The Unicorn Anthology.indb

by Peter S. Beagle

  “Did you tell her she could hex me?”

  “I would never do such a thing, Natalie. You’re much too valuable to me.”

  “But you think I had something to do with Ellen’s mystical little counterfeit scheme.”

  “Technically, you did. The ritual of division required a supplicant, someone to receive the gift granted by the unicorn, before the summoning of a succubus mighty enough to affect such a difficult twinning.”

  “So maybe, instead of sitting here bumping gums with me, you should send one of your torpedoes after her. And, whilewe’re on the subject of how you pick your little henchmen, maybe—”

  “Natalie,” snarled Auntie H. from someplace not far behind me. “Have I failed to make myself understood? Might it be I need to raise my voice?” The floor rumbled, and tiny hairline cracks began to crisscross the surface of the looking glass. I shut my eyes.

  “No,” I told her. “I get it. It’s a grift, and you’re out for blood. But you know she used me. Your lackey, it had a good, long look around my upper story, right, and there’s no way you can think I was trying to con you.”

  For a dozen or so heartbeats, she didn’t answer me, and the mirrored room was still and silent, save all the moans and screaming leaking in through the walls. I could smell my own sour sweat, and it was making me sick to my stomach.

  “There are some gray areas,” she said finally. “Matters of sentiment and lust, a certain reluctant infatuation, even.”

  I opened my eyes and forced myself to gaze directly into that mirror, at the abomination crouched on its writhing throne. And all at once, I’d had enough, enough of Ellen Andrews and her dingus, enough of the cloak and dagger bullshit, and definitely enough kowtowing to the monsters.

  “For fuck’s sake,” I said, “I only just met the woman this afternoon. She drugs and rapes me, and you think that means she’s my sheba?”

  “Like I told you, I think there are gray areas,” Auntie H. replied. She grinned, and I looked away again.

  “Fine. You tell me what it’s gonna take to make this right with you, and I’ll do it.”

  “Always so eager to please,” Auntie H. laughed, and the mirror in front of me rippled. “But, since you’ve asked, and as I do not doubt your present sincerity, I will tell you. I want her dead, Natalie. Kill her, and all will be . . . forgiven.”

  “Sure,” I said, because what the hell else was I going to say. “But if she’s with Szabó—”

  “I have spoken already with Magdalena Szabó, and we have agreed to set aside our differences long enough to deal with Miss Andrews. After all, she has attempted to cheat us both, in equal measure.”

  “How do I find her?”

  “You’re a resourceful young lady, Natalie,” she said. “I have faith inyou. Now . . . if you will excuse me,” and, before I could get in another word, the mirrored room dissolved around me. There was a flash, not of light, but of the deepest abyssal darkness, and I found myself back at the Yellow Dragon, watching through the bookshop’s grimy windows as the sun rose over the Bowery.

  There you go, the dope on just how it is I found myself holding a gun on Ellen Andrews, and just how it is she found herself wondering if I was angry enough or scared enough or desperate enough to pull the trigger. And like I said, I chambered a round, but she just stood there. She didn’t even flinch.

  “I wanted to give you a gift, Nat,” she said.

  “Even if I believed that—and I don’t—all I got to show for this gift of yours is a nagging yen for something I’m never going to get back. We lose our innocence, it stays lost. That’s the way it works. So, all I got from you, Ellen, is a thirst can’t ever be slaked. That and Harpootlian figuring me for a clip artist.”

  She looked hard at the gun, then looked harder at me.

  “So what? You thought I was gonna plead for my life? You thought maybe I was gonna get down on my knees for you and beg? Is that how you like it? Maybe you’re just steamed cause I was on top—”

  “Shut up, Ellen. You don’t get to talk yourself out of this mess. It’s a done deal. You tried to give Auntie H. the high hat.”

  “And you honestly think she’s on the level? You think you pop me and she lets you off the hook, like nothing happened?”

  “I do,” I said. And maybe it wasn’t as simple as that, but I wasn’t exactly lying, either. I needed to believe Harpootlian, the same way old women need to believe in the infinite compassion of the little baby Jesus and Mother Mary. Same way poor kids need to believe in the inexplicable generosity of Popeye the Sailor and Santa Claus.

