They walked along the edge of the cliff, going far enough from the waterfall that Grimwold could speak without having to work to be heard above its sound. Ivy found a seat on a moss-covered rock. Grimwold stood before her and cleared his throat.
“You know, of course, that long ago the unicorns lived on Earth.”
“Of course,” said Ivy solemnly.
“And that they came here because they were hunted so ferociously that they were in danger of extinction.”
“Yes,” said Ivy sadly.
“But do you know what happened to your world after they left?”
She shook her head.
“Then I shall tell you.”
The old dwarf closed his eyes for a moment. Ivy heard the flick of wings above her, the occasional cry of a night-bird, a rustling in the nearby bushes. When Grimwold finally began to speak his voice was deeper, softer, calmer than usual.
This is the tale he told her:
In the long ago and sweet of the world, when things were slower but hearts were no less fierce, there came a time when the unicorns had to leave.
This was not done easily, nor was it done without grief. Earth was home to the unicorns, and they were part of it, horn and mane and hoof. But to stay was to die, for the hunting of unicorns by their enemies had become all too successful.
Finally they fled here to Luster.
The passage was not an easy one, and more than one unicorn gave its life to help in the creation of the first door between the two worlds.
When the great migration was over, and the last unicorn had left, it was as if the earth itself sighed with loss and sorrow.
For what is a world that has no unicorns?
That loss and that sorrow grew within the hearts of those who lived on Earth. Even those who had never seen a unicorn, never heard of a unicorn, felt the passing of something sweet and wonderful. It was as if the air had surrendered a bit of its spice, the water a bit of its sparkle, the night a bit of its mystery.
But only a few knew the reason for this.
Not all felt the loss in equal measure, naturally. The coarse and the crude were but vaguely aware of something making them uneasy in their quiet moments. Most people simply felt a little sadder, a little wearier. But for those most open to the beauty of the world and all its joys and sorrows, there was an ache in the heart that grew greater by the day, until it seemed that grief would overwhelm them.
Painters painted only scenes of sorrow; singers and players now made only mournful music; storytellers, sensing the loss, told tales that made their audiences weep long into the night, and offered no light tales, no comedy, for relief.
Gloom enfolded the world.
And finally a child—it’s always a child, you know—decided something had to be done.
She was the daughter of a storyteller, and seemed likely to become a storyteller herself. Her name was Alma, and she had a heart of steel and fire. She went to her brother, Balan, and said, “Something is wrong, and I am going to find out what. Will you travel with me, brother?”
And though Balan was more given to doing than to thinking, to fighting than to feeling, he agreed to go with his sister, for he did not want her to travel alone. She gathered some food and a few coins, which she carried in a pack on her back, and several of her father’s best stories, which she carried in her heart, and set out. She went on foot, and Balan walked beside her, one hand always on his sword.
The sword was much needed, for the road was perilous. It had always been dangerous, even in the best of times. But with the passing of the unicorns, hearts had become hungry, and in some that hunger had turned to viciousness.
For three years Alma and Balan traveled through peril and pain, and many times Balan’s sword saved them from disaster, and many other times Alma’s stories gained them food and shelter, and sometimes even a clue.
Finally, weak and weary, wandering through a deep forest, they came upon the home of an old magician named Bellenmore. It was set in the side of a hill, and magic hung thick about it. When they first approached the door it began to sing, calling, “Bellenmore, Bellenmore! Wanderers two outside your door!”
Then a wall—or something like a wall, for they could not see it, only feel it—rose in front of them, and they could go no farther.
There they waited until an old man came limping out of the cottage. Glaring at them from under bushy eyebrows, he said in a voice that creaked and cracked with age, “Well, what do you want?”
“We want to know what’s gone wrong with the world,” said Alma, her voice gentle, coaxing. “For three years now things have seemed flat and stale. Something is lost, and we have come seeking it.”
Bellenmore closed his eyes, and gave out a sigh so heavy it seemed to flow not from his body but from someplace deep in the earth itself. “I was afraid of this.”
“Of what?” asked Balan, struggling to raise his sword, which seemed frozen at his side.
“Of exactly what this girl—your sister, I assume from the look of her—has just described. The unicorns have gone, and when they left they took with them something that is essential to the human heart.”
“The unicorns!” said Alma, with sudden understanding. “Where have they gone? And why? How did they get there? Can I follow them?”
“Hold, hold!” cried the old magician, raising his hands. “One question at a time.”
He studied them for a moment, then made a small gesture with the little finger of his right hand. The invisible wall disappeared, and Balan gained control of his sword once more.
“You may come in,” said Bellenmore.
Balan glanced at his sister. “Do you think it’s safe?”
“Nothing is safe,” she said sharply. Then she stepped forward, toward the old man, and followed him through the door into the hill.
The inside of his house was warm and cozy, and slightly strange. A green fire crackled on the hearth. On the mantel above the fireplace stood a row of earthenware mugs with hideous faces. One of them winked at Alma, another leered and rolled its eyes, and a third stuck out its tongue and made a rude noise. Then they all began to sing a bawdy song, until Bellenmore waved a hand to silence them.
