Unicorns

by Jack Dann

  In the streets, in the doorways of the shops, the crowd continued to chatter, first about the unicorn, then about lobsters and tobacco and silks from Merida, the tourists who would soon be coming from the United States and the new guest houses built to accommodate them. In a little while they seemed to forget the unicorn. Had anyone really expected to see him after a hundred years, Maria wondered, except herself and Mico? Perhaps even Mico was humoring her out of politeness. A good boy, yes, but practical, his dreams extending no farther than a school in America.

  And then she saw the animal in the street. He was walking toward her. He came slowly, deliberately, looking to neither side of him. At first she could not understand why the crowd had failed to take notice, for an unmistakable horn rose above his head.

  "The unicorn!" she cried. "It is the unicorn, Mico!" Why did no one see him? Why did even Mico stare, like a stupid owl, into the distance? For an instant modesty restrained her. Then she forgot herself. She began to run, weaving among the crowd, brushing against the virgins, who drew back as if she had dirtied their dresses. She scarcely felt the jagged pebbles under her thin shoes. A bicycle came toward her and swerved to avoid a collision. The driver was too astonished to swear.

  At last she knelt before the animal and stretched out her hand to touch his horn. How lordly he looked, even in the garish lamplight! How imperial was his bearing, how like a king's! She hesitated, suddenly aware of her daring, frozen with her fingers inches from his horn. She, the fallen, importuning a unicorn! But slowly, with infinite majesty, he pressed his muzzle against her cheek, and she felt the warm salt wetness of her own tears.

  A babble of voices stabbed at her ears. The people are startled, she thought, because the unicorn has honored me, the least pure, and overlooked the virgins. The voices rose into a howling unison, and then she realized that the crowd was laughing at her. Laughing and calling her unicorn an ass!

  "You profane him," she shouted. "You profane the holy unicorn!"

  Mico hurried to her side. "Are you sure he is a unicorn?" he whispered. "Look at him again."

  She looked at the animal closely for the first time, no longer blinded by tears and wonder. Imperial? On the contrary, he was small, gray, mottled with age and mud. There was little to distinguish his body from that of an ass. But his horn. That was the irrefutable mark of his kingship! Only a unicorn boasted such a horn. But she looked again, and she saw that, though he truly held a horn, it was dirty and crooked, and it might have grown there as a freak of nature or it might have been placed there as a hoax.

  Boys, emboldened by their sisters, began to scoop garbage from the street and hurl it at Maria and her unicorn. A banana peel struck her face and another struck the animal where the horn sprouted from his head. He began to look baffled and frightened, not kingly at all. A simple-minded ass in the midst of a hostile crowd, Maria thought. Well, no matter. She would not let the crowd make fun of him. Facing his attackers, she returned the banana peels and shouted, "You leave this animal alone! Whatever he is, you have no right to hurt him!"

  She felt Mico's hand on her shoulder. "The animal has gone, Maria. His horn fell off and he ran away." He presented the horn to her, the dirty crescent which somehow had been fastened to the head. She clutched the horn and began to run, tears in her eyes, tears of shame for her own embarrassment and, even more, for the helpless animal harassed by the crowd. She did not stop until she had come to her house and run through the clean, spare kitchen into a garden where a pool, no wider than a well, reflected a mahogany tree, a moon, and a riot of stars. Beside the pool, she fell to her feet and the horn slipped from her fingers. Breathless, Mico overtook her and waited for her to speak. For a long time she was silent. Mico retrieved the horn and began to wash it in the water.

  "Why are you doing that?" she asked finally. "You know it is false. Someone has played a trick on me."

  "It is very heavy," he said. "I want to see what it is made of."

  The hard surface of the horn glittered beneath a coating of mud and filth. In the pool, among a hundred stars and beside the golden scimitar of the moon, a second scimitar materialized, richer than the first.

  He handed the horn to Maria. "I believe it is made of gold."

  She looked at him, unbelieving. She took the horn in her hand and marveled at its weight and its hard, smooth texture. A small treasure in gold! Her mind leaped: precious curios from the mainland to sell the tourists, an education for Mico.

