She continued to relax, by marginal stages, one ear cocked to orient on him, but she had not given up. The moment he let go, she would be gone. Into the river, the hard way, and on into unicorn heaven, the eternal pasture.
“But I need you for an emotional reason too. You see, I am a solitary sort of man. I did not wish to be, but certain factors in my life tended to set me apart from my associates, my peer group. I have generally fared best when going it alone. But I don’t like being alone. I need companionship. Every living, feeling creature does. I have found it on occasion with other men in a shared project, and with women in a shared bed, and these are not bad things. But seldom have I had what I would call true friendship—except with another species of creature. I am a lover of horses. When I am with a horse, I feel happy. A horse does not seek my acquaintance for the sake of my appearance or my accomplishments; a horse does not expect a great deal of me. A horse accepts me as I am. And I accept the horse for what he is. A horse pulls his weight. I respect a horse. We relate. And so when I seek companionship, a really meaningful relationship, I look for a horse.”
Neysa’s head turned marginally so that she could fix one eye squarely on him. Good—she was paying attention to the soothing tones. Stile eased his grip further, but did not let go her horn.
“So I looked for you, Neysa. To be my equine companion. Because once a horse gives his allegiance, he can be trusted. I do not deceive myself that the horse cares for me in the same way I care for him—” He tightened his grip momentarily in a brief outpouring of the emotion he felt. “Or for her. But a horse is loyal. I can ride a horse, I can play, I can sleep without concern, for the horse will guard me from harm. A good horse will step on a poisonous snake before a man knows the threat is present. The horse will alert me to some developing hazard, for his perceptions are better than mine, and he will carry me away in time.
“I looked for you, Neysa, I selected you from all the herd before I ever saw you directly, because you are not really of the herd. You are a loner, like me. Because you are small, like me. But also healthy, like me. I understand and appreciate fitness in man and animal. Your hooves are clean, your manure is wholesome, your muscle tone is excellent, your coat has the luster of health, the sheen—” No, that was the wrong word, for it reminded him again of Sheen the robot lass. Where was she now, what was she doing, how was she taking his absence? Was she in metallic mourning for him? But he could not afford to be distracted by such thoughts at this moment.
“In fact, you are the finest little horse I have ever encountered. I don’t suppose that means anything to you, but I have ridden some of the best horses in the known universe, in my capacity as a leading jockey of Planet Proton. That’s another world, though. Not one of those animals compares to you in performance. Except that you are not really a horse. You are something else, and maybe you think I insult you, calling you a horse, but it is no insult, it is appreciation. I must judge you by what I know, and I know horses. To me, you are a horse with a horn. Perhaps you are fundamentally different. Perhaps you are superior. You do not sweat, you strike sparks from your hooves, you shoot fire from your nostrils, you play sounds on your horn, you have gaits and tricks no horse ever dreamed of. Perhaps you are a demon in equine form. But I doubt this. I want you because you most resemble a horse, and there is no creature I would rather have with me in a strange land, to share my life for this adventure, than a horse.”
He relaxed his grip further as she relaxed. She was not going to jump, now—he hoped. But he wanted to be sure, so he kept on talking. It could be a mistake to rush things, with a horse.
“Now I thought I could conquer you, Neysa. I thought I could ride you and make you mine, as I have done so many times before with other horses. I see now I was wrong. I rode you, but you are not mine. You will kill yourself before you submit to the taming. I hardly know you, Neysa, but I love you; I would not have you sacrifice yourself to escape me.” Stile felt moisture on his cheeks and knew he was crying again, as he had with Sheen. Few things could move him that way. A woman was one; a horse was another. “No, do not hurt yourself for me! I grieve at the very thought. I will let you go, Neysa! I can not impose respect on you. You are the most perfect steed I could ever hope to associate with, but I will seek another, a lesser animal. For I must be accepted too; it must be mutual. I can not love, and be unloved. Go with my regret, my sorrow, and my blessing. You are free.” And he let her go, slowly, so as not to startle her, and stepped back.
