“A friend of the unicorns,” said Lightfoot. “He came here long ago and stayed, as friends sometimes do. More than that I had best not say. He is very possessive and does not like others to tell his stories.”
“Is he human?”
“Close enough. Scratch right there, please.”
She obliged, scratching his shoulder where she had been resting her hand. She was about to ask him about Summerhaven when he whispered, “Look!”
To their left stood a range of snowcapped mountains. Cara had been eyeing it nervously as they traveled and had been relieved when her companions had assured her that they were not going to have to cross it. Now she looked at it again, wondering what Lightfoot wanted her to see.
Suddenly she caught her breath. Far away, soaring above the highest of the peaks, was the form of a dragon. It was tiny to the eye, but given its distance from them, she could tell it must be enormous.
“Firethroat?” she asked.
“None other,” replied the unicorn.
Even the Squijum was quiet as they watched the great creature swoop and soar above the mountains. Suddenly she turned and sailed in their direction. Cara felt her heart leap in a strange combination of wonder and fear as the dragon opened her mouth and shot forth a column of flame nearly as long as she was herself.
She’s beautiful! thought Cara, even as she wondered if they were about to die. Then, to Lightfoot: “Should we run?”
“No! If she hasn’t seen us — which is unlikely — it will only attract her. If she has, it will anger her, make her think we are up to no good. Our best choice is to stand still and hope she is in a quiet mood.”
The dragon continued to spiral and weave through the air. As she drew closer, Cara could see that she was red, a deep red, like blood and fire. Just when Cara thought that she couldn’t hold still for another moment, the dragon banked to the left, flapped her wings, and — moving faster than Cara would have thought possible — returned to the mountain. A moment later she had vanished.
“Yowee hotcha yipes!” squeaked the Squijum, vaulting onto Lightfoot’s back. “Big eater make me supper gone gone good yipe now!”
Cara laughed in spite of herself. “Since she didn’t attack, do you think she approves of us?”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” replied Lightfoot. “Just that she doesn’t disapprove. Madame Firethroat does not dislike unicorns. It is uninvited company she disapproves of. I suspect she found our little group odd enough that she would rather watch us than eat us. Likely she guesses that we’re heading for Grimwold’s Cavern. As long as we don’t do anything to annoy her, I think she’ll let us alone.”
“What would annoy her?” asked Cara nervously.
“Hunting on her territory, mostly,” said Thomas. “She guards it jealously and considers anything that lives here to be hers. That, and anything that might hurt the land. She has no use for delvers, of course, with all their digging and changing things.”
Lightfoot translated the comment for the Dimblethum, who replied, “No one has much use for delvers, except delvers. The Dimblethum and his friends should move on. They may have passed inspection, but Lady Firethroat has been known to change her mind. They should not press her tolerance.”
They picked their way down the hillside, which was rocky but easy to walk on. Lower down, the waving grass was as high as Cara’s waist, and Lightfoot invited her to ride on his back. The grassland was rife with flowers that grew on spikes so tall she could pluck them simply by stretching out her hand. She started weaving them into Lightfoot’s mane until he shook his head and told her to stop.
Sometimes the Squijum rode on the Dimblethum’s shoulders, sometimes with Cara. Sometimes he simply scampered off through the grass. Once he disappeared for a long, silent time. Cara started to worry, but finally he reappeared, smiling to himself.
“Don’t do that again!” said Lightfoot harshly.
“Hungry small quiet! Not good not eat! Feed good!” protested the Squijum. But his voice was quiet, and he sounded abashed, even ashamed.
“Nothing that happens here is too small for Firethroat to notice,” replied Lightfoot. “Nothing. Take a meal and you may make a meal, if you know what I mean.”
The Squijum sulked and did not talk for several hours, while Cara scanned the sky nervously, wondering if Firethroat would now return for them. She continued to scan the sky as it grew dark, and myriads of twinkling stars began to appear above her. Their strange patterns and unusual brightness made her feel farther from home than ever.