  "But shouldn't we return it to the unicorn?" she asked doubtfully.

  "He will grow another. This one he meant for you."

  "Then we must thank him! He is probably heading for the interior. If we hurry, we can overtake him."

  But they were too late. Beyond the village, they found his tracks vanishing into the jungle and knew that he had eluded them. Swallows and frogs muffled whatever hoof-beats they might have heard.

  "We'll never find him now," sighed Maria. "And we never told him how grateful we were."

  As if to reassure her, a lordly cry thundered among the orchids and cacti, and briefly, goldenly, a pair of eyes poised in the black and silver night. The swallows and frogs fell silent.

  "Good-bye, king unicorn," Maria whispered. "A king has no need of a crown. He carries kingliness in his heart."

  "So does a queen," said Mico.

  Introduction to Stephen R. Donaldson's "Mythological Beast":

  Even in the grayest, most institutionalized, and most unsmiling of times, fantasy can still break through in surprising ways, changing all the rules, cancelling all bets, and altering all the odds. Here Stephen R. Donaldson, the author of the best-selling fantasy trilogy The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever, tells a tale of liberation and sudden transcendental change set against the background of a regimented and repressive society where everything is safe and sterile and controlled and there are no surprises left anymore . . . or so it seems.

  MYTHOLOGICAL BEAST

  Stephen R. Donaldson

  Norman was a perfectly safe, perfectly sane man. He lived with his wife and son, who were both perfectly safe, perfectly sane, in a world that was perfectly sane, perfectly safe. It had been that way all his life. So when he woke up that morning, he felt as perfect as always. He had no inkling at all of the things that had already started to happen to him.

  As usual, he woke up when he heard the signal from the biomitter cybernetically attached to his wrist; and, as usual, the first thing he did was to press the stud which activated the biomitter's LED read-out. The display gleamed greenly for a moment on the small screen. As usual, it said, You are OK. There was nothing to be afraid of.

  As usual, he had absolutely no idea what he would have done if it had said anything else.

  His wife, Sally, was already up. Her signal came before his so that she would have time to use the bathroom and get breakfast started. That way, there would be no unpleasant hurrying. He rolled out of bed promptly and went to take his turn in the bathroom so that he would not be later for work and his son, Enwell, would not be later for school.

  Everything in the bathroom was the same as usual. Even though Sally had just used it, the vacuum-sink was spotless. And the toilet was as clean as new. He could not even detect his wife's warmth on the seat. Everything was perfectly safe, perfectly sane. His reflection in the mirror was the only thing that had changed.

  The tight lump in the center of his forehead made no sense to him. He had never seen it before. Automatically, he checked his biomitter, but again it said, You are OK. That seemed true enough. He did not feel ill—and he was almost the only person he knew who knew what "ill" meant. The lump did not hurt in any way. But still he felt vaguely uneasy. He trusted the biomitter. It should have been able to tell him what was happening.

  Carefully, he explored the lump. It was as hard as bone. In fact, it seemed to be part of his skull. It looked familiar; and he scanned back in his memory through some of the books he had read until he found what he wanted. His lump looked l
ike the base of a horn or perhaps the nub of a new antler. He had seen such things in books.

  That made even less sense. His face wore an unusual frown as he finished in the bathroom. He returned to the bedroom to get dressed and then went to the kitchen for breakfast.

  Sally was just putting his food on the table—the same juice, cereal, and soyham that she always served him—a perfectly safe meal that would give him energy for the morning without letting him gain weight or become ill. He sat down to eat it as he always did. But when Sally sat down opposite him, he looked at her and said, "What's this thing on my forehead?"

  His wife had a round bland face, and its lines had slowly become blurred over the years. She looked at his lump vaguely, but there was no recognition in her eyes. "Are you OK?" she said.

  He touched the stud of his biomitter and showed her that he was OK.

  Automatically, she checked her own biomitter and got the same answer. Then she looked at him again. This time, she, too, frowned. "It shouldn't be there," she said.

  Enwell came into the kitchen, and Sally went to get his breakfast. Enwell was a growing boy. He watched the food come as if he were hungry, and then he began to eat quickly. He was eating too quickly. But Norman did not need to say anything. Enwell's biomitter gave a low hum and displayed in kind yellow letters: Eat more slowly. Enwell obeyed with a shrug.

