by Mike Resnick
The man was up to double the list price before Mallory walked out of earshot.
He had proceeded another 100 yards when he was joined by a tall, unkempt man in a raincoat, carrying a cardboard box in one hand.
"Good evening to you, sir,” said the man, falling into step beside him.
Mallory merely nodded and kept walking.
"I'm pleased to see that you managed to get away without buying any suntan oil.” He chuckled. “Imagine anyone being stupid enough to try to sell that stuff in a blizzard!"
"What are you selling?” asked Mallory.
"Selling? My dear sir, you cut me to the quick! Do I look like a salesman?"
"Don't ask."
"As a matter of fact, I'm giving something away."
"I'm in a hurry."
The man increased his pace. “Take a look inside, sir,” he said, thrusting the cardboard box into Mallory's hands.
Mallory took the box and opened it without slowing his pace, then made a face. “It looks like a bunch of worms."
"Not merely worms, sir,” said the man with a show of outraged dignity. “Nightcrawlers!"
"What's the difference?"
"What's the difference between a skateboard and a Rolls-Royce?” replied the man. “These are purebred nightcrawlers, sir, each with a five-generation pedigree, each registered with the A.E.S."
"The A.E.S.?” repeated Mallory, handing the box back to him.
"The American Earthworm Society,” explained the man. “It's been our governing body since 1893."
"What the hell do I want with nightcrawlers?"
"They're for fishing."
"It's snowing out, in case you hadn't noticed."
"It won't bother their furry little bodies in the least."
"They look more slimy than furry."
"Right you are, sir,” agreed the man, looking into the box. “It won't bother their slimy little bodies in the least."
"What I meant was, who's crazy enough to go fishing in a blizzard?"
"Almost no one, sir. Think of it: you'll have the field to yourself!"
"I'm on a bridle path in Central Park. There aren't any fish around here."
"Ah, but if you do find one, think of how hungry he'll be!"
"Go trade them for the suntan lotion,” said Mallory.
"I'm also having a sale on tombstones,” said the man persuasively.
"A sale on tombstones?” repeated Mallory.
"If your name happens to be Jessica Ann Milford and you died of drowning in August of 1974,” qualified the man.
"It's not, and I didn't."
"It's really quite a bargain,” continued the man eagerly. “Marble, with beer cans rampant on a field of hypodermic needles. Very tasteful."
"I'll think about it,” said Mallory, starting to walk again.
"I'll be right here, waiting for your decision,” said the man.
Mallory shook his head and increased his pace. The snow continued to fall, and the wind began whipping across the park so fiercely that visibility became almost nil. A few minutes later he was sure he had wandered off the bridle path, but when he turned around to retrace his steps he found that the snow had totally obliterated his footprints. He looked around for the lights of Fifth Avenue, but the snow completely obscured them, and he realized with a sinking sensation in his stomach that he was lost.
He cursed Mürgenstürm under his breath, then began searching for some form of shelter. The blanket of snow stretched endlessly before him, but he thought he could discern a structure off to his left and, lowering his head against the wind, he slowly made his way toward it.
Just when he was sure that he had been mistaken, the wind died down and he found himself only a few steps away from a large stone building. It was dark, but its two chimneys were belching smoke into the frigid night air. He covered the remaining distance at a run and pounded on the door. When there was no response he pushed it open and stepped inside, panting heavily.
He brushed the snow off his cloak, felt around for a light switch, couldn't find one, and pulled out his cigarette lighter. It didn't provide much illumination, but it was enough for him to realize that he was inside a barn with two rows of box stalls. The place smelled strongly of horses, and he could hear the occasional thumping of hooves on straw.
Finally he found a bare light bulb descending from the rafters. He walked over and pulled on the frayed string that hung down from it, and suddenly he stood in a pool of harsh white light, surrounded by flickering shadows as the bulb swung to and fro.
"Is anyone here?” he asked, then jumped in surprise when he received an answer.
"Yes."
"Where are you?” he said, looking around apprehensively.
"Right here."
"Where is here?"
"Look down."
Mallory looked down and found a miniature horse; no more than nine inches at the shoulder, standing right next to him.
"Was that you talking?” he asked, squatting down to inspect the elegant little animal.
"Yes,” said the horse. “There's a small towel hanging up there,” it added, nodding its head at the edge of a nearby stall. “I wonder if you would be so kind as to retrieve it and place it over my back?"
Mallory walked over, picked up the towel, and laid it gently across the little horse's back and withers.
"Thank you,” said the horse, not quite able to repress a body-wrenching shiver. “It was getting quite cold in here."
Mallory stared at the tiny animal. “I didn't know horses could talk,” he said at last.
"Of course they can."
"I've never heard them."
"Perhaps they had nothing to say to you."
"Perhaps,” agreed Mallory. “By the way, you are a horse, aren't you?"
"Certainly."
"And this is a stable?"
"That's right."
"You wouldn't happen to have any unicorns stabled here, would you?” asked Mallory.
"I'm afraid not. Why?"
"I've been following one up the bridle path. I thought it might have stopped here to get out of the weather."
