by Sean Platt
They trained. The boy asked constant questions that Edward forced himself to answer even though he often found them annoying.
“Edward,” said David. “Can you help me?”
The unicorn was standing in a field outside the city walls, watching from a distance as the boy took aim at a stone with a slingshot. They’d trained David’s muscles with sticks, staffs, and thrown rocks, but the boy was best with a slingshot. As more and more time passed, Edward began to feel an ever-growing futility and wondered if he’d made a mistake. The idea that David (a boy) could defeat Goliath (a giant) with only a slingshot was absurd.
“I am helping you,” Edward said. “Aim better.”
David looked over, a rock stretched tight in his slingshot’s pouch. He made a sarcastic face then let the rock fly. His target was near, but the boy missed high and to the right anyway.
“Let me help again,” said Edward. He shifted his weight as if preparing to make a sagely point. “When you fire the slingshot, actually hit your target.”
Instead of picking up a new rock to use as ammunition, David tucked the slingshot into the back of his pants, fork and sling hanging low. He walked to the unicorn.
“No,” said David, looking up at Edward with his deep blue eyes. The eyes seemed older than the rest of him. David was indeed twelve, but his eyes were timeless, as if they looked back to the Wellspring. “I meant to help me. To fight with me.”
Edward shook his head. “A unicorn won’t get involved in human affairs.”
“But you already have. You’re helping me in this way. You told me I could fight. You made me a better slingshot. Besides, your kind have been involved plenty. My grammy told me about the unicorn incursions.”
“I know nothing of those.”
“There have been several. That’s how our stories go, anyway. So you see, you’ve already interfered. Usually on the other side, which is why some of the oldest people look at you like they do. They don’t trust you. Most humans think unicorns are disinterested in us at best, and a threat at worst. We want to believe in you, but it’s hard. We know you are white magic, and know what white magic can do. All but the worst people understand that even when you’ve fought us, it’s been for the greater good. But still, your kind are, in our tales, the army that keeps coming to take away what we have. What we’ve earned. What we have claimed for ourselves. Help me now, and everyone will love you. You’ll be our savior.”
“But then I’d be your savior,” said Edward. “They’d want me to stay, and call on me the next time you face a tyrant.”
“So?” said David. “Stay. Be my friend. We’ll rid The Realm of Goliath. We’ll find a new king and queen. My family will reclaim our house, and you can take one beside it. It will even be available. Goliath killed our neighbors before he sent us all away.”
Edward shook his head. “I don’t want to live in a human place.”
“Then help us this once. Help us with Goliath, then go on your way.”
Edward could tell that the boy hurt when he said it. He wanted the unicorn to stay — and what astonished Edward was that although he had no interest in living inside the walls of The Realm, he wanted to stay, too.
He sighed then told the boy to sit. David did, perching on the large rock he’d been shooting at moments before. The rock was seated atop a low rock wall, and wobbled as David sat. Edward resisted an urge to direct him toward a different seat lest he fall and hurt himself, but then realized what they’d been doing out here — preparing for a young boy to face a giant, apparently armed only with a slingshot. He let it go.
“David,” he said, “I have a riddle. What is the purpose of life?”
The boy shook his head.
“I’m glad you don’t know. Because I don’t either.”
David stared for a long moment then said, “That’s a terrible riddle.”
“Yar. But it’s a riddle true, so far as a riddle can be. It’s not just humans who wonder why they are here. We wonder too, and we were here first. My grappy and grammy, when I was a colt … ” Edward paused, suddenly realizing that he had no idea how long ago that had been, or how old he was now. “When I was a colt, they told me their story about the beginning. When it was only unicorns in the world — and I do mean only.” He told David the short version of Adam and Eve’s story about rotating end for end in the void, still not knowing if Grappy had been pulling his leg. The boy giggled.
“When they were the only creatures, there was no conflict. There were grasses and plains and clouds and rivers, and soon after there were other magical creatures like elves and fairies. Everything got along. Nothing killed or ate anything else; the unicorns didn’t even crop the grass. But nothing moved. Do you know what was missing?”
David cocked his head.
“Conflict. The world needed it. I’ll tell you the whole story someday, if you care to hear. For now, I’ll say that only with two sides did the machine grind forward. Then, life really began.”
“You’re saying the purpose of life is conflict?”
Edward shook his head. “I’m saying that there must be two sides. I’m also saying that nobody, even the earliest unicorns, knows why. I’m not sure what happened to Grammy and Grappy, but they believed their passing would return them to the source of everything, which they called the Wellspring. They would become part of it again, and it would be like they were never here. So here’s another riddle: If that’s true — if everything, including the wisest old unicorns, must return to their source and stop being what they were in life — why were they here?”
David, sitting atop the stone, shook his head. He said, “I don’t think you know what a riddle is.”
“I’m saying that in the end, all we have are our guesses. But as far as anyone can suppose, the only thing you leave behind once you return to the Wellspring are the changes you’ve made. It’s all you have. You change the world by being here, and for some reason, this world outside the Wellspring seems to matter. But if the Wellspring is the center and what happens here is play — destined to end and return to the center — the change that matters is the one you make to the magic inside you.”