  Norman smiled at his son's obedience, then frowned again. He trusted his biomitter. It should be able to explain the lump on his forehead. Using the proper code, he tapped on the face of the display, I need a doctor. A doctor would know what was happening to him.

  His biomitter replied, You are OK.

  This did not surprise him. It was standard procedure— the biomitter was only doing its job by reassuring him. He tapped again, I need a doctor. This time, the green letters said promptly, Excused from work. Go to Medical Building room 218.

  Enwell's biomitter signaled that it was time for him to go to school. "Got to go," he mumbled as he left the table. If he saw the lump on his father's forehead, he did not think enough about it to say anything. Soon he had left the house. As usual, he was on time.

  Norman rubbed his lump. The hard bone nub made him feel uneasy again. He resisted an urge to recheck his biomitter. When he had finished his breakfast, he said good-by to Sally, as he always did when he was going to work. Then he went out to the garage and got into his mobile.

  After he had strapped himself in, he punched the address of the Medical Building into the console. He knew where the Medical Building was, not because he had ever been there before (in fact, no one he knew had ever been there), but because it was within sight of the National Library, where he worked. Once the address was locked in, his mobile left the garage smoothly on its balloon tires (a perfectly safe design), and slid easily into the perfectly sane flow of the traffic.

  All the houses on this street were identical for a long way in either direction, and as usual Norman paid no attention to them. He did not need to watch the traffic, since his mobile took care of things like that. His seat was perfectly comfortable. He just relaxed in his safety straps and tried not to feel concerned about his lump until his mobile deposited him on the curb outside the Medical Building.

  This building was much taller and longer than the National Library; but, apart from that, the two were very much alike. Both were empty except for the people who worked there; and the people worked there because they needed jobs, not because there was any work that needed to be done. And both were similarly laid out inside. Norman had no trouble finding his way to room 218.

  Room 218 was in the Iatrogenics Wing. In the outer office was a desk with a computer terminal very much like the one Norman used at the library, and at the desk sat a young woman with yellow hair and confused eyes. When Norman entered her office, she stared at him as if he were sick. Her stare made him touch his lump and frown. But she was not staring at his forehead. After a moment, she said, "It's been so long—I've forgotten what to do."

  "Maybe I should tell you my name," he said.

  "That sounds right," she said. She sounded relieved. "Yes, I think that's right. Tell me your name."

  He told her. She looked around the terminal, then pushed a button to engage some kind of program.

  "Now what?" he said.

  "I don't know," she said. She did not seem to like being so confused.

  Norman did not know, either. But almost at once the door to the inner office opened. The woman shrugged, so Norman just walked through the doorway.

  The inner office had been designed to be cozy, but something had gone wrong with its atmospherics, and now it was deep in dust. When Norman sat down in the only chair, he raised the dust, and the dust made him cough.

  "I'm Dr. Brett," a voice said. "You seem to have a cough."

  The voice came from a console that faced the chair. Apparently, Dr. Brett was a computer who looked just like the Director of the National Library. Norman relaxed automatically. He naturally trusted a computer like that. "No," he said. "It's the dust."

  "Ah, the dust," the computer said. "I'll make a note to have it removed." His voice sounded wise and old and very rusty. After a moment, he went on. "There must be something wrong with my scanners. You look healthy to me."

  Norman said, "My biomitter says I'm OK."

  "Well, then my scanners must be right. You're in perfect health. Why did you come?"

  "I have a lump on my forehead."

  "A lump?" Dr. Brett hummed. "It looks healthy to me. Are you sure it isn't natural?"

  "Yes." For an instant, Norman felt unnaturally irritated. He touched the lump with his fingers. It was as hard as bone—no, harder, as hard as steel, magnacite. It was as hard as tung-diamonds. He began to wonder why he had bothered to come here.

  "Of course, of course," the doctor said. "I've checked your records. You weren't born with it. What do you think it is?"

  The question surprised Norman. "How should I know? I thought you would tell me."