  “It didn’t have to be this way,” she said.

  “I didn’t dig your grave, Ellen. I’m just the sap left holding the shovel.”

  And she smiled that smug smile of hers, and said, “I get it now, what Auntie H. sees in you. And it’s not your knack for finding shit that doesn’t want to be found. It’s not that at all.”

  “Is this a guessing game,” I asked, “or do you have something to say?”

  “No, I think I’m finished,” she replied. “In fact, I think I’m done for. Solet’s get this over with. By the way, how many women have you killed?”

  “You played me,” I said again.

  “Takes two to make a sucker, Nat,” she smiled.

  Me, I don’t even remember pulling the trigger. Just the sound of the gunshot, louder than thunder . . .

  Stampede of Light

  Marina fitch

  I DON’T know when I stopped believing I would live forever.

  “Open a child’s mind and heart to the world, and you achieve immortality,” my sixth-grade teacher Mrs. Rodriguez once told me. “Whether they remember you or not, you’ll live forever.”

  I remember Mrs. Rodriguez. I guess that makes her a saint.

  I shaded my eyes with my hand and scanned the kids racing across the blacktop, smashing tetherballs, clambering over metal play structures. At the edge of the grass two boys raised clenched hands. I brought the whistle to my lips—they tossed dried leaves at each other. I removed the whistle. Then the boys scooped up more leaves and dumped them on of one of my second graders.

  He ignored them. I frowned, trying to remember his name: ginger hair, gray eyes, square face, freckled nose. Alone. . . .

  Corey Ferris, one of this year’s forgotten children. The one I couldn’t place when I saw his name on my roll sheet the first month of school. The one who never caused trouble, never answered questions. The invisible child in a class of thirty-two.

  I was a forgotten child, too. Until Mrs. Rodriguez.

  Corey stood with his back to me, gazing across the field. I joined him. With a squint, I peered over his head. All I could see was the far corner of the cyclone fence.

  “Corey,” I said, “what are you looking at?”

  He started. Shuffling away from me, he stopped, looked at the comer, then at me. “Don’t you see her?” he said.

  I looked again. This time I saw her.

  The woman sat in the corner, her manzanita-red hair spilling over her shoulders, dark swirls against her turquoise blouse. Her skirt, vibrant with green, raspberry, yellow, and blue, fanned across her knees. She bent over slightly, her hands skimming across her lap.

  A child stood beside her. A dark-haired girl, one of Peggy’s third graders—Heather Granger. I headed toward them. The woman was probably Heather’s mother, but it never hurt to check.

  An image flashed through my mind: smiling, the woman opened her arms wide. The girl rested her head in the woman’s lap—

  The image vanished. A sense of loss touched me. . . .

  The bell rang.

  I glanced back at the worn, art deco school. My second graders were already lining up near the back stairs. Corey hovered at the end of the line, separated from the others by two paces. I turned a slow circle, searching the far corner, then the playground. Heather and the woman were gone.

  I finally caught up to Peggy in the staff room after school. “Peggy, did Heather go home s
ick?”

  Peggy shrugged into her jacket, then took the sheaf of papers out of her mouth. “Heather?”

  “Heather Granger. Dark hair, quiet.”

  Peggy sucked in her cheeks. “I don’t have any Heathers this year.” She frowned. “I had three last year. No Grangers. . . .”

  I blinked. “You sure?”

  Peggy shook her head. “Nope. No Heathers.”

  I stared at the toes of my shoes, trying to recall Heather’s face. I couldn’t.

  “Mary,” Peggy said, “are you okay?”

  “Did you—did you see that woman on the playground at lunch?” I said, looking up. “The one sitting in the corner of the field?”

  Peggy’s frown deepened. “What woman?”

  I left around four. As I clattered down the wide front steps, I saw someone blur out of sight behind the potted rosemary on the landing. I stopped, then walked over and peeked.

  Corey Ferris cowered behind the Grecian planter.

  I squatted. “Corey, what are you doing here?”

  He looked up at me, his mouth twisted in a lip-trembling pout.