“Yet I wish it had worked out,” he said. “Not merely because I can see how good you would have been for me. Not only because the love of such a creature as you, not lightly given, is more precious than anything else I could seek. Not only because you are another example of what I like to see in myself, in my foolish private vanity: the proof that excellence can indeed come in small packages. No, there is more than that. I believe you need me the same way I need you. You are alone; you may not be aware of it, but you need a companion too, one who respects you for what you are. You are no ordinary mare.”
He saw a scrape on her foreleg. “Oh, Neysa—you were hurt on that run.” He squatted to examine it. Pain lanced through his knees, and he fell over, dangerously near the brink. He clutched at turf and drew himself back to safer ground. “Sorry about that,” he said sheepishly. “I have bad knees … never mind.” He got up carefully, using his hands to brace himself, for rising without squatting was awkward. He had never fully appreciated the uses of his knees, until their capability was diminished.
He approached Neysa slowly, still careful not to startle her, then bent from the waist to look at her leg. “I could wash that off for you, but there’s no water here and I think it will heal by itself. It is not serious, and the blood helps clean it. But let me check your feet, Neysa I do not want to leave you with any injuries of my making, and feet are crucially important. May I lift your left front foot?” He slid his hand down along her leg, avoiding the scrape, then drew on the ankle. “Easy, easy—I just want to look. To see if there are any cracks—cracks in hooves are bad news.” The foot came up, though the unicorn was obviously uncertain what he was doing, and he looked at it from the bottom. It was still fairly warm; wisps of vapor curled from the frog, the central triangle of the hoof. “No, that is a fine clean hoof, a little chipped around the edges, but no cracks. You must get plenty of protein in your diet, Neysa!”
He set the foot down. “I should check the others, but I fear you would misunderstand. This is one thing a man can do for his horse. He can check the feet, clear the stones or other obstructions, file them down when they wear unevenly or get badly chipped. The welfare of the steed becomes the responsibility of the man. When food is scarce, the man provides. When there is danger, the man fights to protect the horse. Some animals who prey on horses are wary of men. I might face down a wolf, while you—” He looked at her horn. “No, you could handle a wolf! You don’t need the likes of me; why should I deceive myself. I could tell you that to be the associate of a man is to be protected by the intelligence of a man, by his farsighted mind. That a man will anticipate danger and avoid it, for both himself and his mount. His brain makes up for his lesser perceptions. He will steer around sharp stones that might crack hooves. But why should this have meaning for you? You have savvy like none I have seen in any horse; you don’t need protection. I delude myself in my desperate need to justify myself, to think that I could in any way be worthy of you.”
A fly buzzed up, landing on Neysa. She shook her skin in that place, as horses did, but the fly refused to budge. Her tail flicked across, but the fly was on her shoulder, out of range. She could get it with her mouth, but then she would have to take her attention off Stile. The fly, with the canny ruthlessness of its kind, settled down to bite.
Stile experienced sudden heat. “Now don’t startle, Neysa,” he said. “I am going to slap that bastard fly, so it can’t bother you. Easy, now …” He slapped. The fly dropped. “I hate biting flies,” Stile said. “I have kn
own them hitherto only through research, but they are the enemies of horses. I will not tolerate them on any animal associated with me.” He stepped back, shrugging. “But I am showing my foolishness again. You can handle flies! Good-bye, Neysa. I hope you are happy, and that you graze forever in the greenest pastures.”
Stile turned and walked away from the brink, listening only to make sure the unicorn did not jump. His heart was heavy, but he knew he had done the right thing. The unicorn could not be tamed. What a treasure he was leaving behind!
There was a strange rippling in the grass of the ledge. It had been occurring for some time, but only now was he fully conscious of it. It was as if he were in a pool, and a pebble had dropped in, making a spreading series of circular waves. But there was no water. What was causing this?