The tables and chairs were made of dark wood, and ornately carved—some with odd designs, others with scenes of dragons and unicorns. At one side of the room was a tall oaken stand; a thick book rested open upon it. The longest table held a glass cage with no top. Inside the cage was a lizard, which was resting its front legs on the upper edge of the cage and staring out at them with a curious expression.
“Sit,” said Bellenmore, gesturing toward one of the chairs.
Alma sat. Balan stood behind her, both because he had not been invited to sit, and because he would not have sat even had he been asked. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword.
Bellenmore did sit, his robe shifting and whispering around him as if it were alive.
“Alas, the unicorns,” he said sadly.
“What happened to them?” asked Alma.
“They were driven away. There is a family that holds an ancient grudge against them, and the hunting had become so fierce it seemed they all might perish. Finally the unicorn queen came to me and asked if I might open a door for them, as I had done for the dragons.”
“The dragons?” asked Balan, confused.
The magician shrugged. “It was much the same thing. The world is changing, boy. Wildness and magic are in retreat before the rise of men. Better—much better—it would be for science and magic, order and wildness, natural and supernatural to live together. But that cannot be, at least not for now. So the dragons have gone, and the unicorns had to leave as well. I helped them open a door to a place that they have named Luster. It is a good place for them. But they did take a piece of our hearts with them when they went.”
“Send me through the door,” said Alma.
The old man looked startled. “That’s not possible.”
“Why?”
Bellenmore b
lew a puff of air through his shaggy white mustache, then looked down at his knobby hands. Finally he said, “The queen wouldn’t like it.”
“I don’t like what’s happened here,” replied Alma firmly. “I must speak to them.”
“They are not tame beasts, you know.”
“I am not a tame girl.”
Bellenmore stood. “Come here.”
Alma rose from her chair and went to stand before the magician. He reached into the pocket of his robe and drew out a leather bag. “Here,” he said. “Take this for your troubles.”
The bag was very heavy. Alma untied the strings that held it shut and glanced inside.
It was filled with gold and jewels.
She snorted and handed it back to him. “Don’t be silly. That’s not what I came for.”
A corner of his mouth twitched upward in what might have been a smile. “I guess it’s not,” he whispered. He looked at her for a moment longer, and she could tell that he was testing her again, even more than he had with the bag of gold, though she couldn’t tell how.
Finally he sighed. “I have to get something,” he said gruffly. “You stay here.”
After she had nodded her agreement, he crossed to a door at the far side of the room. When he opened it and stepped through he seemed to disappear into a shadowy gloom. Balan started forward, but Alma touched his arm and he resumed his stance behind her chair.
When Bellenmore returned he was holding a golden chain, from which dangled a crystal amulet. Inside the crystal was coiled a long strand of white hair that seemed to glow with a light all its own.
“This amulet was a gift of the queen,” he said. “There are only five such in all the world. It will allow you to pass into the land of the unicorns.”
Alma took it from him. It felt warm in her hand.
The magician leaned forward and in whispered tones told her how to use it. Her eyes grew wide, and just a hint of fear showed in them, but she nodded to show that she understood.
“And what do I do when I get there?” she asked.
“That, my girl,” said the wizard, “is entirely up to you.”
“Come with me,” said Alma.
The old man looked at her in surprise. He started to answer, paused, then shook his head. “This is for you to do,” he said softly. “Alone.”
Balan placed his hand on his sister’s shoulder and glared at Bellenmore.
“She must go alone,” repeated the old wizard.
Grimwold paused and looked at the sky. “I’m taking too long to tell this. They’re going to want me down below soon.”
“You can’t stop now!” cried Ivy. “What happened to Alma?”
“Well she came through, of course. But you know how that goes. You’ve done it yourself.”
“But what then?”
Grimwold glanced at the sky again. “Then you and I went back down the cliff,” he said abruptly. “Because it is not a good idea to keep the queen waiting.”
Ivy started to protest again, but he raised his hand. “I have to tell the whole thing down there anyway,” he reminded her. “You’ll hear soon enough.”
She sighed, and turned to follow him back down the path. When she did, she gasped in astonishment. The gathering of unicorns was complete. There must have been a thousand or more waiting in the grotto below. And though the sky was settling into darkness, from their gathered horns came a glow that lit the night, a glory that brought a sharp sting of tears to her eyes.
“They are beautiful,” said the old dwarf, and for a moment there was no hint of gruffness in his voice, only love and wonder.
Ivy nodded, unable to speak.
They made their way back down the trail, which was lit by the glory of unicorns, passing near enough to the waterfall on several turns that its spray dampened their clothes.
At the base of the cliff Cloudmane stood waiting for them.
“Let it be me,” she said desperately. “I want to be the next Guardian.”
“You’re mad,” replied Grimwold, brushing past her.
Ivy hesitated. She knew she should follow Grimwold. But the unicorn, whom she had not met before, was clearly in great distress. She stopped, glanced uneasily at the dwarf, who did not look back to see if she was still coming, then put her hand on Cloudmane’s neck. The mane felt like living silk.
“What is it?” she asked softly.
