Unicorns

by Jack Dann

  "Number three now."

  "Coming up."

  Tlingel drained it and moved the King to B1.

  Martin leaned forward immediately and pushed the Rook to R3.

  Tlingel looked up, stared at him.

  "Not bad."

  Martin wanted to squirm. He was struck by the nobility of the creature. He wanted so badly to play and beat the unicorn on his own, fairly. Not this way.

  Tlingel looked back at the board, then almost carelessly moved the Knight to K4.

  "Go ahead. Or will it take you another month?"

  Martin growled softly, advanced the Rook and captured the Knight.

  "Of course."

  Tlingel captured the Rook with the Pawn. This was not the way that the last variation with Grend had run. Still . . .

  He moved his Rook to KB3. As he did, the wind seemed to commence a peculiar shrieking, above, amid, the mined buildings.

  "Check," he announced.

  The hell with it! he decided. I'm good enough to manage my own endgame. Let's play this out.

  He watched and waited and finally saw Tlingel move the King to Nl.

  He moved his Bishop to R6. Tlingel moved the Queen to K2. The shrieking came again, sounding nearer now. Martin took the Pawn with the Bishop.

  The unicorn's head came up and it seemed to listen for a moment. Then Tlingel lowered it and captured the Bishop with the King.

  Martin moved his Rook to KN3.

  "Check."

  Tlingel returned the King to Bl.

  Martin moved the Rook to KB3.

  "Check."

  Tlingel pushed the King to N2.

  Martin moved the Rook back to KN3.

  "Check."

  Tlingel returned the King to B1 , looked up and stared at him, showing teeth.

  "Looks as if we've got a drawn game," the unicorn stated. "Care for another one?"

  "Yes, but not for the fate of humanity."

  "Forget it. I'd given up on that a long time ago. I decided that I wouldn't care to live here after all. I'm a little more discriminating than that.

  "Except for this bar." Tlingel turned away as another shriek sounded just beyond the door, followed by strange voices. "What is that?"

  "I don't know," Martin answered, rising.

  The doors opened and a golden griffin entered.

  "Martin!" it cried. "Beer! Beer!"

  "Uh—Tlingel, this is Rael, and, and—"

  Three more griffins followed him in. Then came Grend, and three others of his own kind.

  "—and that one's Grend," Martin said lamely. "I don't know the others."

  They all halted when they beheld the unicorn.

  "Tlingel," one of the sasquatches said. "I thought you were still in the morning land."

  "I still am, in a way. Martin, how is it that you are acquainted with my former countrymen?"

  "Well—uh—Grend here is my chess coach."

  "Aha! I begin to understand."

  "I am not sure that you really do. But let me get everyone a drink first."

  Martin turned on the piano and set everyone up.

  "How did you find this place?" he asked Grend as he was doing it. "And how did you get here?"

  "Well . . . " Grend looked embarrassed. "Rael followed you back."

  "Followed a jet?"

  "Griffins are supernaturally fast."

  "Oh."

  "Anyway, he told his relatives and some of my folks about it. When we saw that the griffins were determined to visit you, we decided that we had better come along to keep them out of trouble. They brought us."

  "I—see. Interesting . . ."

  "No wonder you played like a unicorn, that one game with all the variations."

  "Uh—yes."

  Martin turned away, moved to the end of the bar.

  "Welcome, all of you," he said. "I have a small announcement. Tlingel, awhile back you had a number of observations concerning possible ecological and urban disasters and lesser dangers. Also, some ideas as to possible safeguards against some of them."

  "I recall," said the unicorn.

  "I passed them along to a friend of mine in Washington who used to be a member of my old chess club. I told him that the work was not entirely my own."

  "I should hope so."

  "He has since suggested that I turn whatever group was involved into a think tank. He will then see about paying something for its efforts."

  "I didn't come here to save the world," Tlingel said.

  "No, but you've been very helpful. And Grend tells me that the griffins, even if their vocabulary is a bit limited, know almost all that there is to know about ecology."

