The unicorn grew resentful.
It was drinking on a river bank, putting up its head every once in a while just to admire the way the sunlight shone on the spirals of its horn when a bright red little bird alit on the bank beside it.
The unicorn thought it was just any bird, but in truth the bird was the Trickster in disguise. He was a little envious of Gaia’s fine unicorn and thought he’d just see what he might do to make it a little less shiny.
He started with praise. He told the unicorn how silky smooth and white its mane was, how wise and deep its eyes appeared, how straight and lovely its horn.
The unicorn lapped all this up. It was rare to find someone of such refined taste, it thought. Rare to find someone capable of true appreciation. Just in case the bird didn’t know, the unicorn said, “And it can cure things, that horn.”
The Trickster appeared astonished. “Wonderful! Fabulous! Astonishing!” he gushed, seeing the unicorn’s chest swell just a touch with each word. And then he paused before introducing a needle of a question. “And how does it work?”
“Work?” the unicorn said.
“How does it do what it does?”
“Oh,” said the unicorn. “I never thought about that.” And the unicorn hadn’t. It had always just been that way.
“Oh,” said the Trickster. “You never thought about that.” And something in its voice told the unicorn that the bird did not find this quite as admirable as the unicorn’s other qualities.
With a flick of its red wings, the bird flew away, leaving the unicorn on the river’s bank, deep in thought.
How did its horn cure people? The unicorn wasn’t sure. And not knowing made it feel dissatisfied and as though it really couldn’t take much credit for the marvellous cures the horn performed, any more than it could claim it was responsible for the colour of the sunset reflected on its horn or the fact that it had four legs instead of five.
The next day when asked to cure a girl’s broken arm, the unicorn paid more attention. It felt a rush of warmth in its chest, rising upward, flowing through the horn and into the girl as her face, once tight with pain, relaxed and smiled her thanks.
Watching from an unseen corner, the Trickster smiled too.
Each time the unicorn cured someone that day, it was the same. The unicorn had no control over that warmth, that flow of energy. It wasn’t doing the healing, the horn was.
Every time someone praised or thanked the unicorn, it felt uncomfortable. It grew ashamed of its horn, stopped feeling as though the horn were part of its own body. It thought of the horn as you would a sack or bag that you couldn’t put down, couldn’t ever let go.
And every time it thought these things, the horn flickered and dimmed just a bit and the Trickster paused to gloat. Would Gaia still love her creature so much, he thought, when it was
no longer useful?
The unicorn began to hide from people. Each time someone found it and was healed, the unicorn didn’t notice that it took longer, that sometimes they were only partially healed, and that the warmth in its heart was growing colder every day.
If it had kept hiding, it might have never noticed. But one day, it heard cries of sorrow. Following them, it found a woman outside a village. Barely able to see the unicorn through her tears, she waved it back.
“There is plague in this village, and it is full of the sick and dying!” she warned it, then collapsed herself, racked with fever.
When the unicorn walked through the village, it could heal no one. The powers of its horn had faded from disuse and doubt, and it could no longer perform the miracles it once had.
It went back to the woods and wept.
So did Gaia, who had thought that the unicorn would cure the plague she had loosed, as she watched the toll it took, sweeping from village to village, extinguishing lights, and making the Dark Ages darker yet.
But she still loved her unicorn, though it no longer loved itself.
Perhaps the Trickster was sorry, and perhaps he was not. And perhaps he will never tell anyone which, not even if he should find the unicorn in the last dark forest where it wanders, still wondering how it did that healing, and if it will ever be able to do it again.
Dark Destiny, Bright Lady
by Dave Wolverton
The sorcerer Merlin crept down the winding dirt road in the pre-dawn, the bastard Arthur at his side, both of them stepping as lightly as fawns. He did not know why he had come, only that his inner demon told him to. Merlin gripped the smooth handle of his oak walking staff and let it fall only softly, tap, tap, tap, in the mud. The woods were in half-light. The rising sun was thin, colder and more distant it seemed than in elder days, and Merlin hoped that the cold and darkness might cloak them.
