A Game of Horns: A Red Unicorn Anthology

by Gregory D. Little

  Squirral clenched her teeth at how meek and deferential he appeared when others could see.

  “Our daughter’s place is at home,” Mother said.

  “What if she escapes again?” the Queen said.

  “Oh, that will not happen, I assure you. Will it, Krystal?” Mother’s gaze bored into her.

  “I’m sorry,” the Queen said, “but it’s not your decision. She’s twenty-three.” So beautiful she was in her authority, so confident—things poor Krystal could never be.

  “But she is sick!” Mother said. “We all know it. Even she knows it most of the time. She needs to be home where we can take care of her.”

  “She’ll get the best care here in Narnioz. Our magical elixirs can stabilize her humors. After that, we can talk about ways to silence the demons—”

  “No!” Mother said. “There are boys here. Boys who fornicate.”

  The Queen swallowed as if something bitter was caught in her mouth. Why didn’t she order Krystal’s mother to silence? Maybe Mother had worked some sort of evil spell, sucking away the Queen’s power like blood.

  Squirral didn’t know what “fornicate” meant, but it must be the most evil thing in the world, like biting heads off babies and puppies.

  The Queen turned to Squirral. “Krystal, how is the medication working?”

  Mother said, “She doesn’t need your medication! Or therapy!” Her voice dripped with disdain. “Jesus is the best counselor. She needs nothing more than prayer.”

  The Queen’s face hardened. “The magic potions I have given her are the best thing we have to make the demons go away.”

  You will never be free of us! the demons growled, slithering and sliding in great coils of turgid muscle through her brain.

  Oh, yes, I will! Squirral snarled. Someday, I will be free of all of you. She opened her hand, and her mighty sword, Glamsting the Foe Pounder, flashed into existence, ready for battle.

  “Krystal,” the Queen said, “put down the letter opener, please.”

  Krystal did, and Squirral scowled inside.

  “If you insist on only natural remedies,” the Queen said to Mother, “I can recommend vitamins and tinctures that will benefit her general health and mood. But only the magical elixirs have an efficacy for suppressing the demon voices. They must be used with the supervision of a licensed wizard.” The Queen turned to Krystal. “You look like you’ve lost weight. How’s your appetite been? How are you sleeping?”

  Mother said, “She sleeps all day and eats like a cow.”

  The Queen’s face tightened again. “If you’re not going to let her answer the questions, I must ask you to leave.”

  Mother’s lips puckered.

  “Krystal?” the Queen said.

  The demons said, You sleep a lot. And you eat enough.

  “I sleep a lot,” Krystal said. “And I eat enough.”

  Mother straightened again. “You have no power to keep her. She’s coming home.”

  The Queen said, “Just to be clear, I do have the authority to keep her, if she wills it. Krystal, I’ll ask you again, do you want to stay here?”

  She was not Krystal. She was Squirral.

  Mother’s face was twisted and sour, reddish-brown like a rotten apple. Father’s was crumpled up like a piece of parchment. Both of them looked at her with hardened expectation.

  Squirral wondered how long Krystal’s parents would lock her in her room this time.

  “No,” Krystal said.

  You fool! Squirral shouted at her.

  The Queen gazed at her with infinite sadness.

  Please use your power, Squirral cried, but Krystal’s lips would not obey. Keep me here.

  “If you’re not suicidal or dangerous to others, I cannot force you to stay. I think you should, for a while, but I cannot force you.”

  You want to go home, the demons said, hissing in her brain like a nest of serpents, their vile, sensitive tongues licking and tasting and tickling.

  “I want to go home,” Krystal said.

  The Queen sighed heavily. “Then we will see how you’re doing next month.”

  O O O

  The backseat of the carriage smelled like wet Karl. It happened every time her guardian protector, Karl the Royal Mastiff, frolicked in the afternoon rain showers in the courtyard.

  Karl and Squirral had an understanding. They both wanted to get away.

  “Is Karl okay?” she asked.

  “I’m sure he’s fine!” Mother’s voice sounded like an orc’s.