  "That is probably true."

  "Since they have inherited a part of the Earth, it would he to their benefit as well to help preserve the place. Inasmuch as this many of us are already here, I can save myself some travel and suggest right now that we find a meeting place—say here, once a month—and that you let me have your unique viewpoints. You must know more about how species become extinct than anyone else in the business."

  "Of course," said Grend, waving his mug, "but we really should ask the yeti, also. I'll do it, if you'd like. Is that stuff coming out of the big box music?"

  "Yes."

  "I like it. If we do this think tank thing, you'll make enough to keep this place going?"

  "I'll buy the whole town."

  Grend conversed in quick gutturals with the griffins, who shrieked back at him.

  "You've got a think tank," he said, "and they want more beer."

  Martin turned toward Tlingel.

  "They were your observations. What do you think?"

  "It may be amusing," said the unicorn, "to stop by occasionally." Then, "So much for saving the world. Did you say you wanted another game?"

  "I've nothing to lose."

  Grend took over the tending of the bar while Tlingel and Martin returned to the table.

  He beat the unicorn in thirty-one moves and touched the extended horn.

  The piano keys went up and down. Tiny sphinxes buzzed about the bar, drinking the spillage.

  Introduction to Gardner Dozois' "The Sacrifice":

  Gardner Dozois is the author or editor of fourteen books, including the novel Strangers, the collection The Visible Man, and the annual anthology series Best Science Fiction Stories of the Year. His short fiction has appeared In Playboy, Penthouse, Omni, and nearly all the major SF magazines and anthologies.

  THE SACRIFICE

  Gardner Dozois

  There were four of them who entered the haunted darkness of the Old Forest that night, but only three who would return, because three was a magic number.

  Featherflower walked silently beside her father Nightwind, her head high, trying not to stumble over the twisted, snakelike roots that seemed to snatch at her legs, trying not to flinch or start at the sinister noises of the forest, the wailing and hooting of things that might be birds, the rustling and crackling of the undergrowth as unseen bodies circled around them in the secret blackness of the night. Her heart was pounding like a fist inside her, but she would not let herself show fear—she was a chief's daughter, after all, and though he led her now to an almost certain death, she would not betray his dignity or her own. Firehair walked slightly ahead of them, as befitted a young war leader in the prime of his strength, but his steps were slow and sometimes faltering, the whites of his eyes showing as he looked around him, and Featherflower took a bitter and strength-giving pleasure from the unspoken but undeniable fact that he was more afraid than she was. Grim old Lamefoot brought up the rear, his scarred and graying body moving silently as a ghost, imperturbable, his steps coming no faster or slower than they ever did.

  They had been silent since the trees had closed out the sky overhead—the Old Forest at night had never been a place that encouraged inconsequential chatter, but this silence was heavy and sour and unyielding, pressing down upon them more smotheringly even than the fay and enchanted darkness that surrounde
d them. Featherflower could sense her father's agony, the grief and guilt that breathed from him like a bitter wind, but she would not make it easier for him by deed or gesture or word. She was the one who was to be sacrificed—why should she comfort him? She knew her duty as well as he knew his, had been born to it, and she would not fight or seek to escape, but it hurt her in her heart that Nightwind—her father—would do this thing to her, however grave the need, and she would not make it easier for him. Let it be hard, as it soon would be hard for her, let him hurt and sweat and cry aloud with the hardness of it.

  So they walked through the forest in silence and guilty enmity and fear, the great and living darkness walking with them, a-bristle with watching eyes, until ahead there was a glitter of light.

  The forest opened up around them into a small meadow, drenched with brilliant silver moonlight. At the far end of the meadow rose an enormous oak tree, a giant of the forest, its huge branches spread high above them like waiting, encircling arms.

  "Here," said old Lamefoot the wizard. "He will come here."

  When they had crossed the meadow and stood beneath the arms of the oak tree, Featherflower said quietly, "Father, must this be?"