  I waited, head cocked to one side. Finally, he scuffled from behind the rosemary, dragging his backpack. He mumbled something.

  “Say it again?” I said.

  He glanced at the curb. “Waiting for Dad.”

  I stared at him. “Is he late?”

  “Is it five yet?” he asked.

  “No, not—is that when he picks you up?”

  He nodded. I took a deep breath, held it, let it go. Students aren’t supposed to be alone on the school grounds after two forty-five.

  “Does he—” I thought a minute. “Is this unusual?”

  He shook his head.

  I sat on the step. “What do you do?”

  He hesitated, then sat beside me. He shrugged.

  I glanced at my watch. I was supposed to meet a friend at five thirty. . . .

  So I’d meet her in my school clothes. No big deal. I dug through my school bag and pulled out a book. The Stone Fox. I nodded, impressed with myself. Good book. “Listen,” I said. “I don’t have to be anywhere. Would you like to help me read this?”

  Corey stood beside me on the playground the next day, not really talking, just standing nearby. As recess wore on, he slowly inched closer. “Do you think?” he said. “Do you think the Stone Fox gave Willy one of the white dogs?”

  I pondered this. “I don’t know. What do you think?”

  Corey grinned, a sudden, gap-toothed smile. “Yeah, he did. The best one.”

  “What do you think Willy named—?”

  “Teacher!” someone wailed.

  I turned. A group of kids ran toward me in geese formation. The girl in the lead scrabbled to a stop. “Teacher,” she said, “Kevin threw my softball over the fence!”

  Kevin slid to a halt. “Can I help it if Gabby can’t catch?”

  “First things first,” I said. “Where did it go over the fence?”

  Kevin and Gabby pointed, then glared at each other. I sighted down their fingers . . . to the far corner and the rainbow woman.

  A child stood beside her, a boy with a buzz—Josue Hernandez. I’d had him two years ago. He stood beside her, intent on her hands as they skipped like pebbles across her lap.

  An image seared through me: Josue resting his head in the woman’s lap. He dissolved like steam—

  By the time the image faded, I was halfway across the field, the gaggle of students squawking behind me. I froze five feet from Josue and the woman. Josue seemed . . . faded, as if he’d been stonewashed. His eyes were no longer chocolate dark, but faint as a shadow on sun-dried mud. He gazed at the woman’s hands.

  Long and slender, her hands were crosshatched with tiny nicks. She wore porcelain thimbles on her left thumb and forefinger. She wielded a golden needle with her right, embroidering something onto her skirt with a dark thread. I stepped closer. Her lap glittered as if appliquéd with mirrors. I took another step. No, not mirrors—tiny unicorns that sparkled like distant stars. The newest one, a dull, black unicorn on a field of green, lacked its horn. The woman’s hands stopped. I looked up—

  “Ms. Scibilin! Ms. Scibilin!” someone yelled. “Gabby threw Kevin’s shoe over the fence!”

  Little hands dragged me to the fence and pointed out the ball, embedded in a pumpkin, and the shoe, dangling from a bare guide-wire. When I turned back to the woman, she and Josue were gone.

  I walked onto the playground and scanned the field as I had every day for the past week. There was no sign of the woman. I frowned, disappointed. Juanita Vargas, the principal, had promised to call the police next time the woman set foot on the school grounds.

  Even if she couldn’t remember Josue or the girl.

  Corey fell in step beside me. We’d shared three more books after school—two on dogs and one on magic tricks. He’d taken home the magic book.

  “I figured out the Kleenex trick,” he said. “How to make it disappear? But I can’t get the penny one.”

  “That’s a tough one,” I said. “I’ll help you with it after school.”

  He grinned at me. I smiled back, then did a quick survey of the field.

  A chill wind whistled across the playground, rearranging the fallen leaves. A string of girls threaded their way between Corey and me, chasing orange and gold maple leaves. I scanned the play structures, lingering on a possible fight, then circled slowly. A football game skirmished along the edge of the field. Beyond the grass-stained players, Corey leaned against the fence, watching the woman.

  I snatched at Gabby’s wrist as she walked by. “Gabby,” I said. “Go to the office and tell Ms. Vargas I need her to make that phone call. Now.”