  “Honey-baby?” Father glanced in the rearview mirror, his voice high and simpering, like talking to a tantrum-prone three-year-old. “You can’t keep running off like that, sweetie. You could get hurt really bad. We only want what’s best for you, you know that, right?”

  She looked out the window, past all the other carriages on the great thoroughfare, toward the mountains in the distance, where strange lands awaited discovery, where rivers awaited swimming, rocks awaited climbing, and where there were unicorns to show her the way.

  O O O

  It was telling her mother about the unicorn that got Krystal branded as “crazy.” Until then, she had just been “a pain” with an overactive imagination and an obsession for squirrels.

  Mother often yearned for the day when they could find some gullible man to marry Krystal and take her off their hands. But no one from the Church wanted to marry a crazy girl. Krystal had not met any boys since her parents had pulled her out of school at twelve and vowed to homeschool her in the bosom of the Lord—and to keep her talk of squirrels and unicorns and the demons in her head from embarrassing the family.

  “She’s such a handful!” Mother wailed, as if mousy Krystal ever acted against her mother’s wishes.

  Squirral, on the other hand, was a warrior princess who could ride the unicorn out of her attic into the forested mountains, who could swan dive from sparkling waterfalls and feel the delicious caress of the water against her skin, who could raise Glamsting in defiance of tyranny wherever she found it. Squirral had her own voice, her own desires, her own feelings.

  It was Krystal they wanted. They hated Squirral.

  “Oh,” her mother lamented, “if only we had given you a proper name like Rebecca or Sarah.”

  She was Squirral.

  The unicorn had been so real, so vivid, so alive there in her attic room, tossing its head. A scarlet destrier, obsidian mane flowing in a wind only Squirral could feel, a glimmering pearlescent horn as thick as Krystal’s wrist, a coat gleaming like fresh blood, diamond-hard hooves clomping on the creaky floorboards. The perfect war beast for Squirral the Warrior Princess.

  She couldn’t remember which had come first, the unicorn or the drawings plastering her walls. It was getting difficult to remember the order of things.

  Mother stripped the drawings away as fast as Squirral could produce them. Entire boxes of her scribing instruments—colored quills and wax styli and sheaves of parchment—evaporated in her creative frenzy, giving life to the unicorn and the memories it imparted of the hills and forests of its home, of its friends the jabberwocks and winged monkeys and fauns and talking lions and great eagles.

  When the unicorn first appeared, all Squirral could say was, “I thought unicorns were white.”

  “My color is chosen by the girl I visit,” the unicorn replied.

  “Why have you come?”

  “You called me.”

  “But why did you answer? Why me? Why now?”

  “You must answer those questions yourself.”

  Kill it! the demons whined and wheedled. Take your blade and slash its throat! Cut off its horn, and you will be free of us forever!

  She stared at the unicorn for a long time as it trembled there, as if every fiber of its flesh yearned to charge into battle, its glow suffusing her, sparkles seeping into her skin like glitter. She rubbed her arms to smooth the hairs. Then she got to her feet, faced it, and touched its nose.

  It was like the softest silk, and elec
tricity tingled through every part of her, turning her skin so sensitive she could feel the weave of her pajamas.

  At her touch, the unicorn’s trembling ceased.

  Krystal said, “May I touch your horn?”

  The unicorn lowered its head. The horn was smooth, spiraled. A tingle passed into her fingers, through her body.

  “Where do you want to go?” the unicorn asked.

  O O O

  Orcs caught her in the library when it opened in the morning, books piled up around her like a nest.

  They kept repeating, “How did she get in here? It was locked up tight!”

  They dragged Krystal away with their big, rough orc hands around her arms. She fought bravely, valiantly, but their strength was too much.

  That was the first time they brought her before the Queen.

  O O O

  “What did you do while you were out there?” Mother said. “Live like a weasel?”

  No, a squirrel, Squirral said.

  “What did you eat for three days? We searched everywhere!”

  Krystal shrugged.

  Father drove into the carriage house. As always, she had to duck under the wheelbarrow and an old, rusty bicycle to get out.

