Ooooh, what test, Ms. Wynne?
You didn't say there was going to be a test.
The park was a place of green glades. It had trees shaped like popsicles with the chocolate running down the sides. It had trees like umbrellas that moved mysteriously in the wind. There were hidden ponds and secret streams and moist pathways between, lined with rings of white toadstools and trillium the color of blood. Cooing pigeons walked boldly on the pavement. But in the quiet underbrush hopped little brown birds with white throats. Silent throats.
From far away came a strange, magical song. It sounded like a melody mixed with a gargle, a tune touched by a laugh. It creaked, it hesitated, then it sang again. He had never heard anything like it before.
I hear it, Ms Wynne. I hear the merry-go-round.
And what does it sound like, children?
It sounds lumpy.
Don't be dumb. It sounds upsy-downsy.
It sounds happy and sad.
Joseph, what do you think it sounds like?
Like another country. Like "The Twilight Zone."
Very good, Joseph. And see, Philly is agreeing with you. And strangely, Joseph, you are right. Merry-go-rounds or carousels are from another country, another world. The first ones were built in France in the late 1700s. The best hand-carved animals still are made in Europe. What kind of animals do you think you'll see on this merry-go-round?
Horses.
Lions.
Tigers.
Camels.
Don't be dumb—camels.
There are too! I been here before. And elephants.
He saw unicorns, galloping around and around, a whole herd of them. And now he saw his mistake. They were not like horses or goats or deer or lambs or bulls. They were like—themselves. And with the sun slanting on them from beyond the trees, they were like rainbows, all colors and no colors at all.
Their mouths were open and they were calling. That was the magical song he had heard before. A strange, shimmery kind of cry, not like horses or goats or deer or lambs or bulls; more musical, with a strange rise and fall to each phrase.
He tried to count them as they ran past. Seven, fifteen, twenty-one . . . he couldn't contain them all. Sometimes they doubled back and he was forced to count them again. And again. He settled for the fact that it was a herd of unicorns. No. Herd was too ordinary a word for what they were. Horses came in herds. And cows. But unicorns—there had to be a special word for them all together. Suddenly he knew what it was, as if they had told him so in their wavery song. He was watching a surprise of unicorns.
Look at old weird Philly. He's just staring at the merry-go-round. Come on, Mr. Philadelphia Chicago New York L.A. Carew. Go on up and ride. They won't bite.
Joseph, keep your mouth shut and you might be able to hear something.
What, Ms. Wynne?
You might hear the heart's music, Joseph. That's a lot more interesting than the flapping of one's own mouth.
What does that mean, Ms. Wynne?
It means shut up, Joseph.
Ooooh, she got you, Joey.
It means shuts up, Denise, too, I bet.
All of you, mouths shut, ears open. We're going for a ride.
We don't have any money, Ms. Wynne.
That's all taken care of. Everyone pick out a horse or a whatever. Mr. Frangipanni, the owner of this carousel, can't wait all day.
Dibs on the red horse.
I got the gray elephant.
Mine's the white horse.
No, Joseph, can't you see Philly has already chosen that one.
But heroes always ride the white horse. And he isn't any kind of hero.
Choose another one, Joseph.
Aaaah, Ms. Wynne, that's not fair.
Why not take the white elephant, Joseph. Hannibal, a great hero of history, marched across the high Alps on elephants to capture Rome.
Wow—did he really?
Really, Joseph.
Okay. Where's Rome?
Who knows where Rome is? I bet Mr. Frangipanni does.
Then ask Mr. Frangipanni!
Italy, Ms. Wynne.
Italy is right. Time to mount up. That's it. We're all ready, Mr. Frangipanni.
The white flank scarcely trembled, but he saw it. " 'Do not be afraid," he thought. "I couldn't ever hurt you." He placed his hand gently on the tremor and it stopped.
Moving up along the length of the velvety beast, he saw the arched neck ahead of him, its blue veins like tiny rivers branching under the angel-hair mane.
