Unicorns II

by Gardner Dozois

  Now, the Sun Dance chief was the keeper of this holy relic, and Paisley stood at its edge, unable to see it, knowing that she might cross it to inherit to . . . well, an apprenticeship that might one day confer upon her divine power.

  "Walk, darling," LannaSue Sky encouraged her. "Walk."

  Paisley took a step. Sky's flute continued its balky crooning, and the young woman heard the music in the same way that she felt the god sheet—as a spiritual warmth. In fact, although the pine floor was cold and the sheet itself frigid, as she navigated the musty smelling relic, Paisley noticed that the soles of her feet—step by careful step—seemed to absorb more and more warmth, more and more tingly energy, and it was tempting just to dash from one side of the linen to the other.

  "The woman in the Thirst House goes slow," Sky said. "She goes slow and watches what there is to watch."

  The flute resumed playing. Paisley overcame the urge to dash. Soon, she found herself observing again her own ghostly automaton in the Sun Dance corral of her mind.

  There before her self-projection's eyes, hanging from the holy cottonwood like Jesus on his Roman cross, was the skinny Anglo in the Coca-Cola shirt. He had been crucified on the center pole, his arms stretched out into unsupportive air and his feet nailed to the Tree of Life with splinters of antelope bone. The gaunt Anglo was saying something, mumbling aloud, but all that Paisley's dream self could make out was the end of his mumble—". . . forsaken me"—a phrase with the rising intonation of a question.

  Whereupon the Anglo faded from her dream self's sight, vanished into the white air of the imaginary Sun Dance lodge, to be replaced on the center pole by another totem altogether—the head not of a buffalo or of her own dead mother, but of a taxidermically prepared specimen of a mythological beast that Paisley knew as a unicorn but Whirling Goat and the Skys as a kar'tajan, as if they all had some ancient knowledge to which she was not yet privy and on which she might never gain a steady grip. All the other dancers rushed this totem. Leaping, then falling entranced, all had visions, while Paisley's dream self watched from her own Sun Dance path, buoyed by the activity but confused by it, too.

  Then she saw that the gaunt Anglo, clad now only in an Indian breechclout, stood beyond the Thirst House entrance. He looked at her peculiarly for a moment, then motioned her to forsake the lodge and follow him. Paisley could feel the soles of her feet—her real feet—growing warmer and warmer as she struggled to obey the mysterious Anglo's summons. It was pity that drew her, not quite conviction, and she knew that once she had seen what he required of her, she would return to the Thirst House to appraise herself of the contents of all her fellow dancers' visions.

  Suddenly, the pine floor was cold under her feet again.

  "You're across!" a woman's voice cried.

  Paisley hoped that LannaSue would remove her sunglasses, untie her blindfold, and give her a look at the god sheet, but Sky, she could tell, was gathering up the sheet, hurriedly folding it, and returning it to its hiding place in his study. Only when he had come back from this task did LannaSue turn on the lamp, remove the blindfold, and hug her. Both she and Sky were beaming at her—as if she had just climbed Mount Everest or swum the English Channel. Paisley blinked at them, more confused than ever, her mind a jumble of images—some distilled from dreams and some from all that had happened to her since coming to town.

  "I'm taking you as a Sun Dancer," Sky told her.

  LannaSue said, "And for training as the new Muache po'rat."

  Toying with one of his braids, Sky nodded.

  "But why?" Paisley asked them. "What did I do?"

  "You walked where the Walking Man walked," LannaSue said. "On the sheet where his footprints lie, you put your feet."

  Paisley looked at her mentor and her mentor's wife. She felt gratitude for their approval of her and what she had reputedly accomplished, but also skepticism. All she had for evidence that she had done anything very significant was that odd warmth—which still just perceptibly lingered—on the soles of her bare feet. And, of course, the Skys' word that she had walked exactly atop the Walking Man's or Jesus', footprints. It seemed simultaneously a remarkable achievement and a con.