  Corey inched closer to the woman.

  My chest constricted. I ran toward Corey. I glanced at the woman. She had another child with her, not what’s-his-name, Josue, but a blonde second grader, one of Kristy’s. Amanda Schuyler. The woman looked up, and even at that distance, I could swear she was looking at me—

  “Ms. Scibilin! Watch out!”

  Three hurtling bodies tackled me in the end zone. They tumbled over the top of me, then scrambled away. “Teacher, are you all right?” someone said.

  I spat out a mouthful of grass. “I’m fine.”

  I swayed to my feet, then sat down abruptly. I knew if I glanced at the corner, Amanda and the woman would be gone.

  I limped into the office an hour after the last bell. Panic muted the pain. The police had found nothing, no bits of thread, no embroidery needles, no matted grass. I’d sent them to Kristy’s class to talk to Amanda Schuyler. Kristy told them she didn’t have an Amanda Schuyler and never had. . . .

  I winced, lowering myself into the secretary’s chair. I went through the roll sheets, then the emergency cards. I even hobbled over to the filing cabinet and searched the cumulative folders. According to the Cayuga Elementary School records, Josue Hernandez and Amanda Schuyler did not exist. Not even in their siblings’ cum files.

  I struck the filing cabinet with my fist.

  Juanita poked her head into the office. “You okay?”

  “Fine,” I muttered. I slipped Jason Schuyler’s cum folder back in place, then slammed the filing cabinet.

  Juanita studied me. “They hit you pretty hard. You’re going to Doctors on Duty.”

  “I’m fine, Juanita. Really—”

  She raised two elegantly penciled eyebrows. “District’ll foot the bill if you go now. Something shows up later, you’ll need a paper trail.”

  I hesitated. She was right, but—

  “You’re going,” she said. She jangled her keys. “Come on. I’ll drive.”

  Juanita insisted I drape my arm around her neck as we crept slowly down the front steps. I hunched deeper into my jacket, hoping no one was watching. “Juanita,” I said in a low voice, “it’s just a bruise. I’ll be stiff for a few days, then it’ll disappear.”

  Juanita grunted under my weight. “Could be fractured.�
��

  Fractured. I grimaced. “Great.”

  We passed the potted rosemary. Corey peeked between its branches, his face pale in the shadows. He bit down on his lower lip and withdrew.

  I twisted my head to try to catch another glimpse of him. This is where I needed to be. With Corey, not in some clinic. “Juanita, I’m fine, really. It’s just a bruise—”

  Juanita stopped. She eyed me coolly. “I’m not worried about your leg. I’m worried about your head.”

  My cheeks flamed. My head—because no one else remembered Amanda Schuyler.

  No fractures, leg or skull, just a bruise the size of a cantaloupe. Between the wait, the exam—complete with X-rays—and Juanita’s unwillingness to release me unfed, it was almost seven when I made it back to the school. I waited until Juanita sped away, then got out of my car and limped up the steps. I searched behind the rosemary. No Corey, but tucked between the planter and the wall was the book of magic tricks.

  Corey veered away from me when he walked into the classroom next morning. Head down, he put his backpack in his cubby and shuffled to his desk.

  At one point Lily, the girl seated next to him, opened his desk and took his crayons. “Lily,” I said. “Put those back and ask Corey if you may borrow them.”

  “He’s not here—” Lily sat up, startled. Her eyes grew as round as slammers when she saw Corey. Backing away, she dropped his crayons.

  Corey sat quietly, hands folded in his lap.

  Within an hour, the class had forgotten him again.

  It took me several minutes to find Corey when I went out for lunch recess.

  He huddled ten feet from the woman. No one stood beside her this time. Her hands lay still in that colorful expanse of glittering unicorns. I imagined the one she’d been working on while the dark-haired boy hovered over her. I tried to recall the boy’s name or face, but all I could remember was that dull, black embroidery amid the stellar unicorns.

  I limped toward them. Girls. There had been two girls, too. But I could remember nothing but a sense of them, like perfume lingering in a closed room.

  Corey took a step toward the woman. Her face tilted toward him. She seemed to be talking to him, coaxing him—