Something nuzzled his elbow. Stile jumped, startled; he had not heard anything approach.
It was the unicorn. She had come up behind him silently; he had not known she could do that. She could have run her horn through his back.
He faced her, perplexed. Neysa’s ears were forward, orienting on him. Her muzzle quivered. Her great brown eyes were wet, gleaming like great jewels. She lifted her head and nibbled on his ear, gently, caressingly. She made a little whinny, cajoling him.
“Oh, Neysa!” he breathed, lifted by an explosion of joy.
He had won her, after all.
CHAPTER 8
Music
They were both tired, but Stile felt compelled to put distance between him and his point of entry to this world. Neysa, having consented to be tamed, was the perfect mount; the slightest pressure of one of his knees on her side would turn her, and the shifting of his weight forward would put her into the smoothest of trots. But mostly he didn’t guide her; he let her pick her way.
“I need to hide, Neysa,” he explained. “I need a place to be safe, until I can learn what I need to know about this world. Until I can discover who is trying to kill me, and why, and what to do about it. Or whether my experience with the amulet-demon was mere coincidence, a random trap, nothing personal. But until I know this land better, I have no notion where to hide. Paradox.”
She listened, then made a gesture with her horn, pointing west, and tapped a forefoot. “It’s almost as if you understand me,” he said, amused. “At least you understand my need. If you know of a place to go, then by all means take me there, girl!”
But first he paused to gather some straw from a mature field and fashioned it into a crude saddle. “I don’t really need a saddle, Neysa, but my weight will make your back sore in time unless it is properly distributed. The human seat-bones don’t quite jibe with the equine backbone. This straw is not ideal, but it’s better than nothing. We have to get my weight off your ribs and over your withers, your shoulders; that’s where you can most comfortably support it. And a token girth to hold it on, so I won’t have to yank at your beautiful black mane anymore.”
Neysa submitted to this indignity, and carried him westward across the amber plain north of the purple mountains, her speed picking up as her strength returned. Something nagged at Stile; then he caught on. “You know, Neysa—this is like the old patriotic song of America, back on Earth. I’ve never been there, of course, but it describes amber waves of grain and purple mountains and fruited plains—which reminds me, I’m hungry! I haven’t eaten since I came into this world—I don’t know whether they really exist on Earth, those purple mountains, but they really do exist here! Do you mind if I whistle the tune?”
She cocked her ear back at him, listening, then cocked it forward. She had cute black ears, expressing her personality. She did not mind.
Stile whistled. He was good at it; whistling was, after all, a form of music, and good whistling was good music. Stile was good at anything that related to the Game, back on Proton. He had spent years constantly perfecting himself, and he had a special nostalgia for music. There had been a girl, once, whose memory he associated with it. He whistled the fields more amber, the mountains more purple, and the whole countryside more beautiful. And it really seemed to be so; the entire landscape seemed to assume a more intense grandeur, together with an atmosphere of expectancy. Expectant of what? Abruptly becoming nervous, Stile broke off.
Neysa paused by a tree. It was a pear tree, with huge ripe fruits. “Bless you!” Stile exclaimed. “Are these safe to eat?” He dismounted without waiting for an answer. What a comfort this unicorn was, now that she had joined him!
Neysa moved to the grain nearby and started grazing. She was hungry too. Horses—and unicorns!—could not proceed indefinitely without sustenance; they had to spend a good deal of their time grazing. So a horse was not really faster transportation, for a man; it was speed when he needed it, interspersed with rest. But it was a life-style he liked. His first hours in this world had not been dull, because of the demon-threat and his quest for a steed; but had he remained alone much longer, he would have become quite bored and lonely. Now, with this companionship, this world was delightful. Perhaps his need for transportation had merely been a sublimation of his need for company.
He would have to assume that they could camp here safely, at least for one night. Stile pulled down a pear. It certainly looked safe. If he starved, distrusting nature’s food, what would he gain? He took a juicy bite. It was delicious.