  Nightwind sighed. "The trees do not bloom, the steams dry up, the grass is sere . . . It has been long and long since such a thing was done, and I had hoped my time would pass before it was again needful, but clearly the gods have turned their faces away . . ." He fell silent again, looking very old. "He will come here," Lamefoot said in his grim gray voice, "and if he accepts you, then the powers will smile on us again . . . " Firehair looked guiltily away from her, glanced nervously around him with wide frightened eyes and said only "It is for the good of the Folk . . ."

  She blew out her lips at him in scorn, snorting derisively. "Then for the good of the Folk, I will stay," she said, and sat herself down beneath the giant old oak.

  Lamefoot studied her closely. "You will not run away, child?"

  "No," she said calmly. "I will not run away . . ."

  They watched her for awhile longer then, but there was nothing more for anyone to say, and so at last they went away and left her there, Nightwind giving one last agonized look back before the darkness swallowed them.

  She was alone in the Old Forest.

  Trembling, she waited beneath the ancient oak. Never had she been so afraid. The dark shapes of the trees seemed to press menacingly close around the meadow, kept at bay only by the silver moonlight. A bat flittered by through that moonlight, squeaking, and she flinched away from it. Something howled away across the cold and silent reaches of the forest, howled again in a voice like rusty old iron. Featherflower's head turned constantly as she sought to look in all directions at once, straining wide-eyed to pierce the gloom beneath the trees. She would not give way to fear, she would not give way to fear . . . but her defenses were crumbling, being sluiced away by a rising flood of terror.

  A crashing in the forest, growing louder, coming nearer, the sound of branches bending and snapping, leaves rustling, the sound of some large body forcing its brute way through the entangling undergrowth . . .

  She looked away, fear choking her like a hand, stopping her breath.

  Something coming . . .

  There was movement among the trees, the bare branches stirring gently as though moved by the ghost of the wind, and when she looked again he was there, seeming to materialize from the dappled leaf-shadows, his head held high, paler than the moonlight, clothed in the awful glory of his flesh, so noble and swift-moving and puissant, so proud and lordly of bearing that all fear vanished from her and she felt her heart melt within her with poignant and unbearable love.

  Their eyes met, hers shy and guileless, his bright and clear and wild, liquid as molten gold. She tossed her own head back, moonlight gleaming from the long white horn that protruded from her forehead, and pawed nervously at the ground with a tiny silver hoof.

  He came to her then across the broken ground, the human, moving as lightly and soundlessly as mist, and laid his terrible head in her lap.

  Introduction to Frank Owen's "The Unicorn":

  We tend to think of the unicorn in a medieval European setting, but in actuality the unicorn is a symbol that can be found all over the world, in Jewish and Hindu mythologies as well as Christian folklore, and even in the tales and legends of China and Japan. In China, the unicorn is sometimes called the k'i-lin. According to Chinese legend, the unicorn is such a gentle creature that it will not even eat live grass for fear of harming something that lives. It is considered to be the finest of creatures that lives on the land, an animal of good omen which brings good fortune to anyone lucky enough to be under its benign protection.

  Yet, as we shall see, even this gentle creature has its dark side. . . .

  The late Frank Owen specialized in writing oriental fantasy, and in effect created his own sub-genre. Most of his stories, which were usually set in China, appeared in Weird Tales, and can be found in now-rare collections such as A Husband for Kutani, The Porcelain Magician, and The Wind that Tramps the World: Splashes of Chinese Color. His novels include Rare Earth, Madonna of the Damned, and The Scarlet Hill. He was also the co-author of The Blue Highway, a juvenile, in collaboration with Anna Owen.