There were robbers on this road, highwaymen who’d cut a man’s throat just to take his skin and wear it as a hide. It was a dangerous road on the best of days.
Merlin only hoped that the cold and dark would protect them. No one would expect travellers so early. Even the birds still slept. The woods were dark and brooding, as if it were the dead of winter.
The end of an age is upon us, Merlin thought. Yet he wondered where such a thought had come from. It was the voice of his inner demon that spoke, and often he had to ponder deeply in order to understand what it meant.
To the right, something stirred. It might have only been a dry maple leaf falling, the last of winter. Or it might have been the scuff of a boot.
Merlin halted, heart pounding. His ears were painfully acute – an inheritance from his father, no doubt, the incubus whose powers still coursed through his blood. The inheritance included the second sight, the ability to peer into the future. Yet he still could not see through these damned shadows.
Young Arthur, only twelve, cleared his throat.
“Silence!” Merlin breathed. He consulted his inner demon. Yes, danger lurks here, it whispered.
He turned toward the sound. At his side, Arthur gripped the hilt of his sword. Good lad.
He’s more a son than any child I might have had, Merlin thought. Without Merlin’s help, the boy would never have been born. But Merlin had seen the propitious stars, had known that a great king could come. So he’d aided the vile Uther Pendragon, turned him into a false Duke Gorloin, so that Pendragon could mount the Duke’s wife with all of the courtesy of bull on heifer. It had been an evil thing to do, but the demon had required it. The world needed Arthur.
Good Arthur, just Arthur. His mother had filled his head with Christian nonsense – tales of a god who sacrificed himself for mankind. But Merlin knew the truth. Dark powers stirred in the world, stirred even this morning in these very woods, powers that would scare the pee out of any Christian god.
“It’s nothing,” Arthur whispered – as the attack came.
Brush crashed. “Hold! Hold!” a man roared. He bounded down through the trees, off the hillside. Two other men shinnied up from the other side of the road, wading through ferns. Their faces were painted dark blue with woad, and they wore wolf skins.
The biggest of them was a giant, and he roared as he leapt in front of them, slashing with an enormous axe.
Young Arthur threw himself before the man, as if to protect Merlin, and his sword rang from its scabbard. Arthur was not large. He raised his short sword to block. The haft was good
Roman steel. Yet as the axe fell, Arthur’s blade snapped under the weight.
Still, the blow turned. The axe came ringing down, glanced from Arthur’s coat, drove him to his knees.
The other two rushed Merlin, daggers drawn.
Merlin spat a curse: “Vobis serpentes!” Snakes you shall be! He flung his hands out, and wind shot from his fingers. It slapped each of the men, an icy gust in the face, and their hair blew backward. They staggered toward him, as if fighting a horrific gale, and their eyes widened in terror. Too late they tried to retreat.
The spell was upon them. The wind died, and the three men halted. Their eyes lost focus, and all three dropped
to their stomachs, putting their arms to their sides. For a moment they groaned and wriggled, like men pretending to be serpents. Then their bones began to crack, and their limbs shrivelled. They writhed in the mud, and their skin turned the colour of horse dung as scales formed.
Within seconds all three were men no more.
It was easy, transmuting one creature into another. Merlin had turned Arthur into an owl once, let him gracefully glide through the woods. The boy had been a hart and a wolf too.
Now Arthur stared down at the snakes with pity as he climbed to his feet. “Poor creatures,” he said, lamenting their fate. “What shall we do with them?”
Merlin consulted his inner demon. An enemy sent them, it whispered. You dare not turn them back....
“Do with them?” Merlin asked. “Why, they’re snakes!” He slammed his staff down upon their leader, crushing its back. Guts issued from it, and the beast wrapped its tail around its head.
“No!” Arthur’s face paled with horror. “We can’t treat them so!” The idea of hurting another sickened him.
Merlin shook his head. How could a boy like that ever hope to survive in such a harsh world?