  "Great responsibility comes with this honor," Sky said.

  Paisley knew. Already, the responsibility had begun to weigh on her. Taking part in the Sun Dance would keep her from leaving to find her father until July, and her apprenticeship as a shaman would require not only her early return but a long sojourn on the Navajo reservation in New Mexico so that a true Navajo shaman could adopt and train her. Life seemed even more complicated than it had after Mama D'lo's suicide.

  "It's wonderful," LannaSue said, chucking her under the chin as if she were a baby. "You'll bring us hope again—hope and pride and power."

  Paisley slumped to the sofa. She looked through the picture window. The inside of the fake tepee was pinkly agleam, dawnlight filtering through the hard plastic windows set high in its stucco cone. Was it possible that her dreams had led her to such a pass? Her private, impalpable dreams?

  LannaSue hunkered in front of her, gripping her knees with her vise-like hands. For a moment, she simply hunkered there—Paisley thought that squatting so must be hard for her, she was by no means a petite woman—but abruptly said, "Some folks think that dreams aren't real, darling. Some folks think they're nothing but nonsense."

  Sky grunted a derisive assent. The derision in it was for the people his wife was talking about, not for his wife. They were in harmony again. Paisley's walk had restored them to it.

  "But dreams are of God, and dreams cause real things to happen, and you, a dreamer, are greatly blessed, darling."

  "I—" Paisley began.

  "Greatly," LannaSue said. She struggled out of her squat and looked at her husband. "When it's time," she said authoritatively, "DeWayne will drive you to school."

  vii.

  After school, Paisley mooched a ride from Larry Cuthair on his motorcycle. They didn't go home immediately, though, because Larry wanted to buy some notebook paper in Ignacio.

  They rode into town together, Larry entered the drugstore, and Paisley sat at the curb on his bike waiting for him to come back. While she was waiting, she looked halfway down the block and caught sight of a man staggering out of the laundromat. It was Herbert Barnes, who'd probably spent most of the day in the washateria with a bottle of cheap booze. He careened along, as if about to fall from the sidewalk into the street. Paisley ran to him and grabbed him by the elbow.

  "Whirling Goat, are you okay?"

  He cocked a bloodshot eye at her. "Course I am," he croaked, patting the pocket of his coat. "Got me some spirits right here—some dandy Old Crow for a randy old Ute."

  "Chief Sky says I'm accepted for the Sun Dance," she said. "He and LannaSue believe I've been dream-called."

  "You're pretty?" he said doubtfully.

  "Thank you," Paisley said, equally doubtfully.

  "You're very pretty?"

  "I don't know."

  Barnes shifted his weight from one wobbly leg to the other. A look of obscene slyness came into the one eye that he was managing to keep open. "Your mama D'lo told me you oughta take me home with you," he said. "You know, to watch over you."

  "Yeah. In hand talk."

  "I . . . s-swuh-swear," Barnes half hissed, half coughed.

  Up the street, Larry shouted, "Paisley, come on!"

  Paisley slipped the five-dollar bill that LannaSue had forced on her that morning into the old fart's coat. He'd only spend it on drink, but there was no way she could reform him in the next ten minutes nor was she about to take him home with her. The money was guilt money, but it was also . . . well, a token of esteem for what he had once been. He believed that he had seen a kar'tajan, and he carried in his pocket a foil-wrapped lucky coin—a talisman, both absurd and poignant, of hope.

  "Paisley!" Larry Cuthair yelled again.

  She kissed the smelly old sot on the cheek and ran back up the sidewalk to climb aboard Larr
y's motorcycle.

  Unicornucopia

  by

  Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Lawrence Watt-Evans won a Hugo Award in 1988 for his popular story "Why I Left Harry's All-Night Hamburgers," a story from Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine that also won the IAsfm Reader's Award that year—in fact, Watt-Evans, a frequent contributor, has won the IAsfm Reader's Award on two other occasions, including a win for the year's Best Poem. He has also published widely in markets such as Amazing, Pulphouse, Aboriginal SF, and The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. His many books include the novels The Wizard and the War Machine, Denner's Wreck, The Cyborg and the Sorcerers, With a Single Spell, Shining Steel, and Nightside City, the anthology Newer York, and a collection of his short fiction, Crosstime Traffic. He lives in the Maryland suburbs of Washington, D.C., with his wife and two children.