"I wish I could help you,” said the horse, “but we haven't boarded any unicorns here in more than a month.” The little animal paused. “They're quite rare, you know. I don't imagine there can be more than two dozen of them in all of Manhattan. In what direction was this unicorn heading?"
"North, I think. I never got close enough to it to be sure."
Mallory opened the door, stuck his head out, determined that visibility was still about nil, and decided to wait a couple of minutes before braving the snow again.
"I've never seen a horse as small as you before."
"I wasn't always this small,” answered the horse.
"You weren't?"
The horse shook its head ruefully.
"What happened?” asked Mallory.
"You can't tell it to look at me, but I used to be a racehorse."
"Maybe I saw you run,” said Mallory. “I get out to Belmont and Aqueduct three or four times a week."
"I wasn't good enough. They had high hopes for me when I was born, but I spent most of my career running at places like Thistledown and Latonia and Finger Lakes."
"What's your name?” asked Mallory.
"The name my owner gave me, or my real name?"
"Your real one, I guess."
"Eohippus."
"Never heard of you."
"That's not the name I ran under,” replied Eohippus. “It's the one I chose for myself once I understood my destiny.” The little horse snorted, then continued. “As I said, I wasn't a very good racehorse."
"You're just the kind I always seem to bet on,” remarked Mallory dryly.
"My owner and trainer did everything they could to make me better,” said Eohippus.
"Like what?"
"The first thing they did was geld me."
"That makes you faster?” asked Mallory dubiously.
"It makes me f
aster whenever I see a veterinarian approaching, I can tell you that,” said Eohippus bitterly. He whinnied; it sounded like a sigh in the cavernous interior of the barn. “As soon as I recovered I was back on the track."
"Maybe they should have tried blinkers,” suggested Mallory.
"They did."
"Did it help?"
"Blinkers are for horses who look around, who don't pay attention to business. That wasn't me. I tried my very best with every stride I ever took. All the blinkers did was close off two-thirds of the world to me.” He paused. “Then there were the drugs."
"Illegal ones?"
Eohippus shook his head. “They were perfectly legal. My trainer thought that I might have sore muscles, and the drugs were designed to mask the pain.” He whinnied again. “They crippled my sister, who didn't know her ankle was sore until it shattered, but I was perfectly healthy."
"Just slow,” said Mallory.
The little horse nodded his head sadly. “Just slow,” he agreed unhappily.
"Well, not everyone can be Seattle Slew."
"He was my uncle,” noted Eohippus.
"Really?” said Mallory. “I almost went broke trying to find horses to beat him."
"He'd run down the backstretch and the trees would sway,” recalled Eohippus in awestruck tones. “And I wanted so badly to be like him! It's what I was born to do—to run so fast that my feet barely touched the ground, to pierce a hole in the wind. And, oh, how I tried! I ran my heart out"—he paused tragically—"but I just didn't have the ability."
"So what happened?"
"One day I was running at a bush-league track in New Mexico, and I was losing touch with the leader, like I always did after half a mile or so, and my jockey began whipping me—and suddenly my saddle slipped and he fell off."
"Your trainer didn't tighten the girth properly."
"That's what I thought,” said Eohippus. “But that night I noticed that I had to reach a little higher than usual to eat my oats. And when my exercise girl kicked me during a workout the next day, my saddle slipped again. That's when I realized I was shrinking. Every time I was hit, I got a little bit smaller.” He paused. “Finally I got too small to run, and they retired me—but I kept right on shrinking. Then the entire truth finally dawned on me—that anytime any horse was whipped or abused in a losing cause, I got smaller. That was when I changed my name to Eohippus—the first horse. There's something of me in all racehorses, and something of them in me."
"How long has it been going on?” asked Mallory.
"For about ten years now,” said Eohippus.
"You don't seem to have shrunk since we started talking,” said Mallory, “yet they must be running races and whipping racehorses somewhere in the world right at this moment."
"They are,” answered Eohippus. “But now that I'm so small, the change in me is proportionately small, so that you can hardly notice it from one week to the next."
"How did you wind up here in Central Park?"
"This is a stable for used-up old racehorses who escaped the glue factory,” explained Eohippus. “Most of them pull wagons; a few carry fat little children around the bridle paths."
"Don't tell me you pull wagons,” said Mallory.
"No,” said Eohippus. “But I feel comfortable here."
Mallory heard a very distinct horse-laugh directly behind him. He turned, and saw a dark equine face looking at him.
"There's nothing comfortable about it,” said the dark-faced horse. “We're a bunch of broken-down wrecks, just marking time on the way to the grave or the dog-food factory."
"You sound bitter,” said Mallory.
"Why shouldn't I?” replied the horse. “We're not all like Eohippus here, any more than we're like Man o’ War or Secretariat."
"Very few horses are like Man o’ War or Secretariat,” remarked the detective.
"That's because very few are as healthy!” snapped the horse. “I was a racehorse for six years, and I never took a sound step, never spent a day without pain. I used to feel my jockey's whip dig into me while I was running on swollen legs and inflamed ankles, and I'd wonder what I had done to make God hate me so."
"I'm sorry to hear it,” said Mallory.
"You weren't so sorry the day you threw your tickets in my face and told my trainer to chop me up for fishbait."