The snakes hissed and sought to escape, but Merlin dispatched them quickly enough. Young Arthur, with his big heart, turned away in shock.
“Don’t pout,” Merlin said. “They were going to kill you without pity. They don’t deserve yours.”
“But... Mother says, ‘We should meet cruelty with kindness, grant a blessing for every blow.’”
Merlin explained patiently, “They would have given us a cruel death. I gave them a kind one.”
He shook his head at the boy’s stupidity. The stars had said that Arthur would grow to be a great king. Merlin worried anyway. The boy sometimes seemed so kind he was almost simple. He is not fit for this world, Merlin thought. I must toughen him up.
Arthur looked down at his broken sword, picked up the metal, put the blade into his scabbard. Good hard steel was more valuable than gold. “I shall need to have it mended,” the boy lamented.
“We’ll find you a new one,” Merlin said. The words were a revelation. Merlin hadn’t realized until that moment where they were going. His inner demon had only urged him to lead Arthur into the hills.
The sword, the demon whispered. Go to it!
Merlin took Arthur’s hand and raced up the road. It was there, just ahead, around a bend – a small pool that opened in the woods. Cattails grew on its banks, and water lilies blossomed in the shallows, ringing it like a crown of white and pink. The water was clear as glass, unruffled, except for where a trout rose to take a gnat.
Here, the demon whispered. It’s here.
Arthur stopped. The sun was cresting the horizon, sending golden beams like falling birch leaves to float upon the water, bathing the pool in light.
Suddenly something burst from the depths, like a dolphin, sending silver droplets flying in every direction.
But it was no dolphin that rose from the pool. It was a woman, a fey, with hair like spun emerald, and eyes darker brown than a doe’s.
Merlin knew her instantly, the great Mother goddess, the womb of the world. He knew her the way a bee knows how to find honey, or the way a young swan knows to head south in the winter. He knew her by instinct. His demon whispered, Bow to the Great Mother!
Merlin yearned for her.
She strode forward, treading lightly upon the water, as the Christian god was said to have done. Arthur gaped.
She wore a dress as deep green as the sea, of some material that glimmered like fish scales. Above that was a netlike shawl of spun gold.
She held a silver sword aloft, gleaming in the sunlight. Scrollwork etched into the blade showed strange symbols that held an aura of power. As she walked, she spoke in a voice as soft as the susurrus of the sea, as piercing as the cry of a gull, a voice that ached in the heart like a love song.
“Behold, two men born of deceit,” she whispered. “Both shall die with honour!”
Ah, what a gift, Merlin thought, to die with honour! For a man with his past, it was more than he’d ever dared dream.
“Though the Trickster gave you life,” the Mother said, “I claim you as my own. I bring you a sword whose reputation shall end all war. Behold, Excalibur!”
She hurled the sword and it spun end-over-end, as if to strike Merlin. But at the last instant, Arthur leapt and caught its hilt in his good right hand.
Merlin’s demon whispered in triumph: A new and kinder age is begun. Arthur was not made for your cruel world, but for a better one. Behold, a king as soft as a maiden’s bosom. Great shall be his name, for he shall whisper peace to the nations, and men shall kneel in obedience. He shall beg for compassion, and by his words alone, wars will be won!
The Alchemist
by Patrick Perkins
Feng Xi took a tentative sip from the steaming cup of liquid and grimaced. If this brew brings immortality then I prefer death, he thought.
Raindrops thundered off the roof of his house and Xi looked around at his sparsely furnished home. He frowned – he had given up much in pursuit of the Elixir of Life, but he considered the risk acceptable. Emperor Yang would pay much to ensure his immortality. The alchemist sighed and pulled the foul-smelling pot from the fire. Perhaps my goat will enjoy the brew, he thought and opened his door.
“Hai!” Xi shouted, and jumped back from the opening. Standing just outside the doorway was a large, cloaked figure with a deep hood concealing its features. The figure’s arms reached up to pull the hood back. The man smiled and chuckled.
“My pardon, good chemist,” the man said with a deep voice. “I did not mean to startle you. The sky has a vengeance this night – would you have shelter for a drowning traveller?”