They slept that night in the shelter of a low cliff. When the sun woke them they continued their journey. After the first hour, they veered to the right.
“We’re leaving Firethroat’s territory,” said Lightfoot, and Cara felt both relief and regret to be turning away from the mighty dragon.
The region they traveled through now was one of high hills and rocky valleys. Late in the day they picked their way down the side of a hill to a valley through which ran a particularly lively stream. Halfway along the valley they started up the side of the hill again. After a moment, Cara realized that they were following a path. It led to a wooden door, set in the side of the hill.
“Grimwold’s Cavern,” said Lightfoot.
The Dimblethum stepped forward and banged on the door.
“Are you sure it’s safe?” asked Cara nervously.
“Of course it’s safe,” said Lightfoot. “It’s Grimwold’s job to be here when we want to talk to him.”
“His job?”
“I told you, he’s the Keeper of the Chronicles. That’s how he earns the right to be here. Anyone who wants to stay in Luster —”
His words were interrupted by the door swinging open. “All right, all right,” said a gruff voice. “I hear you! What is it you want?”
Cara took one look at the strange little man standing before her and cried out in astonishment, “It’s you!”
13
GRIMWOLD
“Who did you think it would be?” replied the little man sharply. “My cousin Droopwillow? He doesn’t live here. Never did.” He paused, then added, “Don’t think he lives anywhere now, for that matter.”
“But I’ve seen you before,” Cara stammered, too surprised to notice that he was speaking to her in English. She stared at him to be sure that it was true. Yes, it had to be. The dark brown skin; the huge eyes, just this side of being so big they were grotesque; the thick, bushy brows that sprouted over them like silver waterfalls; the rounded pug nose — they all added up to the face she had seen every day on her grandmother’s dresser.
Of course, there it had been surrounded by an ornate wooden frame. The image had not been a photograph like all the others on the dresser, but a painting, one her grandmother had done herself.
Whenever Cara had asked about the painting, Grandmother Morris had laughed and said, “Oh, him! An old friend from a long time ago — another life, almost. I painted that back when I was about fourteen.”
Cara blinked at the memory. If her grandmother’s words were true, then the little man standing in front of her had been a little old man for at least fifty years.
Lowering his extravagant eyebrows, Grimwold stared at her and said, “What do you mean, you’ve seen me before?”
“I . . . I think my grandmother must have met you. She has a picture of you on her dresser.”
Grimwold smiled. “The ladies always did fancy me. What did you say your name was?”
“Cara,” she replied, not caring to offer her full name.
Grimwold nodded, then turned at once to the unicorn at her side. Raising his extravagant eyebrows, he said, “If I am correct, you are Lightfoot, son of Dancing Heart and Morning Pearl. Still breaking your mother's heart?”
Lightfoot blew air through his nostrils in a sign of anger. “We come seeking shelter and information. We also need to contact the Queen, if at all possible.”
“Certainly, delighted, wonderful,” grumbled the dwarf. “
As if I don’t have enough sorting and filing and figuring without you starting a new story on me. Well, come in, come in; you’re outside now, and we’re not going to get anywhere with you standing on the doorstep. I suppose the other three have to come in as well. I don’t have their stories, you know, or at least not much of them. Not in the job, not in the job. Enough to do without keeping track of the likes of them.”
The Squijum chittered angrily, but Cara had taken her hand from Lightfoot’s shoulder, so she couldn’t make out his words.
The door was wide enough for Cara and Lightfoot to enter side by side. The Squijum scampered in with them, racing around Lightfoot’s cloven hooves. The Dimblethum lumbered through behind them. Thomas came last. Grimwold stood by the door until they were all inside. Then he slammed it shut and lowered a huge wooden crossbar to secure it.
They had entered a long tunnel. It was lit by softly glowing lanterns. To Cara’s surprise, the walls were of wood rather than stone — a rich, dark wood that reminded her of the paneling in the old library where she and her grandmother had spent the afternoon that had ended with them being chased into St. Christopher’s. How long ago had that been? She had lost count of the days.