  "Of course," said the computer. "You can trust me. I'll tell you everything that's good for you. That's what I'm here for. You know that. The Director of the National Library speaks very highly of you. It's in your records."

  The machine's voice made Norman's irritation evaporate. He trusted his biomitter. He trusted Dr. Brett. He settled himself in the chair to hear what his lump was. But even that amount of movement raised the dust. He sneezed twice.

  Dr. Brett said, "You seem to have a cold."

  "No," Norman said. "It's the dust."

  "Ah, the dust," Dr. Brett said. "Thank you for coming."

  " 'Thank you for—'?" Norman was surprised. All at once, he felt very uneasy. He felt that he had to be careful. "Aren't you going to tell me what it is?"

  "There's nothing to worry about," the doctor said. "You're perfectly healthy. It will go away in a couple of days. Thank you for coming."

  The door was open. Norman stared at the computer. The director did not act like this. He was confused. But he did not ask any more questions. Instead, he was careful. He said, "Thank you, Doctor," and walked out of the office. The door closed behind him.

  The woman was still sitting at the outer desk. When she saw Norman, she beckoned to him. "Maybe you can help me," she said.

  "Yes?" he said.

  "I remember what I'm supposed to do now," she said. "After you see the doctor, I'm supposed to get his instructions"—she tapped the console—"and make sure you understand them. But nobody's ever come here before. And when I got this job, I didn't tell them"—she looked away from Norman—"that I don't know how to read."

  Norman knew what she meant. Of course, she could read her biomitter—everybody could do that. But except for that, reading was not taught anymore. Enwell certainly was not learning how to read in school. Reading was not needed anymore. Except for the people at the National Library, Norman was the only person he knew who could actually read. That was why no one ever came to use the library.

  But now he w
as being careful. He smiled to reassure the woman and walked around the desk to look at her console. She tapped the display to activate the read-out.

  At once, vivid red letters sprang across the screen. They said:

  SECRET CONFIDENTIAL PRIVATE PERSONAL SECRETcy UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES REPEAT UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES SHOW THIS DIAGNOSIS TO PATIENT OR REVEAL ITS CON-TENTScyclecycle

  Then there was a series of numbers that Norman did not understand. Then the letters said:

  ABSOLUTE PRIORITY TRANSMIT AT ONCE TO GENERAL HOSPITAL EMERGENCY DIVISION REPEAT EMERGENCYc DIVISION ABSOLUTE PRIORITY cyclecyclecyclecyclecyclecyclecy

  "Transmit," the woman said. "That means I'm supposed to send this to the hospital." Her hand moved toward the buttons that would send the message.

  Norman caught her wrist. "No." he said. "That isn't what it means. It means something else." The woman said, "Oh." The bright red letters said:

  DIAGNOSIS cyclecyclecyclecyclecy PATIENT SUFFERING FROM MASSIVE GENETIC BREAKDOWN OF INTERMEDIATE ORIGIN COMPLETE REPEAT COMPLETE STRUCTURAL TRANSITION IN PROGRESS TRANSMUTATION IRREVERSIBLEcyclecyclecyclecyclecyclecyclecPROGNOSIScyclecyclecyclecyclecy PATIENT WILL BECOME DANGEROUS HIMSELF AND WILL CAUSE FEAR IN OTHERS REPEAT WILL CAUSE FEAR TREATMENT cyclecyclecyclecycle STUDY RECOMMENDED BUT DESTRUCTION IMPERATIVE REPEAT IMPERATIVE REPEAT IMPERATIVE EFFECT SOONEST cyclecyclecyclecyclecyclecyclecy

  "What did it say?" the woman said. For a moment, Norman did not answer. His lump was as hard as a magnacite nail driven into his skull. Then he said, "It said I should get some rest. It said I've been working too hard. It said I should go to the hospital if I don't feel better tomorrow." Before the woman could stop him, he pressed the buttons that erased the terminal's memory. The terminal was just like the one he used in the National Library, and he knew what to do. After erasing, he programmed the terminal to cancel everything that had happened today. Then he fed in a cancel program to wipe out everything in the terminal. He did not know what good that would do, but he did it anyway.