F&SF BK UNICORNS VOL 2.indb

by Gordon Van Gelder

  Steiner sat back down at his table. He felt dazed. He brooded and stared out at the pastel-lit path leading to the Fontainebleau. Perhaps Mariana went home first to change.

  Then he saw her. He straightened up in his chair, and waved excitedly to the dark-haired woman approaching the pool area. She was walking quickly on high heels, as if late for an appointment. Steiner felt a warm rush of anticipation. He started to get up as she approached . . . and only then realized that she wasn’t Mariana. Up close, she didn’t look like Mariana at all. She looked quizzically at Steiner, who was half out of his chair.

  Steiner was mortified. He sat down reflexively. How could I have made such a mistake? he asked himself. He thought about going home, slinking away, crawling into his cool, uncomfortable bed, but he just couldn’t leave. Mariana had to show. He wouldn’t be stood up! Pain began to radiate once again throughout his arms and shoulders, then down into his chest.

  “Girl troubles?” asked the skinny woman sitting at the table beside Steiner. She had a thin, reedy voice.

  Steiner turned toward her. “I beg your pardon,” he said, annoyed.

  The woman tried to smile without revealing her teeth. “Your friend . . . she might just be late, that’s all,” she said nervously. But she was persistent. “Why don’t you have a drink with us? We’ll cheer you up, we’re good company . . . and here I am a third wheel. Help us out.”

  “Thank you kindly, but I don’t think so,” Steiner said. The skinny woman pouted, an exaggerated moue.

  “Oh, c’mon, buddy, I’ll buy you a drink,” the executive said as he self-consciously ran his hand through his short-cropped hair. But Steiner knew his type, all right. He had probably been a bully when he was a kid, and a ROTC lieutenant in the army, and now he’s some sort of zipperhead IBM-type manager who makes life hell for everyone under him. He was obviously looking for a way to cut the blonde away from her friend, and he was trying to use Steiner as a foil. “C’mon, what the hell,” the man said, flashing a boyish smile, and he jumped his chair toward Steiner and then pulled his table over until it was touching Steiner’s. The blonde woman laughed when the drinks spilled, and then she and her friend moved their chairs closer, too. Steiner was too embarrassed to do anything but accept the situation. He felt even more uncomfortable with the skinny woman pressing close to his elbow.

  The executive waved down the waitress, and Steiner ordered another drink, which he didn’t need . . . he was achy and dizzy as it was, and his right arm felt numb. “So, friend, where do you hail from?” the man asked Steiner as he massaged the blonde’s arm, purposely letting his fingers brush against her breast. The skinny woman leaned closer to Steiner, as if expecting him to answer in a whisper.

  “I’m from upstate New York,” Steiner said. “Binghamton.” He felt his skin crawl. The woman was too close to him. She smelled of cheap perfume, and she had chicken skin. God . . . he could imagine what she really smelled like.

  “Is that so,” the skinny woman said. “I’ve been through there. I used to live in Milford, Pennsylvania. Small world, isn’t it?”

  Steiner didn’t have anything to say to that; he just leaned away from her and nodded glumly.

  “I’m from Detroit,”the executive said. “I’m in systems management . . . mostly consultation work for engineering firms. What’s your line?”

  “I’m a judge . . . was a judge, I’m retired now,” Steiner replied.

  “A judge!” the skinny woman said, brightening. “Jeeze, we don’t have any manners here at this table. I’m Joline, and my friend here is Sandy, and he’s . . . oops—” she said, turning to the man from Detroit, “—I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “Frank,” the man said, paying the waitress for the new round of drinks.

  “I’ll take care of that,” Steiner said stiffly, automatically, but Frank wouldn’t hear of it.

  “You haven’t told us your name,” Joline said.

  God, she has a chalkboard voice, Steiner thought. “Stephen,” he mumbled.

  “That’s a very nice name,” Joline said, warming to her role as Steiner’s new companion. “It fits you, somehow.”