He consumed three of the large fruits, then desisted, just in case. He did not need to gorge. He made a bed of hay, under the pear tree, and lay down as darkness closed in. He hoped it would not rain—but what did it really matter? He would dry. The temperature was nice, here; he would not be cold, even when wet.
Neysa had wandered off. Stile wasn’t worried; he was sure of her, now. She would not leave him—and if she did, it was her right. They had a tacit agreement, no more, subject to cancellation without notice by either party. Still he glanced across the field as the first moon came up. He would prefer to have her near him, just in case. He did not know what routine dangers there might be, here, but was sure Neysa could recognize and handle them. The way she had dispatched the crack-demon and the snow-monster—
The moonrise was spectacular. Far less intense than the sun, it had more appeal because he could look at it directly. This was a close, large moon, whose effulgence bathed the slowly crossing clouds in pastel blue. The thickest clouds were black silhouettes, but the thinner ones showed their substance in blue monochrome, in shades of one color, all the lines and curves and burgeonings of them, all inexpressibly lovely. Oh, to travel amidst that picture, in the magic of the night sky!
Slowly it faded. Moonrise, like sunrise, was a fleeting phenomenon, the more precious because of that. Stile was sure no two moonrises or moonsets would be the same; there would always be a different picture, as lovely as the last, but original. What splendor nature proffered to the eye of any man who had half the wit to appreciate it!
Something was coming. Not a unicorn. Alarmed, Stile peered through the slanting moonbeams. He remained naked, weaponless; he had seldom felt the need for weapons in Proton society, though he knew how to use them. This was a wilder world whose beauty was tempered, perhaps even enhanced, by its hazards. Was this a nocturnal predator?
No—it was a woman!
Yet she carried no weapon either, and wore no clothing, and seemed innocent rather than hostile. This could be another demonic trap, but Stile somehow doubted it. She was—there was something familiar about her.
As she came close, the moonlight caught her fully. The promising outline was fulfilled in blue light. She was small, very small, smaller even than he, but supremely healthy and full-fleshed. She was beautifully proportioned, with small hands and feet, slender yet rounded legs, and virginally firm breasts. Her fingernails and toenails glistened like pearls, her hair was lustrous black, and she had an ivory decoration set in her forehead. Her face was quite cute, though she had a Roman nose. Her only flaw was a scratch on one arm, a fresh one only starting to heal.
“Stile,” she said, with an almost musical inf
lection.
“Neysa!” he replied, astonished.
She opened her arms to him, smiling. And Stile understood that the friendship of a unicorn was no inconsequential thing. When he had won her, he had won her completely.
She was of course a variant of demon. No ordinary creature could make such a transformation. But it was already clear that there were variations among demons, in fact whole phyla of them. What mattered was not how far removed her type was from his, but how they related to one another. He trusted Neysa.
Stile embraced her, and kissed her, and she was lithe and soft and wholly desirable. He lay down with her under the pear tree, knowing her for what she was, and loved her, as he had loved the robot Sheen.
* * *
In the morning Neysa was back in equine form, grazing. Stile glanced at her, covertly reflecting on the event of the night. Would she expect different treatment, now? Would she now decline to carry him safely?
As it turned out, Neysa’s attitude was unchanged. She was still his steed. The night had been merely a confirmation of their relationship, not a change in it. But never again would he think of a unicorn as merely a horse with a horn.
Rested and fed, Neysa set out at an easy trot across the field, still bearing west. Trots could be rough or smooth; this one was the smoothest. She could have looked like a drudge, yet fetched a high price on Proton, for the sake of this trot. As if such a creature could ever be sold, for any price! Then she moved into a nice canter with a syncopated beat: one-two-three-pause, one-two-three-pause. A canter, to his way of thinking, was a trot by the forefeet and a gallop by the rear feet; it too could vary greatly in comfort, depending on the steed’s nature and mood. Stile enjoyed this; how nice it was to ride this fine animal without fighting her!
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