  In the very funny story that follows, he shows us that sometimes you can have too much of a good thing. . . .

  The cycle had finally turned; I knew the Change had come at last, and magic was returning to the world.

  For a thousand years and more magic had been fading, withering, dying, but now the gates of Faerie were open once more, and magic was spilling out into mundane reality.

  This was the opportunity not merely of a lifetime, but of a dozen, a hundred lifetimes! The world had been so long without magic that the only wizards left were a few doddering old fools who had hung on past their time, a few crazies who had never realized that their spells didn't work, and a handful of scholars like myself.

  All that magic, and no one who knew how to use it!

  Oh, soon enough every fortune-teller and New Age loon in New York would catch on, would realize that real power could be had—but in the interim, I was free to shape the substance of reality to suit myself.

  It's fortunate for all of you that I'm basically a modest, well-meaning man.

  I could, I suppose, have had power over all of you. I could have summoned djinni, erected a palace of ivory and gold, enslaved whole nations, taken half of Hollywood as my harem . . . and, to be honest, I seriously considered it.

  Hey, who wouldn't?

  On the other hand, I could have ended war and hunger and want, I suppose. I thought about that, too.

  But it wouldn't last. I didn't want to change human nature—I was afraid I'd wind up the only true thinking person left on a planet of zombies, and I couldn't face that. And without changing human nature, how could I bring peace? Seriously, now, no idealistic propaganda—do you really think any peace would last out the day?

  Magic has limits.

  And if I had managed it, I wouldn't have been able to maintain it; as I said, in a few weeks, months at the most, wizards would be springing up on every side. I would have a head start, and I thought I could keep an edge, but I didn't think I was going to make it as World Ruler, either benevolent or otherwise.

  So I looked at other goals. I had a bit of a fling—I mentioned a harem, didn't I? And I did some traveling, and one thing and another.

  But then I decided it was time to settle down. I'd been playing with time a bit, so it was still early, no one else was really aware of the magic yet, though the hints were certainly there. I went back to the university, conjured myself a pleasant little estate on the edge of town, and sat down to think out just what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.

  I wanted to study, of course, and learn; I could do that, with or without magic, though the magic wouldn't hurt any.

  And I wanted a home and a family.

  I considered that carefully. A home I now had, and infinitely better than my old apartment it was. But a family?

  I mentioned the harem, didn't I?

  That was fun, but they really wouldn't do as a family. I wanted a companion, a woman I could share my life with—and I knew just the person.

  Helen Pettigrew.

  She and I were old friends, we'd dated a few times, but she had never taken me very seriously. A medievalist specializing in the arcane arts? An instructor without tenure? Why should she take me seriously?

  I'd hoped that something might develop between us, but it never really had.

  Now, though—now, things were different.

  It wasn't hard to make the date. It was surprisingly easy to convince her to come see my new house, too. I was hopeful.

  The expression on her face when she first stepped inside was absolutely priceless. She stared up at the chandelier, at the grand staircase, at the carpets and the statuary and all the rest of it, and her mouth hung open as if she were a kid watching her first fireworks.

  "Al," she exclaimed, "how can you possibly afford it?"

  I smiled. "Magic," I said.

  "No, seriously," she said. "This place must cost a fortune!"

  "I am serious," I said. "It's magic!"

  She closed her mouth to stare at me.

  "Really," I told her. "Come on to my workshop, and I'll show you."

  I took her hand—I don't know if I'd have been quite so bold a fortnight before, but a few days in a harem can wear down one's inhibitions. At any rate, I took her by the hand and almost dragged her back to my workroom, so eager was I to show her.