  Stephen felt trapped at his own table. He began to perspire. Joline primly sipped her drink—something white and frothy in a tall, frosted glass—through two short narrow cocktail straws. Steiner was of the opinion that sipping a drink through those straws, which were made for decoration, was like drinking coffee out of a cup without removing the spoon. Joline wriggled toward him. Every one of her movements seemed exaggerated. “I think you take life very seriously,” she said, looking at him intently, as if she were working her way into something profound.

  I’ve got to get out of here! Steiner thought. He looked at his watch, making it very apparent that he had other things to do. Frank and Sandy certainly didn’t take any notice; they were kissing each other right there at the table like two high school kids on a bench at a roller-skating rink. I can’t be seen with these people, Steiner told himself. Jesus Christ. . . . He glanced at Joline, who smiled and blushed a little and then firmly pressed her leg against his. She looked somehow limp, as if waiting to be embraced. Oh, Jesus . . . Steiner thought.

  Frank whispered something to Sandy and then said to Steiner: “Steve, if you’ve no objections, we’re going to take a little walk . . . we’ll be right back. Give you two a chance to talk. Nice meeting you.”

  “See you soon, honey,” Sandy said to Joline, smiling warmly as she stood up.

  “We’ll hold down the fort,” Joline said shyly, her knee still wedged woodenly against Steiner’s.

  “Would you care for another drink?” Steiner asked Joline after the others had left. He had to say something to her. Her silence was oppressive, and he was uncomfortable enough as it was.

  “Yes . . . thank you.” Joline didn’t seem to be able to look at Steiner now that her friend had left, but she leaned against him until he said, “Excuse me,” and tried to disengage himself.

  “You aren’t going to leave me here alone, are you?” Joline asked. There was a pleading in her voice, and suddenly Steiner felt sorry for her . . . she was lonely and ugly and past her prime. He felt both loathing and pity. “No . . . I’ll be right back,” he said as he stood up.

  “Promise?” Joline asked coyly, trying to smile again without revealing her crooked teeth.

  “I promise,” Steiner said. Jesus, Mary . . . he thought as he walked away. Is that the way Mariana saw me . . . the way I see that poor old girl at the table? Could I be that repulsive to her? He knew the answer . . . he was an old man wearing old man’s pastel clothes. He was an old man carrying a Jewish bankroll. No! he insisted. His skin might be like old clothes, but he wasn’t old. Suddenly he understood why his wife, Grace, may she rest in peace, had become obsessed with butterflies. She had filled her house with butterfly-shaped bric-a-brac before she died.

  He walked to the far end of the bar, as if he were going to the men’s room, then ducked under the rope that separated deck from beach. Joline would be sitting back there alone, waiting. But I can’t go back, he thought. He shivered at the thought of kissing that mouth . . . feeling that long, protruding tooth with the tip of his tongue . . . smelling her odor.

  He walked along the surf ’s edge, shoes squishing in the wet sand, and he became lost to the sound of waves pummeling the shell-strewn beach . . . lost to the waiting darkness ahead . . . lost below the clear sky filled with clusters of silent stars.

  He passed a small hotel, which had one beach lamp on overhead, and standing upon the shadow line was the unicorn. It had been waiting for Steiner. It stood tall and gazed at him, only its great horned head clearly visible. The unicorn’s blue eyes seemed to glow, the same melting, beautiful color of the water in the Blue Grotto in Capri. Steiner stopped, and suddenly remembered being in Europe as a young man, suddenly felt the selfsame awe of the world he had once felt. He also felt lost and empty. He grieved for himself and for the poor woman waiting for him at the Fontainebleau. What wou
ld she tell her friends when they returned? Would she, indeed, even wait for them?

  Steiner gazed back at the unicorn, trying to make certain it was real and not just the play of shadows, or his imagination. It was not his imagination, he told himself. Staring into the unicorn’s eyes seemed to stimulate memories he had forgotten for years:

  He remembered swimming in the Mediterranean. He remembered a two-week vacation in Atlantic City with Grace and his two sons. He remembered riding bicycles on the boardwalk with his family. He remembered cooking eggs at four o’clock in the morning after a party and permitting the kids to come down and eat, too. He remembered his first trial . . . as a lawyer and as a judge. He remembered uneventful days with Grace . . . beautiful, precious, never-to-be-recovered days. He remembered coming home to problems with the boys and sharing dinnertime conversation across the table with Grace.