  “Goodness sakes, you’re even dirtier in the daylight!” Mother said. “How did you get to be such a filthy girl? Inside and out. What man would ever want you? Get upstairs and clean up.”

  Krystal nodded and trudged upstairs. She got into the Waterfall of Warmth and Solitude and let the water and steam sluice over her, let it patter against her head, like a baptism, washing her clean.

  Sometimes Krystal did strange things in the shower, so Squirral just let her do them and guarded the door.

  Squirral watched in the steamy mirror as Krystal toweled her body—quickly, as if touching it disgusted her. She hated Krystal’s hangdog expression, but she liked Krystal’s hard, wiry form, the way the muscles of her arms and shoulders and between her small breasts rippled like a warrior’s muscles. A lifetime of tension cranked as tight as a crossbow string did that to a person.

  As she stepped out of the Grotto of Nymphs amid a boiling cloud of steam, a sharp voice made her jump.

  “Put some clothes on!” Father said. “You look like a whore.”

  She stood in the hallway, her moist hair draping her shoulders, her face flushing red, the overlarge Jesus Is Lord T-shirt hanging past her knees. Mother had told her it was okay at bedtime, as long as her knees were covered and she wore underwear and a bra.

  The words stung as if he had spanked her. He just stood there, looking her up and down, scowling, his mouth pinched and working.

  Finally Squirral snarled at him, and he went away.

  O O O

  When she was twelve, her father had said, “What do you want that dog for anyway? He’s just a mangy old mutt.”

  “He has a good heart,” Krystal said. She could feel it beating as she ran her fingers through the mud-caked fur of his chest. “God sent him to me.” Her parents would respond to this argument. “Why else would he keep showing up?”

  The dog smiled and licked her face. I am not a mangy, old mutt! he said. I am a Royal Mastiff, Karl von Woofenstein.

  She hugged him and didn’t mind that his coat was full of burrs and he stank of muddy riverbed. “He says he is a Royal Mastiff. His name is Karl.”

  “That’s no mastiff. Looks like a cross between a Saint Bernard and a Buick.”

  “I don’t care!”

  Father shoved his hands in his pockets, deep, until his arms disappeared all the way to the shoulders. “He stays in the backyard. And if you don’t pick up after him, I’ll shoot him.”

  O O O

  When she was twelve, she discovered the school library. Hers was a small town, having only a small school with a small library, but there were 4,297 volumes filled with previously unimagined wonders. When she was done counting, she considered how long it would take to read every single one. Even if she read one book a day, it would take her almost twelve years to finish them all.

  O O O

  When she was twelve, she learned how to lose herself for hours in worlds more real than her own.

  O O O

  When she was twelve, she was reading a book on the front porch when a squirrel, plump with preparation for winter, scampered up beside her and sat down on its haunches, quick and furtive, but bold. Its deep brown eyes brimmed with wisdom.

  I am your totem animal, it said. I will be your friend. And so it was.

  O O O

  When she was twelve, she drew a unicorn for Jimmy Owen. Her heart had been beating so loud she couldn’t think straight. He had smiled, and his cheeks turned red. She wanted him to say something, but he didn’t.

  O O O

  When she was twelve, her father went on a squirrel-murdering spree with his .22. He piled seven squirrel corpses on the front porch and made her look.

  O O O

  When she was twelve, she got her first period. Her mother pulled her out of school a week later.

  O O O

  In the deep of night, as Krystal lay on the floor of her room, bathed in flashlight, tongue tucked against her upper lip, the unicorn took shape on the paper under her hands. How she loved its flowing ebon mane, its eyes brimming with ferocity and wild wisdom.

  A floorboard creaked in the hallway, stealthy.

  Squirral froze. Her heart hammered impossibly fast, her mouth suddenly dry as fallen leaves.

  Something outside her door, breathing heavy, husky. It was an orc, maybe the chieftain himself. For long minutes, the breathing lingered, close, as if a face leaned against the wood.

  The doorknob twitched, but it did not turn.

  Suddenly, her muscles free, she flung herself up and across the room and snatched a wooden chair.