One swift leap and he was on its back. The unicorn turned its head to stare at him with its amber eyes. The horn almost touched his knee. He flinched, pulling his knee up close to his chest. The unicorn turned its head back and looked into the distance.
He could feel it move beneath him, the muscles bunching and flattening as it walked. Then with that strange wild cry, the unicorn leaped forward and began to gallop around and around the glade.
He could sense others near him, catching movement out of the corners of his eyes. Leaning down, he clung to the unicorn's mane. They ran through day and into the middle of night till the stars fell like snow behind them. He heard a great singing in his head and heart and he suddenly felt as if the strength of old kings were running in his blood. He threw his head back and laughed aloud.
Boy, am I dizzy.
My elephant was the best.
I had a red pony. Wow, did we fly!
Everyone dismounted? Now, tell me how you felt.
He slid off the silken side, feeling the solid earth beneath his feet. There was a buzz of voices around him, but he ignored them all. Instead, he turned back to the unicorn and walked toward its head. Standing still, he reached up and brought its horn down until the point rested on his chest. The golden whorls were hard and cold beneath his fingers. And if his fingers seemed to tremble ever so slightly, it was no more than how the unicorn's flesh had shuddered once under the fragile shield of its skin.
He stared into the unicorn's eyes, eyes of antique gold so old, he wondered if they had first looked on the garden where the original thrush had sung the first notes from a hand-painted bush.
Taking his right hand off the horn, he sketched a unicorn in the air between them.
As if that were all the permission it needed, the unicorn nodded its head. The horn ripped his light shirt, right over the heart. He put his left palm over the rip. The right he held out to the unicorn. It nuzzled his hand and its breath was moist and warm.
Look, look at Philly's shirt.
Ooooh, there's blood.
Let me through, children. Thank you, Joseph, for helping him get down. Are you hurt, Philly? Now don't be afraid. Let me see. I could never hurt you. Why, I think there's a cut there. Mr. Frangipanni, come quick. Have you any bandages? The boy is hurt. It's a tiny wound but there's lots of blood so it may be very deep. Does it hurt, dear?
No.
Brave boy. Now be still till Mr. Frangipanni comes. He spoke, Ms. Wynne. Philly spoke.
Joseph, do be still, I have enough trouble without you . . .
But he spoke, Ms. Wynne. He said "no."
Don't be silly, Joseph.
But he did. He spoke. Didn't you, Philly?
Yes.
Yes.
He turned and looked.
The unicorn nodded its head once and spoke in that high, wavering magical voice. "THE HORN HEALS." He repeated it.
Yes. The horn heals. He spoke! He spoke!
I'll just clean this wound, Philly, don't move. Why—that's strange. There's some blood, but only an old scar. Are you sure you're all right, dear?
Yes.
Yes.
As he watched, the unicorn dipped its horn to him once, then whirled away, disappearing into the dappled light of the trees. He wondered if he would ever capture it right on paper. It was nothing like the sketches he had drawn before. Nothing. But he would try.
Yes, Ms. Wynne, an old scar healed. I'm sure.
Ghost To
wn
by
Jack C. Haldeman II
Here's a compelling story about a man who is forced to make some very hard choices—choices that will shape the rest of his life. . . .
Jack C. Haldeman II has worked as a research scientist in parasitology and veterinary medicine, spent three years as part of a research team investigating the greenhouse effect for the United States Department of Agriculture, and conducted field studies of whales in the Canadian Arctic. Sometime in the 1970s, he threw all these careers over and became a full-time writer, since when he has written ten novels and over 100 short stories. His short work has appeared in Omni, Analog, Amazing, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine, and in many anthologies. His novels include Vector Analysis, There Is No Darkness (written in collaboration with his brother, Joe Haldeman), and Bill the Galactic Hero on the Planet of Zombie Vampires (written in collaboration with Harry Harrison). Coming up is a novel written in collaboration with Jack Dann, High Steel.
