dog, and a bald eagle that likes to circle over her house when she brings in the groceries. A lifelong artist and not quite as long writer, Victoria is working on a six-book fantasy series, with a middle-grade trilogy on the side. She also draws portraits to relax. Find out more at:
www.VictoriaDMorris.com
The Whole of Me
Gregory D. Little
Mother and Father were fighting again.
Millie scarce went a day without waking up to the sound. Daylight brought respite from the nightmares, but her parents’ constant arguments, delivered in the strained hush of ropes pulled taut unto snapping, had become a form of waking
nightmares. At least the nightmares that existed only in her head were Righteous.
Today the argument sounded more like a set of rapids hissing through a narrow canyon than a creaking rope. Though they never raised their voices, even after ten years her parents failed to realize just how sharp their only child’s hearing was.
Too focused on your eyes to notice your ears. Millie’s eyes were what everyone focused on. Or, rather, refused to. As wide and pale as the glacier just visible at the horizon line from where their little house lay nestled, no one Millie had ever met could meet her gaze without flinching.
But all her senses were sharp, the better to judge Righteous sensations from unworthy ones. With her ears, she’d heard the whispers about her that flitted around the valley. Uncanny. Unnatural. Righteousness did not make for many friends.
Millie rose from the bed in her cozy room. White-walled and wood-trimmed, the room glowed as the morning sunlight streamed in between window slats, setting dust motes alight. Making the bed, washing up, and getting dressed afforded Millie plenty of time to listen to her parents.
“The war’s at our doorstep. The peddler told me the Southern Covenant’s front lines will be here in a week. They march as if none oppose them,” Mother said, her voice muted with strain. For a name spoken in these parts primarily as a synonym for “monsters,” talk of the Southern Covenant always blossomed as warmth in Millie’s breast.
Mother wanted to flee. Unworthy, but understandable.
“We’ve built too much here to just pull up stakes,” Father said. “This valley isn’t on the way anywhere.” His words curdled with desperation. Refusing to abandon their home? Righteous, but misguided.
It was an old argument. Only the details and the timetable changed. It awoke little feeling in Millie. She’d spent years watching other children throw tantrums or dance with joy, never understanding what she was seeing. Strong emotions had no claim on her. Yet another reason she was shunned.