Xi stared at the man warily. The village had seen its share of thieves lately, and the alchemist had no desire to lose what little he owned. However, it was indeed a foul night and Xi made his decision.
“Welcome, friend,” the alchemist said, returning the man’s smile. “What little comfort I have is yours to share.”
The man bowed deeply in thanks, then entered the house. His heavy cloak was soaked through and water dripped onto the floor. Xi glanced at the man’s cloak and pointed towards a line of hooks above the hearth. The man bowed again, removed the cloak, and hung it from one of the hooks.
“I owe you a debt of gratitude, Feng Xi, and you shall not be disappointed,” the man said, standing close to the fire to warm his hands.
The alchemist frowned. “You have me at a disadvantage,” Xi said, filling a cup with hot tea. He offered the cup to his visitor. “And by what name are you known?”
The visitor bowed in thanks and accepted the tea. “I have been known by many names,” he replied, “But you may call me Wetiko – it is my first name and the name that I prefer.”
There was a moment of silence as the two men regarded each other. The alchemist poked at the fire to encourage the flames. “So, traveller Wetiko,” he said as the fire sparked, “Would it be good fortune that brought you to my home or would you have other business with me?”
Wetiko set his cup down on the scarred table, then reached into his shirt and pulled out a small piece of oiled parchment. He handed the paper to the alchemist.
Xi regarded the parchment; it was dripping wet, but the oiling had perfectly preserved the lettering. It was a short list of ingredients and quantities. The alchemist immediately recognized the items on the list, but the quantities were not familiar. Puzzled, he looked up from the paper.
“You seek the elixir of immortality,” said Wetiko, responding to the unasked question. “But I give you immortality of another kind. Have you these items?”
Xi nodded. What self respecting alchemist would not have saltpetre, sulphur and charcoal?
Wetiko smiled. “Perhaps a demonstration.” He glanced over at Xi’s work bench. “Use the list and mix a small amount of powder.” Wetiko reached down to the alchemist’s pile of firewood
and selected a small piece of kindling with a blunt end. “Press the larger end of this stick firmly into the mixture then hold it over the flame. You must be exact in your preparation,” he warned, passing the stick to Xi.
The alchemist carefully mixed the powder, pressed the stick firmly into the mixture, then extended the stick towards the fire. As soon as the flames touched the powder, it ignited with a bright flash of light and a noise like a gust of wind. The alchemist screamed and dropped the stick into the fire. The flash of light had been so bright that the alchemist saw spots wherever he looked.
Wetiko laughed and clapped his hands. “Perfect,” he exclaimed, his eyes gleaming. “You are a fine alchemist.”
Xi stared at the charred end of the stick. “Of what good is a powder that bursts into flames?”
“Ah,” Wetiko replied. “Perhaps another demonstration.” Wetiko picked up a pinch of the powder between his thumb and forefinger and casually tossed it into the flames. Immediately the flames grew together and formed a bright orange image of the Chinese army facing a horde of attacking Mongols.
From sacks tied to their waists, the soldiers filled small tubes with powder and tied them to the tips of arrows. Touching the arrows to flame caused the barrels to send out streams of bright light. The archers sent these flaming arrows into the Mongol ranks who fled in terror.
A new image appeared, showing soldiers standing beside large tubes made of cast iron. The soldiers used torches to light a wick extending from the back of the tube, causing the tubes to spray sharp pieces of metal deep into the ranks of the enemy.
The cannons faded away, replaced by an image of the victorious Chinese Army rejoicing on the field of battle. Archers reached into their pouches and produced small paper packages with long tails of twine. Tying the packages onto their longest arrows, the archers touched flame to the tails of the packages and shot the arrows high into the air. Above the battlefield, the packages burst into brilliant displays of light as the Chinese soldiers hoisted their weapons in celebration.
Gradually the images faded until they disappeared completely, leaving only flames.
The Book of the Emissaries: An Animism Short Fiction Anthology Page 11