“I don’t understand.”
Edward snorted. David said that a lot, and the unicorn hated it. Edward liked to proselytize when it was his idea but didn’t like to explain things, which was what the same activity became once the human failed to grasp what he was saying. One inevitably led to another because humans were dense, but it was irritating to explain something clearly and not be understood. No matter where Edward went after leaving The Realm, he’d find a life without dense people. If he had to spend his life explaining the world to a stupid companion, the unicorn would suffer insanity.
“Let’s just say that if I defeat your giant, it does nothing to make you better.”
“I don’t want to be better,” said David. “I just want my home back.”
“But getting better — good enough to defeat a giant better — will earn your home … and assure that it never gets taken from you again. It will make you the protector you want me to be. It’s the only way to push things forward. Right now, I have power. You have potential. If you develop it and gain your own power, the world has become more, and you are doing your duty to the Wellspring.”
It looked like David was understanding. He nodded then said, “You’re a jerk.”
It was true. But jerk or not, Edward wouldn’t help. Everything he’d told David was true, but there was more that he didn’t want to try and explain because the boy would never understand. Right now, Edward felt as if he were doing his duty to the Wellspring too. He hadn’t told the boy about the spark he saw within him. He hadn’t mentioned the deep connection he seemed to feel. Edward had walked the city, had mingled with those coming and going from its gates. He’d used his new magic to poke at any human he could find. None sparked like David. This one small boy had nobility, and it was a seed that, properly developed, could save the city.
Edward sensed a duty
to the boy, a duty to this axial world, and somehow even a duty to Grappy all at once. He remembered what Adam had said about shepherding the humans — of working to help them wield the dangerous tools that Providence had given them. This was somehow a chance to do that. Edward could guide David and help the boy meet his ability. But he could not do anything for him. Conflict sharpened the blade and made progress grind forward. The boy had nobility and light. The giant had cruelty and darkness. The world had to see that the small could still triumph over the mighty — and conversely, that the small required the mighty’s honing edge in order to become what it needed to become.
And so they trained. Edward used his magic to help David aim his slingshot but never to guide the stones. He found that he could project small red dots on the targets, which made aiming easier. He gave David exercises to do — holding stones and logs in front of and beside him at the ends of extended arms to strengthen his shoulders. He had the boy pinch hard lumps of clay between his fingers to improve his grip and stability. He had David lie on the ground and use his arms to press his body up repeatedly. He had him lie on his back, anchor his feet, bend his legs, then curl up to solidify his middle. He told the boy to grab a tree branch and hang until his grip nearly surrendered, then told him to pull himself up until his chin was above the branch. David hated all of it. He complained. He cried. He threatened to walk away, and sometimes did. But the boy always returned, once rested with his anger purged. David had a temper, but he also had a sensibility far beyond his years. He began to understand, though that comprehension didn’t kill his complaints.
Weeks passed. Time didn’t matter because David had little else to do. His family had to give half of their crops to Goliath no matter how much they grew, so they only kept a small garden to feed themselves. David had parents and siblings, and all seemed to see what was coming. They absorbed the farm’s extra work. David’s mother fretted and cried, thinking of what was to come. But then she too — possessed of the same odd sensibility as her son — came back around and allowed it to happen.
A month.
Two months.
David’s aim with the slingshot improved. Edward began providing the boy with moving targets, painting red dots on walls as they circulated like fireflies. Because the dots were magic, he could feel when David struck them — and that was good because there would have been no way to tell otherwise. The dots moved too fast, and Edward had begun to give him several, one only slightly redder than the red-orange dots he was to avoid at all costs. David’s eyes learned to pick the correct target from the decoys, to follow it, and anticipate its movements. His shoulders grew strong enough to stretch the slingshot farther, and the increased tension gave his ammunition greater speed, allowing him to strike dots before they darted too far away. He broke his first slingshot one day while drawing back, and Edward fashioned him a stronger one. Then he broke that one, and the slingshot that followed it.
Three months.
Four.
David turned thirteen. His small muscles, especially at the back of his pull arm and the front of his aiming arm, became larger. His eyes found new focus. Edward threw pebbles across great distances. David kept his slingshot at his belt, then drew, loaded, and fired twice before the pebbles struck ground.
Edward fashioned new ammunition for David out of alloys from the ground, creating very hard, smooth, heavy little balls. David’s accuracy improved. When he struck the pebbles thrown by Edward’s magic, he cracked them in half or blew them to dust.
Edward fashioned armor. He taught the boy to dodge, roll, dive, and duck. He taught him how to find and use obstacles for cover. He taught David how to be light of foot, bending his legs and ankles on every step so he hit the ground with whispers. The armor, made of a lighter material than the new slingshot ammunition, rattled and slowed him, so David removed it. Edward told him to put it back on, arguing that he’d need the armor to protect himself. But David refused, insisting that his speed and stealth were a better defense than plating. Edward didn’t argue. He met the boy’s blue eyes. He saw in their new sharpness that David wouldn’t be swayed, and that he was right.