  "Al," she said, "I know you've always studied magic, and alchemy, and all that, but that doesn't . . . it isn't real, you know. . . ."

  "It wasn't," I said, "but it is now!"

  I flung open the door and stood aside, proudly displaying my wizard's chamber.

  "What a mess!" she said.

  I had forgotten that the place was in rather a state of disarray. "Come on," I said, leading her in.

  When we reached the center of the room, she pulled free, set her feet on the floor, folded her arms, and announced, "I'm in. Now, Al, what was it you wanted to show me?''

  "Magic," I said. I had been prepared for this; I took my wand from the workbench and made a few passes.

  I started simple, conjuring flowers, first from the air, and then growing from the floor. I summoned songbirds, made thunder and lightning, and all the while I was explaining my discovery, how I had found that magic was returning.

  She looked very dubious indeed.

  "It's not all tricks?" she asked, kicking at an iris.

  "No," I assured her, "it's real."

  "So just what all can you do?"

  "Anything," I said proudly, if a bit inaccurately, "anything at all. I conjured up this house and everything in it!"

  She cocked her head to one side and stared at me.

  I suppose, had I thought about it, I would have realized just how hard all this would be to accept. I had been studying magic for so long that I had forgotten how completely most people disbelieved in it.

  "Anything?" she said.

  I nodded.

  "You mean if I ask you to conjure something up out of thin air, you can do it? Anything I ask for?"

  "Anything," I agreed, "anything at all."

  "Even something that doesn't exist?"

  I nodded again, but I admit my smile wasn't quite so sincere as it had been a moment before.

  Magic has limits.

  "Even something that's never existed?" she demanded.

  "Probably," I said, choosing discretion. Magic does have limits.

  "When I was a little girl," she said, "I always wanted to see a unicorn. I used to collect them, in fact—stuffed ones, and statuettes, and pictures. If this is real magic, can you conjure up a real unicorn?"

  "Of course!" I said, relieved that she hadn't come up with something utterly bizarre. "What sort of a unicorn would you like?"

  "Just a unicorn. A real one, with its own magic—not just a horse with a horn."

  A real, magical unicorn—that was a trifle harder than I had thought at first, as I had never before conjured anything with its own personal magic. "There are several different versions of the unicorn myth," I said, stalling, while I tried to think of the best way to tackle the job.

  "All right, then," she said, "you said you could do anything
, right? So bring me one of each."

  I had put my foot in it, no doubt about it. "This may take awhile," I admitted.

  She smiled—or perhaps, though I hate to say it of the woman I intended to love, smirked. "Try," she said.

  So I tried.

  I had no idea how many variations of the myth might in fact exist, so I wasn't about to try conjuring each one separately. Instead, after consulting a grimoire or two, I fished out an old umbrella stand. . . .

  I should explain, perhaps, that I didn't actually furnish the entire house piece by piece; instead I worked from photographs, conjuring up duplicates of rooms that caught my fancy. Anything I didn't care for, once that was done, I threw into the workshop for use as raw material for future spells and transformations.

  One such item was a large and ugly wicker umbrella stand that had originally manifested itself in the Victorian conservatory at the back of the house.

  I took this unsightly object and placed it horizontally on my workbench, gathered up a few relics and potions, and cast the enchantment Helen had requested.

  Almost immediately, a whinny sounded from the umbrella stand, and the tip of a horn appeared, white and gleaming. A head appeared, then shoulders, forelegs, chest, and, a moment later, a unicorn stood on my workshop floor.

  Just how something that size had emerged from the umbrella stand was something of a mystery, as it was very nearly the size of a full-grown horse—but then, it was magic.

  Despite Helen's insistence that she wanted a real unicorn and would not be satisfied with a mere horned horse, this beast looked to me like just that—a rather small, unusually graceful white horse with a two-foot horn on its head.

  Or rather, on his head; I had been knocked to the floor by his arrival, and found myself with a view of the creature that left no question of his sex.