  And he suddenly, desperately missed it all. He wanted the days back!

  He also remembered the nameless women, and how Grace had begged him to come back. She had waited, but couldn’t wait long enough. He wanted to go home . . . to Grace. He looked into the unicorn’s sad eyes and saw himself, as if in a mirror. He was an empty old man who had lost his life to foolishness. He had wasted all of Grace’s love . . . and now it was too late to make reparation.

  Tears trembled and worked their way down his face, and the unicorn stepped toward him. It walked slowly, as if not to frighten him. Steiner stepped to the side, but did not try to run. The beast lay down beside him and rested its head in the sand, a gesture of submission. Steiner nervously extended his hand toward the unicorn’s muzzle. The unicorn didn’t flinch or move, and Steiner stroked its forehead. He touched its fluted black horn and saw that its tip looked red, as if dipped in blood.

  He felt a contentment radiate through him as he stroked the unicorn. He also felt the throbbing return of the pain in his chest and arms, yet as the pain became greater, so did his sense of being removed from it. As he rested against the unicorn, he felt it quiver, then begin to move. It raised its head, all the while watching Steiner, but before it stood up, Steiner pulled himself upon its back. I can ride the beast, Steiner thought as he held onto its coarse mane as the unicorn brought itself to full height.

  “Come on, boy,” Steiner whispered, feeling an almost forgotten heart-pounding joy. The unicorn sensed it, too, because it broke into a playful canter. It shook its head, as if miming laughter, and kicked its hind legs into the air. Steiner held the horse tightly with his legs. He felt his youthful strength returning. He felt at one with the unicorn. The unicorn jumped, galloped, and stopped short, only to sprint forward again. It ran full-out, edging closer to the sea, until it was splashing in the water. Steiner was shouting and laughing, unmindful of anything but the perfect joy of the moment. Steiner felt wonderful. For the first time in his life, everything was right. He felt he could do anything. He was at one with the world . . . and he rode and balanced on the back of the unicorn as if he had spent the past forty years of his life riding the wind.

  Suddenly the unicorn turned and headed straight out into the ocean. Waves broke against its knees and chest. Steiner’s legs were immersed in water. “What are you doing?” Steiner shouted joyfully, unafraid but holding on tightly to its neck. The unicorn walked deeper into the sea, past the breakers, until it was swimming smoothly and quickly through the warm, salty water. The sea was like a sheet of black glass, made of the same stuff as the unicorn’s horn. It seemed to go on forever.

  As the dark water rose over Steiner, he finally accepted the wreck of his life.

  The unicorn lifted its great head as it descended into the sea. Steiner took hold of its red-tipped horn, and the unicorn carried him gently down into the ocean’s cool, waiting depths.

  Stalking the Unicorn with Gun and Camera

  Mike Resnick

  WHEN SHE GOT to within two hundred yards of the herd of Southern Savannah unicorns she had been tracking for four days, Rheela of the Seven Stars made her obeisance to Quatr Mane, God of the Hunt, then donned the Amulet of Kobassen, tested the breeze to make sure that she was still downwind of the herd, and began approaching them, camera in hand.

  But Rheela of the Seven Stars had made one mistake—a mistake of carelessness—and thirty seconds later she was dead, brutally impaled upon the horn of a bull unicorn.

  Hotack the Beastslayer cautiously made his way up the lower slopes of the Mountain of the Nameless One. He was a skilled tracker, a fearless hunter, and a crack shot. He picked out the trophy he wanted, got the beast within his sights, and hurled his killing club. It flew straight and true to its mark. And yet, less than a minute later, Hotack, his left leg badly gored, was barely able to pull himself to safety in the branches of a nearby Rainbow Tree. He, too, had made a mistake—a mistake of ignorance.

  Bort the Pure had had a successful safari. He had taken three chimeras, a gorgon, and a beautifully matched pair of griffins. While his trolls were skinning the gorgon, he spotted a unicorn sporting a near-record horn, and, weapon in hand, he began pursuing it. The terrain gradually changed, and suddenly Bort found himself in shoulder-high kraken grass. Undaunted, he followed the trail into the dense vegetation.