  THE UNICORN

  Frank Owen

  There was a woman of Hangchow who had a singular adventure. Her name was Lin Mie. Some would have considered her poor but she believed she was rich, glorying in the love of her husband Lin Wong. She had been married ten years but she was still childless. In China this is considered tragedy indeed. Her husband had longed for a son but he had not taken a secondary wife. Not always does a woman of China live little better than a slave existence, under the thumb of her mother-in-law. On the contrary, history records many instances of women completely dominating men, for example the love of the King of Wu for Hsi Shih, and Ming Huang's adoration of Yang Kwei-fei who permitted herself to be hanged to save her Emperor. This happened twelve hundred years ago but it is still lamented by poets as "the everlasting wrong." Usually the love which a Chinese has for his wife is something precious which he keeps within the walls of his garden. Truly written are the words, "A woman's hair draws more than a team of oxen."

  One day when Lin Mie had been working long hours in the fields, she stopped for a moment to rest beneath a willow tree. A misty rain was falling, the soft, gentle rain of China that is unlike any other rain the world over. The air was fragrantly cool, and very silent, as though all nature were poised on tip-toe. Lin Mie was so very tired. Her arms ached and she folded them in her lap. Whether she slept or not she did not know but suddenly she realized that she was holding a sleeping child in her arms, a very little boy, about three years old. His hair was jet black, his nose was well-formed, his complexion was so pale he might not have been a Chinese at all. He was so handsome, like the child about whom she had always dreamed. Then he opened his eyes, they were blue, as blue as the early evening sky. This frightened her, for a person with blue eyes in China is usually blind. The child smiled and the radiance of his smile put the sun to shame.

  "Mama," he said, and snuggled up to her.

  "Who are you, little one?" she asked gently.

  "I'm your boy," said he, "and you haven't given me a name. Besides I'm hungry. I haven't had morning rice."

  So she took him into the house and cooked rice for him. As he ate she clasped her hands on the table before her. Was it only her imagination? Her hands were pale and delicately beautiful, not a trace of toil did they show. Even the nails were pointed and unbroken.

  The boy said, "The rice is good."

  "Rice is life," she said, "and life is good."

  They named the boy Lin Mu, or rather the mother did, for Lin Wong showed a strange reluctance to call the boy his son, though he was happy that the little one had chosen to live with them. The name was very appropriate for Mu meant tree and by coincidence the family name, Lin, meant forest. And the mother thought, "My boy is indeed like a young tree, sl
im and strong enough to stand against a typhoon." Her happiness was complete, her eyes were large with wonder that such good fortune had befallen her.

  One night as she made ready for sleep, there was a gorgeous bed where the old mattress had formerly been on the bare floor. And the sheets were of silk, petal soft. On the teakwood chair beside the bed was a sleeping-robe of caressive softness. She undressed and put on the silk robe and slipped between the fragrant sheets. She was so happy she wondered if this were all a dream and she would soon awaken to stern reality. Then her little boy crept into her arms, "Let me stay with you until papa comes," he whispered.

  Lin Wong sat smoking before the door until his pipe was exhausted. He retired in the dark. When his body came in contact with the silken sheets, he disliked them immensely, for they were as slippery, he thought, as snake's skin. He was irked by the softness of the bed. After a sleepless hour, he tried the floor and slept at once.

  During the following days, the mother seemed to grow younger and slenderer. But little change was to be noticed in the father, Lin Wong.

  "How I wish that I could have a water-buffalo to do my plowing," he said. He thought seldom of his bodily comfort but constantly of his fields of millet, rice and turnips. They were a source of pleasure to him, as important as his heart or his lungs.

  Toward noon little Mu said to his father, "Here is a unicorn. He can help you plow better than a water-buffalo. See, he is very gentle."

  I.in Wong gazed astounded at the unicorn. He remembered all the mythical tales he had heard about that marvelous beast, that it springs from the Central Regions; that it has superior integrity and appears to virtuous people; that the mid-part of its cry is like a monastery bell; that it is the horned beast par excellence.

  The unicorn had a white horselike body, covered with miles and a crested back; its hoofs were cloven. It had a long, bushy tail. Its head was akin to that of a dragon, from the center of its forehead grew a single horn. Despite its ferocious appearance, it was as docile as a small dog, following little Lin Mu wherever he walked.