  The doorknob began to turn.

  Squirral jammed the chair under the doorknob and threw her weight against it.

  One last jerk and the doorknob stilled. Footsteps retreated quickly.

  The orc had never gotten in, and it never would. Squirral was too alert, too wary, always on the lookout for danger.

  She could not imagine what the orc would do if he got in—maybe fornicate her—but it wouldn’t be good.

  O O O

  Are you not weary of being poor little Krystal In The Attic? Squirral said. Locked up and beaten down, with your hair all combed and braided like a kid’s, wardrobe of nothing but pajamas!

  Some days, when Mother allowed her downstairs after she vowed to behave herself, Krystal sat in the backyard brushing burrs out of Karl’s coat. He flinched as she dragged out the most deeply embedded ones and then licked her face.

  “Where do you go at night?” she asked him.

  I leap the castle wall and patrol the countryside for orc spies, of course.

  “I want to go with you,” Squirral said. “We’ll run away together.”

  No, milady, Karl said.

  Oh, YES, do! DO! the demons hissed and burbled, rising half out of their lava pools. Do run away again! Run away where that foul queen with her vile “medicines” can never find you!

  The words chewed away tiny pieces of her every time the demons spoke.

  You are so fat and ugly, people will mistake you for an ogre. They will kill you, and oh, will not that be fun to watch! the demons sneered.

  “Shut up!” Krystal whimpered, clutching her ears, a gesture which only contained the demons more tightly in her head.

  And let’s not forget stupid! No school in thirteen years! Still in the seventh grade! Why, you don’t even know what “fornicate” means! Stupid, stupid Krystal …

  Squirral rose, Glamsting coalescing in her hand, “Silence, you foul, calumnious knaves!” She stabbed the point of sword into the floor. “One more word and I shall send you back to hell!”

  The demons laughed, knowing Squirral was powerless to hurt them, but they went away for a while anyway, jeering.

  The Orc Chieftain’s voice roared up the stairs, “Wha
t the hell are you doing up there? Cut out that racket!”

  The noise so startled her, Glamsting clattered to the floor like a yardstick.

  Quivering with anger, Squirral spat at the closed door.

  How had Squirral and Krystal gotten upstairs? Where was Karl?

  Darkness had already fallen; he must be on patrol.

  The yearning to go with him ached behind her breastbone.

  Grabbing up her quills and styli, she wondered if perhaps she could.

  O O O

  “Karl’s gone!” Krystal cried. “I can’t find him!”

  Her father glanced at her from his easy chair. “Stupid mutt probably ran off again.” The television blared with some news program full of loud, angry, frightened people.

  “We have to find him! Mom!”

  “I’m sorry, dear.” Her mother kept crocheting on the couch.

  Neither of them would meet her gaze.

  The sobs turned her words into a slurry. “How long has he been gone?”

  Her father shrugged. “Must have run off while we were looking for you. The whole world’s going to hell, and you’re worried about a stupid dog. Sumbitch growled at me all the time anyway.”

  Krystal expected her mother to chastise him for foul language, but instead she said, “It’s the End Times.” A flash of sullen guilt crossed her face.

  “Now, go on. You’re making me miss my show,” her father said.

  O O O

  The unicorn charged into her room, skidding on the carpet of drawings, a swirl of crimson glitter settling upon Squirral’s bare arms like droplets of gore.

  She stood, Glamsting in one hand and bag full of walnuts and acorns in the other. She said to the unicorn, “Take me to Karl.”

  “Alas, I cannot.”

  “Why?”

  “I cannot find him.”

  “Then let’s search for him!”

  “I can only touch points of this world like pearls in a necklace.”

  Anguish shuddered through her. Karl, her only friend in the world, was gone. “Then take me out of here.”

  “Where do you wish to go?”

  “Away.”

  The unicorn tossed its head, and its mane settled around its muscled neck like liquid charcoal. “The cost is too high.”

  “What is the cost?”

  “I cannot tell you until you are ready to pay it. But I am bound to you, thus I will take you where you wish, in your own world, and watch over you until sunrise, when I must return to my own.”