Again she felt a stab of worry about her grandmother.
Mounted between the lanterns were beautiful paintings in intricately carved frames. Most of the images were of breathtaking landscapes populated by unicorns. Sometimes the unicorns were galloping, sometimes rearing and pawing the air, sometimes simply gazing out over their world. The remaining pictures were portraits, mostly of unicorns. Cara was amazed at how their faces varied, so that each displayed a distinct personality.
A handful of the portraits were of humans, or near-humans, since one was of a mermaid and another of a centaur. Cara wanted to stop to study the paintings, but Grimwold was hurrying them down the stone-paved hall. She was scurrying along, trying to keep up, when suddenly she did stop, so abruptly that the Dimblethum bumped into her.
“What is it?” asked Lightfoot, coming back and resting his horn on her shoulder.
Cara pointed to a small portrait of a beautiful red-haired girl in her early teens. “That’s my grandmother!” she said, accidentally speaking aloud.
“It is?” asked Grimwold, sounding nearly as surprised as Cara. “Why didn’t you tell me so in the first place? How is dear Ivy?”
“I don’t know,” said Cara desperately. “She was in terrible trouble when I left her.”
Grimwold didn’t look surprised. “I knew there was a tale in all this,” he said. “Well, come along. We had best get on to the Story Room. I’m going to have to make notes. From the sound of it, I’m going to be part of this one, at least in a small way. Earth and sky, but I hate it when that happens.”
Cara could have sworn she heard the Dimblethum chuckle. She glanced at him. His mouth was set in a straight line. Even so, he could not hide the twinkle in his eyes. She wished she knew what he was thinking!
The wood-paneled hall opened into a high cavern where the light came not from lanterns but from a single stone basin as wide as Cara was tall. Multi-colored flames leaped from its center, sending shadows flickering and dancing across the walls. The path wound between stalagmites that thrust upward from the floor and stalactites that hung down like huge stone fangs. A few pairs of stalactites and stalagmites had met, fusing into stone columns. Their smoothly shifting contours made them look as though muscles rippled beneath their slick surfaces.
The cavern was so large the bowl of fire could not clearly light its perimeter. Even so, the shifting flames revealed numerous doors and tunnel openings.
I wonder if you can get lost in here? thought Cara as Grimwold led them past the bowl of fire. To her surprise, it was cool — a witchfire that cast light only. She noticed then that it was smokeless as well.
Beyond the stone basin ran a stream about ten feet wide. Reflections of the firelight danced on the surface of the dark water. The stream was easily crossed by means of a number of wide, flat stepping stones. The Squijum bounded over ahead of them, then came leaping back. An angry gesture from the Dimblethum sent him scampering away again. Cara guessed that the manbear wanted no interference while trying to cross the stones.
Another wooden door, another wood-paneled corridor; this time the walls were broken on one side by doors, on the other by wood-framed openings that stretched into the darkness. The passage ended at a large door carved with strange designs. When Cara put her hand on Lightfoot’s shoulder, she realized it said, “Story Room.” It took her another moment to realize that if she could read it while in contact with Lightfoot, he must be able to read it as well.
“Let’s get to work,” said Grimwold.
Swinging wide the door, he invited them into what was, without doubt, the most wonderful room Cara had ever seen.
14
THE STORY ROOM
It was clearly a room made for writing. Books, scrolls, stacks of paper, notebooks, pens, and pots of ink seemed to cover every available surface — of which there were many, since the room held five long, low tables. The dark wooden walls were lined with maps, pictures, and intricately woven tapestries. Unlike the portraits in the first hall, these pictures seemed to illustrate specific events.
The walls (of which there were also many, for the room was full of nooks and crannies) were made of stone and wood. Natural outthrusts of stone had been carved into seats; some were even padded with cushions. Three of the larger indentations in the cavern walls had been transformed into lantern-lit reading nooks featuring shelves carved right into the stone. The shelves held pens, papers, and some little wooden figures.