Haldeman lives with his family in Gainesville, Florida.
The clapped-out pickup almost made it to the gas station. I had to get out and push it the last fifty yards. It had been making suspiciously fatal sounds for the last couple of days, and the trail of oil it was leaving in the dusty road was not reassuring.
That I was broke and hadn't pulled a con in almost a week didn't improve my frame of mind as I huffed and sweated the piece of junk off the road and onto the hard-packed dirt of the gas station lot. A man sitting in a rocker on the station's porch watched me without moving to help. He was wearing faded jeans and a beat-up straw hat. His eyes showed no interest in me one way or another.
I leaned against the hood, catching my breath. What a dismal place to break down, stuck in the wilds of Arizona or maybe New Mexico. I wasn't sure exactly where I was. It all looked the same to me: hot, dusty, and not a civilized thing in sight.
The town didn't even rate a stop light. It was just a crossroads in the middle of a desert nowhere; one gas station with a whole lot of junked cars out back, a feed store, a place that looked like it was a combination grocery, restaurant, and bar. There were a few other buildings, but they were mostly boarded up and abandoned. The empty buildings didn't look much better than the occupied ones. Everything in sight was tilted one way or another, with sagging roofs and collapsing porches.
A faint breeze lifted a loose corner on the tin roof of the gas station. It slapped sharply again and again, echoing out over the desert quiet, but the man on the porch didn't seem to notice or care.
I walked over and climbed the warped wooden steps. There was a waist-high metal drink cooler at one end of the porch. I opened it, and the water was dark and cold, with large chunks of ice floating in it along with cans of soft drinks. I pulled out my handkerchief, soaked it in the ice-cold water, and wiped my face. Then I grabbed a can of Dr. Pepper and cracked the top.
"Fifty cents," said the man.
I turned to him, and he still wasn't looking at me, just staring down the road that ran dusty and straight from here to forever without a turn. He might have been thirty, he might have been sixty. His face was as dry and parched as the land I'd been sputtering through for the last few days.
"In the can," he said.
Next to the cooler, an old coffee can had been nailed to the wall. There were maybe ten quarters in the bottom. I added two more, leaving me roughly six dollars to my name, and went over, leaned against the porch railing directly in front of the man, and took two long pulls on the soda.
He had to look up at me, and he did. His eyes were deep blue, and he had the look of a man who shaved with a cheap razor. He didn't say anything, just looked. I finished my drink. He still hadn't said anything.
"Busted down," I said. He didn't reply.
"Quit on me," I added.
He nodded, but otherwise didn't move.
"Think you could take a look?" I asked.
"I suppose," he said. When he got up, I wasn't sure if it was him or the chair creaking. He walked slowly to the truck and popped the hood.
"This here is a dead truck," he said. "Thrown a rod through the engine block you did. Look right down here."
I looked, but I couldn't tell anything. It was just engine pieces and oil. All I know about cars is how to scam people out of the titles, which key to put in the dash, and where the gas goes.
"Can you fix it?" I asked.
He snorted and shook his head. "Said it was dead, I did, and I mean what I say."
Things looked bad, but the truck was no great loss. I'd only had it a couple of months. Conned it off a widow-woman someplace in West Texas. Got her name out of the local paper, and all it took was a fake smile and the old Bible switch. I kicked the tires.
"Let you have it for two thousand," I said. "Don't feel like messing with it anymore. I'm a busy man, and ain't got time for automotive problems."
"Not interested," he said, slamming the hood.
"Fifteen hundred," I said. "You could part it out for that, easy."
He looked in the driver's window. "Cheap AM radio," he said. "No FM, no tape, no a/c. Give you ten dollars."
"An even thousand," I said. "Look at the tires."
Twenty minutes later, as I pulled my duffel bag out of the back, he had the title to the truck, and I had fifty dollars.
"You look like a man of taste," I lied. "A man like you ought to have a good watch. I've got my father's Rolex in my bag. Give you a good price on it."