Edward threw objects at David, and the boy learned to dodge. He fired rocks at the child, who anticipated Edward’s aim and countered. Edward challenged David to hit him, to see if the boy could catch a unicorn. David didn’t hesitate, knowing that Edward could heal. And because a good cold-hearted killer doesn’t hesitate to take any given opportunity, David had snatched the slingshot from his side pouch and fired two alloy balls into Edward’s side before the unicorn could think to raise a shield.
Edward’s magic squeezed the shells into the dirt with less malice than the unicorn imagined he should have for someone who had wounded him. David smiled, slipping the slingshot back into the strappy pouch at his side, with no indication that, were Edward a horse, he might be dead, and that David himself would have been responsible.
“Now,” said Edward, “you are ready.”
CHAPTER 24
DAVID AND GOLIATH
Everyone had heard.
That wasn’t supposed to happen. David was small, and Goliath was huge. David wore only clothing, and Goliath wore giant-forged armor. David was young. Goliath was in his prime, strong and fast and battle tested. David was kindhearted and fair. Goliath was cruel and dishonest. David had been raised to ask for permission; Goliath was used to crushing others and taking all that he wanted. Goliath needed not a single advantage, yet foreknowledge that David was coming to challenge him was definitely one.
Edward’s idea — and David had instantly agreed — was to sneak up on Goliath when he was napping in the sun on the castle grounds and slit his throat with a sword. It had been tried before, but Goliath had guards and so it had never worked. David was quieter and faster than his predecessors and could take the guards out with stealth. But when David entered the city, the entire citizenry lined up to watch him, filling the main street leading toward the castle, eyeing the child. Edward followed at a distance. The crowd asked a thousand nonverbal questions, eyes asking the unicorn if he was part of the fight. Their looks asked the unicorn if, after the battle, he and his kind would take over The Realm. Their looks asked if David could do what he was setting out to do, and asked if they should dare to hope.
Goliath had bested The Realm’s finest. Of course the boy wouldn’t win, and of course Goliath was too cruel to let him live. The Realm citizens looked reserved and sad as if watching a procession headed for the gallows. But even among the grim hordes, Edward noticed a few hopeful faces from people who were dressed like David and slightly dirty. Edward realized they were the displaced farmers who had once worked the land around the castle before the giant had ejected them. They weren’t supposed to be in the city — like David wasn’t supposed to be in the city — but they hadn’t been able to resist, eager to watch and hope that the giant might find some small measure of pain.
The farmers looked at Edward, sure that the unicorn they’d heard was training young David would come to the boy’s rescue. But of course he could not. This was David’s fight. A human fight. He couldn’t intervene. He wouldn’t intervene. Anything different was spit in the eye of Providence.
They reached the end of the three-person-deep gauntlet of citizens and found Goliath in all his misshapen and monstrous glory at the castle dooryard, standing in full armor as always, a set of massive hands in fists on his hips, his face ugly and pocked. The giant’s teeth were too large inside his mouth and made his lips bulge like an ape’s. When he opened his mouth, Edward saw that the giant only had four or five teeth, and all were in his gums wrong, jutting roughly at odd angles, sideways, canted over empty spaces like tipped tombstones. He bellowed as they approached, and Edward could smell the giant’s sour, decayed breath as if he’d been eating flesh or was rotting from inside. Edward hung back, pushing his way into the crowd to the astonishment of the shoved-aside humans. David walked on as if he were taller than he actually was.
The giant
made two big steps, seemingly just so he could make the ground shake with his footfalls. He was the opposite of David — heavy where the boy was light, obvious and stark where the boy had learned to be a shadow. But it was high noon, and the actual shadows were short, and as the enormous man and the small boy faced each other, centered in a ring of many citizens, there was nowhere to run or hide. Stealth wouldn’t help. Goliath was staring him down in front of the closed castle door.
“Go home, boy,” Goliath boomed. His voice was loud and deep but somehow strangely proper, as if he’d come from a land of manners but was warped along the way.
David stood his ground and shook his head. “I have come to fight you.”
Edward had seen humans put their faces in their hands. He suddenly wished he could do the same. This was a terrible idea. Looking at it, the absurdity was obvious. David didn’t have the element of surprise, or magic. He didn’t even have armor. His only weapon was a slingshot. And he was good with the slingshot, yar — but the giant wore armor. He was so big and tall that even David was still far even when close to the giant. The boy had fired at targets from every distance, but there was something Edward had forgotten: Even if he struck the target every time, what difference would it really make against one such as Goliath? He hadn’t even considered the giant’s imperviousness. Edward had never fought one, but giants were semi-magical. Was it possible they’d be able to regenerate? That they could summon shields? Or cast spells?
It would have been a perfect time for Goliath to laugh, mocking David. But he didn’t. Instead, the giant unfurled a massive fist from his hip. Goliath’s expression was miles from pity, but still it seemed that he wanted to offer the idiot child a chance to save himself. He shooed at David like a fly, his gargantuan hand flapping like a windmill’s blade.