In one wall a merry fire blazed in a huge fireplace. Unlike the cavern’s witchfire, this one cast a lovely warmth. A broad shallow pit carved in front of the hearth provided a spot to sit and gaze into the flames.
It took Cara a moment to realize that the chairs were of many sizes. She suddenly suspected that the rugs scattered about the floor were, in fact, resting places for guests.
To the left of the fireplace a little stream sprang from an opening about five feet above the floor, creating a tiny waterfall. At its base was a pool about three feet in diameter. No stream ran out of the pool, so Cara assumed the water must somehow drain from the bottom.
Next to the little fall stood a rack that held a collection of cups and noggins of many sizes and shapes.
I want to live here! thought Cara.
“Find a place and settle in,” said Grimwold as he scurried behind one of the tables. Mounting a stool, he spread a piece of curling paper before him, then set a polished rock at each corner to hold it down. Muttering to himself, he began trying to select a pen.
Lightfoot folded his legs and curled up on a deep purple rug. The Dimblethum and Thomas each picked up a wooden chair and moved it closer to the fire. After running about for a moment, the Squijum finally leaped into Thomas’s lap; wrapping his tail around himself, he settled down with a sigh. (Three minutes later, however, he was climbing onto shelves and examining things.)
Cara hesitated, then positioned herself beside Lightfoot. Though she had wanted to sit with him all along, she had been afraid he would think she was clinging to him. Then she realized that if she didn’t sit with him, she would not be able to understand anything the Dimblethum or the Squijum said.
“All right, what’s your story?” asked Grimwold, looking directly at Cara.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your story, your story,” he said impatiently. “That’s my job, to collect all the stories that involve the unicorns.”
“Not only to collect them,” said Lightfoot sharply. “To record them and make them accessible. You’ll have the story in good time. Right now, we need the story behind what is happening to this child. Cara, show him the amulet.”
Rising, Cara pulled the amulet from beneath her T-shirt. Lifting the chain over her head, she carried it to Grimwold. He gasped. “One of the Queen’s Five,” he muttered as he examined i
t. After a moment he looked up at her. “Did Ivy give this to you?”
Cara nodded.
“Why?”
She took a breath, then told him what had happened the evening she and her grandmother had been pursued into St. Christopher’s. Grimwold made notes as she spoke, his pen scratching across the paper. When she was finished, he picked up the amulet and let it dangle from his fingertips. He stared at it with an expression that Cara found strange and terrible. After a moment he looked at Lightfoot and said, “I fear that the Hunters have returned.”
“Who are the Hunters?” asked Cara.
Before Grimwold could answer, Lightfoot came to stand beside her. She placed her hand on his shoulder.
“Use the common tongue,” the unicorn said to Grimwold. “The others must hear this as well.”
To Cara’s shock, she felt an undertone of fear in Lightfoot’s message, a fear so strong it frightened her as well.
“Certainly,” said Grimwold, “though much of it will be things that you already know.”
“That is all right,” said Lightfoot. “Cara, come sit with me while Grimwold tells of what has been, of the enemy that drove us from Earth so long ago.”
They returned to the purple rug. Cara knelt with her hand on Lightfoot’s neck and stared at the old man expectantly The Dimblethum growled and shifted in his seat. The Squijum left off his explorations and returned to Thomas’s lap.
Looking directly at Cara, Grimwold said, “This is the story of the hunting of the unicorns, and how it began. At least, it is the short version of that tale, for I could tell it in a way that would take many evenings and let you know the deeds of many heroes, both human and unicorn.”
He lowered his voice, speaking more intensely. “Their sacrifices led to the creation of the first door between Earth and Luster, the path the unicorns followed to safety and freedom. This is the story behind that story, the story from which springs all other stories gathered here in the Unicorn Chronicles, all other songs sung on this world. It is a tale woven from greed and loss, lies and truth, bravery and sacrifice, ending and beginning.”
Into the Land of the Unicorns Page 7