  But Bort the Pure, too, had made a mistake—a mistake of foolishness. His trolls found what very little remained of him some six hours later.

  Carelessness, ignorance, foolishness—together they account for more deaths among unicorn hunters than all other factors combined.

  Take our examples, for instance. All three hunters—Rheela, Hotack, and Bort—were experienced safari hands. They were used to extremes of temperature and terrain, they didn’t object to finding insects in their ale or banshees in their tents, they knew they were going after deadly game and took all reasonable precautions before setting out.

  And yet two of them died, and the third was badly maimed.

  Let’s examine their mistakes, and see what we can learn from them:

  Rheela of the Seven Stars assimilated everything her personal wizard could tell her about unicorns, purchased the very finest photographic equipment, hired a native guide who had been on many unicorn hunts, and had a local witch doctor bless her Amulet of Kobassen. And yet, when the charge came, the amulet was of no use to her, for she had failed to properly identify the particular subspecies of unicorn before her—and, as I am continually pointing out during my lecture tours, the Amulet of Kobassen is potent only against the rare and almost-extinct Forest unicorn. Against the Southern Savannah unicorn, the only effective charm is the Talisman of Triconis. Carelessness.

  Hotack the Beastslayer, on the other hand, disdained all forms of supernatural protection. To him, the essence of the hunt was to pit himself in physical combat against his chosen prey. His killing club, a beautifully wrought and finely balanced instrument of destruction, had brought down simurghs, humbabas, and even a dreaded wooly hydra. He elected to go for a head shot, and the club flew to within a millimeter of where he had aimed it. But he hadn’t counted on the unicorn’s phenomenal sense of smell, or the speed with which these surly brutes can move. Alerted to Hotack’s presence, the unicorn turned its head to seek out its predator—and the killing club bounced harmlessly off its horn. Had Hotack spoken to almost any old-time unicorn hunter, he would have realized that head shots are almost impossible, and would have gone for a crippling knee shot. Ignorance.

  Bort the Pure was aware of the unique advantages accruing to a virgin who hunts the wild unicorn, and so had practiced sexual abstinence since he was old enough to know what the term meant. And yet he naively believed that because his virginity allowed him to approach the unicorn more easily than other hunters, the unicorn would somehow become placid and make no attempt to defend itself—and so he followed a vicious animal that was compelled to let him approach it, and entered a patch of high grass that allowed him no maneuvering room during the inevitable charge. Foolishness.

  Every year hundreds of hopeful hunters go out in search of the unicorn, and every
year all but a handful come back emptyhanded—if they come back at all. And yet the unicorn can be safely stalked and successfully hunted, if only the stalkers and hunters will take the time to study their quarry.

  When all is said and done, the unicorn is a relatively docile beast (except when enraged). It is a creature of habit, and once those habits have been learned by the hopeful photographer or trophy hunter, bringing home that picture or that horn is really no more dangerous than, say, slaying an Eight-Forked Dragon—and it’s certainly easier than lassoing wild minotaurs, a sport that has become all the rage these days among the smart set on the Platinum Range.

  However, before you can photograph or kill a unicorn, you have to find it—and by far the easiest way to make contact with a unicorn herd is to follow the families of smerps that track the great game migrations. The smerps, of course, have no natural enemies except for the rafsheen and the zumakin, and consequently will allow a human (or preternatural) being to approach them quite closely.

  A word of warning about the smerp: With its long ears and cute, fuzzy body, it resembles nothing more than an oversized rabbit—but calling a smerp a rabbit doesn’t make it one, and you would be ill-advised to underestimate the strength of these nasty little scavengers. Although they generally hunt in packs of from ten to twenty, I have more than once seen a single smerp, its aura flowing with savage strength, pull down a half-grown unicorn. Smerps are poor eating, their pelts are worth less because of the difficulty of curing and tanning the auras, and they make pretty unimpressive trophies unless you can come up with one possessing a truly magnificent set of ears—in fact, in many areas they’re still classified as vermin—but the wise unicorn hunter can save himself a lot of time and effort by simply letting the smerps lead him to his prey.