He just snorted and went back to his chair on the porch. I crossed the street in search of a cold beer.
It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the dark bar, which was simply two large rooms, one a restaurant and the other a lounge of sorts, attached to the general store. I use the word lounge loosely, as it was mostly a collection of odd clutter, a few booths, two overstuffed sofas, a beat-up bar with mismatched stools along one end, and a distinct lack of illumination. Well, I'd been in a lot worse. I dropped my bag on the floor by the bar and took one of the stools.
A young man was playing rotation pool by himself, and two men and a woman were sitting in a booth, nursing glasses of draft beer. The shelves behind the bar were littered with junk. Odd rusted farming tools sat next to katchina dolls and masks covered with feathers. A polar bear carved out of ivory sat between a ceramic Buddha and what appeared to be an African tribal mask. Not exactly the kind of junk I'd expected in a nowhere place like this.
The barmaid came out of the kitchen in back, wiping her hands on a towel. She was tall and slender, with blue eyes, and dark hair that seemed to be going in a thousand directions all at once. A few braided strands fell to each side of her face, tightly encased within beads of stone and silver.
"Hi," she said, with a friendly smile. "What can I get you?"
"Draft beer," I said. "It's dry out there."
"Oh, you get used to it," she said as she pulled the tap. "It's not so bad. You just passing through?''
"Guess so," I said. She was wearing a sleeveless tank top and a necklace with about a thousand little things hanging from it. Amid the general clutter, I could see a turquoise bear, an arrowhead, and a small silver unicorn. She drew the beer the way I like it, without much head, and as I set a five-dollar bill on the counter and took that first cold sip, she drew up a stool on the other side of the bar and sat down.
"Not much here to hold a person," I said. "All I've seen for the last three or four days is dust, cactus, and mountains that seem to hang on the horizon and never get any nearer."
"Oh, it's beautiful country," she said, fingering a small crystal of quartz that hung from her necklace. "And those mountains are sacred, you know; at least to some people."
"Couldn't prove it by me," I said. "They just look like something that's between me and where I want to be."
"And what place would that be?" she asked, with a smile. "Where would a man like you be headed?"
"Someplace else," I said, taking another hit of beer. "W
here the action is."
"There's action here," she said. "Though probably not what you're looking for."
"I don't know what I'm looking for," I said honestly, finishing my beer and waiting while she drew another. "But I'm pretty sure it's not here." Her bracelets flashed as she pulled the beer. She wore several. Some were silver and turquoise, one was a simple copper band, others were strings of beadwork.
She set my beer down and locked her blue eyes with mine. "My name's Joline," she said. "Most people call me Jo. What's yours?"
"Mark Rogers," I said automatically, for some reason giving her my real name, something I never do with passing strangers. Dumb move.
I was rattled by the slip, and looked away. A good con man doesn't leave tracks like that.
"You seem to be a woman who appreciates fine jewelry, Jo," I said. "I've got a nice Rolex watch that used to belong to my dad. He left it for me in his will, but I've got no use for something so fancy. I could give you a good price on it."
I pulled one of the cheap imitations out of my duffel and set it between us. She gave me a hard look.
"It'd make a fine present for that special man in your life," I said, giving her my best fake smile.
She picked the five-dollar bill up off the counter and made change for the two beers, pushing it toward me and leaning back.
"No special man," she said, still looking hard. Then she cracked the slightest of smiles. "So, where'd you really get that watch, Mark?"
"Mexico," I said. "Bought twenty of them off a man in Tijuana. He wanted fifteen bucks apiece. We haggled. I was going to go five, but we settled on five-fifty. He said the extra fifty cents was for his kids."
"Did you believe him?" she asked. "About the kids?"
"Yes," I said, blushing. For a man who's pulled so many scams, you'd think I wouldn't have been pulled in by such an obvious ploy. But there'd been something about him; I don't know, but I did believe him. What a sucker!
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