"I did that?” asked Mallory, surprised.
"I never forget a face."
"Then I apologize."
"That gives me a lot of comfort,” said the horse bitterly.
"I get emotional at the track,” said Mallory uncomfortably.
"People get emotional at the track. Horses never do."
"That's not entirely true,” said Eohippus gently. “There are exceptions."
"Name one,” challenged the horse.
"I remember Ruffian,” said Eohippus, his tiny face lighting up at the recollection. “She loved the racetrack.” He turned to Mallory. “Did you ever see her?"
"No, but I've heard she was really something."
"The best filly that ever lived, bar none,” said Eohippus decisively. “She was in front from her first stride to her last."
"And she was dead six hours later,” said the dark-faced horse. “Her last stride shattered her leg."
"True,” said Eohippus sadly. “I lost a whole inch that night.” He shook his head. “You'd almost think the Grundy had bet against her."
"The Grundy?” said Mallory eagerly. “What do you know about him?"
"He's the most powerful demon in New York,” replied Eohippus.
"Why would he want to steal a unicorn?” continued Mallory.
"Other than the usual reasons?"
"I don't know. What are the usual reasons?"
"Ransom, for one."
Mallory shook his head. “No. He hasn't made any demands."
"Well, there's always the horn. It's worth a fortune on the black market."
"Does he need a fortune?"
"No."
"What else is a unicorn good for?"
"Not much,” said the dark-faced horse contemptuously.
"Under what circumstances was it stolen?” asked Eohippus.
"It was in the care of an elf named Mürgenstürm, and it was stolen about ten hours ago by the Grundy and a leprechaun called Flypaper Gillespie."
"I've heard of him,” said Eohippus thoughtfully. “He's a formidable character in his own right."
"Do you have any idea where I can find him?” asked Mallory.
"No. But I don't like the thought of any animal being abused. If you'll wait until the snow lets up tomorrow morning, I'd like to join you."
"I can't wait,” said Mallory. “In fact, I've already stayed here longer than I should. There's a deadline."
"What kind of deadline?” asked Eohippus curiously.
"Mürgenstürm's guild is going to kill him if I don't find Larkspur by sunrise."
"Larkspur?" whinnied Eohippus, startled, and all up and down the row of stalls the name was repeated in awed tones.
"Is he something special?” asked Mallory.
"He is if the Grundy's got him!” said Eohippus.
"I don't think I understand."
"Once every millennium a unicorn is born that possesses a nearly perfect ruby embedded in its forehead, just below the horn,” said Eohippus. “It's rather like a birthmark."
"I take it Larkspur has one."
"He does,” said the tiny horse.
"And that makes him worth enough money to interest even the Grundy?"
"Money has nothing to do with it,” said Eohippus. “The ruby provides a doorway between worlds—and it is a source of enormous power in itself. The Grundy has two such stones already, which is why he is the Grundy. Who knows what he'll become once he adds a third one?"
"Everyone keeps telling me that magic doesn't work here,” complained Mallory, “and yet it seems to be the single governing force of this place."
"The stones aren't magical,” said Eohippus.
“They have certain properties, totally consistent with the laws that govern the physical universe, that create a permeable membrane between universes and allow their possessor to channel his electromagnetic brain waves more efficiently than anyone else."
"What would they do if they were magical stones?” asked Mallory, confused.
"The same thing,” said Eohippus.
"Then the difference is semantic."
"The difference is scientific,” the little horse corrected him.
"But the result is the same."
"In essence."
"What do you suppose the Grundy plans to do with this power?"
"He's already got everything he wants from this world,” said Eohippus. “I would imagine he'll want to expand into your world next. Forgive me for jumping to conclusions, but you are from that other Manhattan, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"I thought you didn't go there just to bet on horses."
"Why?” asked Mallory.
"All this harping about magic, as if the means were more important than the result. All that really matters is what the Grundy will do with Larkspur's stone, rather than how he will do it."
"I'll go along with that,” agreed Mallory, walking to the door. “I'd better be on my way."
"Where will you go?” asked Eohippus. “Whether the unicorn you were following was Larkspur or not, you'll never be able to pick up his trail in this blizzard."
"I know. I think the only option left to me is to find a phone book."
"Why?"
"I need to hunt up a Colonel Carruthers, if he lives in Manhattan."
"What does Carruthers have to do with Larkspur?” asked Eohippus.
"Nothing. But he seems to be the only unicorn expert around; at any rate, he's the only one I know about.” He paused. “If Mürgenstürm shows up, tell him to check out Carruthers’ address and catch up with me there."
"I'm coming with you,” said Eohippus decisively: “You're a stranger here; you could waste hours just trying to find a phone book, let alone hunt down this Colonel Carruthers."
"I'll have to carry you,” said Mallory, bending down to lift the tiny animal into his arms. “The snow is over your head."
"It's not over my head!” said a huge chestnut horse at the far end of the barn. “I can carry you both."
"No,” said a roan gelding, “I'll carry them."
"Silence!” thundered the dark-faced horse, reaching down and opening the latch to his stall door with his teeth. "I'll carry them."