Cloudmane simply shook her head and turned away. Trotting silently back to join the others, she melted into the glory so smoothly that Ivy lost track of her in just seconds.
The girl sighed. Grimwold was far ahead of her now, and she scurried to catch up. Before she had gone ten paces, a pair of tall stallions barred her path.
“Only Grimwold goes on from here,” said one of them, gently but firmly. “Other two-legs stand over there.”
Ivy started to protest, then remembered it was a privilege to be here at all. She looked after Grimwold and suddenly realized that following him now would be like walking out onto a stage during a play—or rushing up to the pulpit during a church service. She turned in the direction the unicorn had indicated and saw a handful of humans and near-humans (including two elves and a gnome). They were standing beneath a clump of blue trees that were almost like the pine of Earth, yet somehow different, too, of course. She recognized Master Chang, the painter, and old Madame Leonetti; the others were strangers to her.
She went to stand with the group.
The ceremony began.
The queen spoke first, greeting the gathered glory with what was clearly great joy. Yet there was sorrow in her voice as well.
Then came a song that was made not of sound but of light, and which Ivy heard not with her ears but with her heart.
When the song was over a tall stallion walked slowly to the front of the group. He stood for a moment, then trumpeted a call that pierced the night, seeming to split the sky itself. A deep silence—a quiet unlike anything Ivy had ever experienced before—fell over the clearing. Even the voice of the waterfall seemed to have disappeared.
The stallion spoke into that silence in a voice that was no more than a whisper, but that carried to the farthest edges of the glory. “We are here to choose the next Guardian of Memory. It is a position of honor and horror, of strength and sorrow, of glory and grief. He who fills it must be strong and swift, brave of heart and fleet of foot, able to endure not only pain and loss but also the piercing joy of unexpected love that cannot last. To ready your hearts, listen once more to the story of the First Guardian.”
Into the silence stepped Grimwold. The old dwarf began to speak, telling them all that he had told Ivy and more, adding details of the unicorns’ first passage to Luster and how it had come to be.
Though Ivy had just heard the story, she hung on every word, drinking it in, trying to understand still more deeply. By the time Grimwold came to the point where he had left off before, she felt as if she were not hearing the story, but living it.
Now (said Grimwold) when Alma Leonetti entered the land of the unicorns, she had—as should be no surprise—adventures strange and wondrous. She was captured by the delvers and held prisoner for three years. In her escape, she saved a young princeling named Moonheart, who was much beloved of his mother, the queen. When the two made it back to the court together, the grateful queen offered Alma a boon.
Alma stood, small and quiet. She looked around at the unicorns. Gathering her breath, and her courage, she said, “Come home.”
A murmur of horror rippled through the glory.
“Come home,” said Alma again, and this time tears were coursing down her cheeks. “Something good is dying without you.” She stepped toward the queen, and touched her, which was a great crime. But the queen did not move away.
Pressing her cheek to the queen’s, burying her face in that mane that felt like spun cloud and smelled of the sea and the forest and something more, something that cannot be named, Alma whispered, “Hearts grow hard and weary. Pain spreads, and joy diminishes
. Those who hated you hate you still, but those who loved you, or would have loved you, or wanted to love you but never had the chance are being scraped hollow by a loss they don’t understand. Come home. Please come home. We are withering without you.”
“The world is not kind to us, child,” whispered the queen.
“It is even unkinder without you,” replied Alma fiercely.
Then, her face pressed close to the queen’s ear, the storyteller’s daughter began to sing of all that the unicorns had left behind, the good and the bad, the oceans and the forest, the mountains and the sky. She sang of all that she had seen in her long wandering to find the unicorns. Pulsing through her song was the sorrow she herself had felt with their passing. Beneath that quivered the love of things unseen and mysteries unsolved—of untouched joy waiting just past the next moment—that had vanished with the passing of the unicorns.
And as Alma sang, the queen remembered all the humans the unicorns had loved over the years, humans who had loved them back with open hearts, humans who had fought and died for them. She remembered, too, the world that had given them birth, a world no more beautiful than Luster, but no less so, either. And she thought of her own son, whom Alma had saved from the delvers, and finally she said, “Peace, girl. Be silent. Here is what I will grant you. From this time forth, there shall always be one unicorn—one and one alone—who lives in the world of our birth. That unicorn will have to be enough, enough to remind you of what was, and what can be. He will live alone, in the high places. He will not be seen often, or by many. But his presence should be enough to keep something alive in you. He will guard the memory of what has passed to this world, and the sight of him will help to keep it alive. Those who know such things will know, and those who understand such things will understand, and it will be, if not enough, then something. Something.”
Then she turned to her son Windfoot and said, “Will you be the first?”
And Windfoot agreed, and so it was, and so it will be. Windfoot returned to the land of the humans for five and twenty years, and when his time was up a glory of unicorns gathered to choose a new Guardian of Memory, who went to take his place. And again it was done, and again, and yet again, for these many centuries, though not all the Guardians of Memory survived their full five and twenty years. For the hunting still goes on, and the world is full of danger.
Homeward Bound and Other Stories.indb Page 5
