F&SF BK UNICORNS VOL 2.indb

by Gordon Van Gelder

  The Fantasy & Science Fiction Book of Unicorns, Volume 2

  Copyright © 2017 by Gordon Van Gelder

  This is a collected work of fiction. All events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form without the express permission of the publisher.

  Cover art “The Seduction”

  copyright © 2010 by Stephanie Pui-Mun Law

  Cover design by Elizabeth Story

  Interior design by James DeMaiolo

  Tachyon Publications LLC

  1459 18th Street #139

  San Francisco, CA 94107

  415.285.5615

  www.tachyonpublications.com

  tachyon@tachyonpublications.com

  Series Editor: Jacob Weisman

  Project Editor: Rachel Fagundes

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-61696-282-1

  First E-book edition 2017

  “The Black Horn” by Jack Dann. Copyright © 1984 by Mercury Press, Inc. First published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, November 1984. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Stalking the Unicorn with Gun and Camera” by Mike Resnick. Copyright © 1986 by Mercury Press, Inc. First published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, July 1986. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Sportsman’s Difficulty” by Doris Pitkin Buck. Copyright © 1959 by Mercury Press, Inc. First published The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, March 1959.

  “The Lady’s Garden” by Jane Yolen. Copyright © 1994 by Jane Yolen. First published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, May 1994. Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agents, Curtis Brown Ltd.

  “Mythological Beast” copyright © 1978 by Mercury Press, Inc. First published in Daughter of Regals & Other Tales by Stephen R. Donaldson. Reprinted by permission of Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC.

  “The Unicorn Trade” by Karen Anderson. Copyright © 1971 by Mercury Press, Inc. First published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, April 1971. Reprinted by permission of the Trigonier Trust.

  “Olfert Dapper’s Day” by Peter S. Beagle. Copyright © 2012 by Spilogale, Inc. First published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, March/April 2012. Reprinted by permission of the Avicenna Development Corp.

  “Miracle on Main Street” by Robert Arthur. Copyright © 1940 by Frank A. Munsey Company. Revised version copyright (c) 1960 by Mercury Press, Inc. First published in Argosy, July 6, 1940. Revised version first published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Aug. 1960. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

  For

  David Hartwell

  Table of Contents

  “The Black Horn” by Jack Dann

  “Stalking the Unicorn with Gun and Camera” by Mike Resnick

  “Sportsman’s Difficulty” by Doris Pitkin Buck

  “The Lady’s Garden” by Jane Yolen

  “Mythological Beast” by Stephen R. Donaldson

  “The Unicorn Trade” by Karen Anderson

  “Olfert Dapper’s Day” by Peter S. Beagle

  “Miracle on Main Street" by Robert Arthur

  The Black Horn

  Jack Dann

  FROM HIS OCEANFRONT room on the tenth floor of the Hotel Casablanca, Judge Stephen Steiner saw the unicorn standing in the shallow end of the swimming pool below. It was almost four in the morning, and most of the Christmas tree lights of the gambling ships three miles out on the ocean had been turned off. The expanse of beach ahead was dark and ominous, except for a single light that burned to the left on the beach that belonged to the Fontainebleau Hotel. But the Casablanca pool was illuminated by green and red underwater lights, giving the breeze-blown surface of the water an almost luminary quality, as of melted, rippling gems.

  The unicorn looked grayish in the light, although surely it was white, and large, at least eighteen hands high from poll to hoof. Its mane was dark and shaggy; and at first Steiner thought it was a horse. But how strange to see a horse running loose on the beach at such an hour. There must be laws prohibiting animals from running loose, he thought. Miami Beach is a densely populated area . . . surely there must be a law. Perhaps this horse had run away from its owner . . . perhaps it was part of a road show . . . a circus.

  My God, Steiner mused, how long has it been since I’ve been to a circus. . . ?

  It was then that Steiner noticed that the horse had a horn protruding from its wide forehead. He hadn’t noticed it before because the horn was black . . . and also perhaps he didn’t see it because he’d assumed he was looking at a horse, and horses didn’t have horns. But now Steiner could see that horn. It looked like black marble. It was long and fluted and would make a vicious weapon. The horn reflected the green and red light as if the light were oil flowing along its conch-like spirals.

  The unicorn dipped its horn into the pool, as if to neutralize some chlorine poison in the water, and then drank.

  Steiner reached for his glasses, although he didn’t really need them for distance. It couldn’t be, he thought, yet there it was. Perhaps it was some advertising gimmick, but Steiner discounted that thought immediately. No one would let an animal run loose at this time of night, horned or otherwise.

  Then the animal raised its head, as if sensing that it was being watched. It blew air through its muzzle and looked up at the building, slowly turning its head, scanning the windows on one story, then going on to another, until finally it seemed that the unicorn had found him. It seemed to be looking right at him, and Steiner felt transfixed, even through the thick, protective pane of glass. The unicorn knew he was there.

  It was looking at him.

  Steiner felt drawn to it . . . it was as beautiful as a childhood fantasy. Yet there was something dangerous and even sinister about it; its very being challenged Steiner’s reason, and Steiner himself. Steiner felt an almost uncontrollable urge to smash through the window and jump . . . as if by some sort of television magic he’d be able to leap through the glass and land on the unicorn’s back.

  He found himself pressing dangerously hard against the plate-glass window as he stared down at the animal below that was still as stone, watching him.

  Suddenly he wanted to jump.

  “No!” he cried, feeling sudden, reeling terror, for he knew in that instant that if he could have jumped, he would have. It was as if he had glimpsed his own death deep in the eyes of that beautiful horned stallion staring up at him from the pool.

  He turned away from the window and closed his eyes tightly, so tightly that everything turned purple for an instant. Then, slowly, he turned back toward the window. There was nothing there, just the metal lounge chairs situated around the illuminated pool, and the dark beach and ocean stretching into flat darkness. He looked to his left, toward the dimly lit Fontainebleau beach, but there was no sign of anything there, either.

  Steiner closed the curtains and sat down on his uncomfortable double bed. His hands were shaking. He reached for a bottle of kosher brandy on the nightstand beside him and took a shot right out of the tinted green bottle. The stuff tasted like hell; it was coarse, not made as well as in the past—or perhaps he just remembered the past as being better in all respects.

  He suddenly thought of his wife, Grace, who had died six months ago, God rest her sweet soul. Although he had been separated from her for over ten years, she had waited . . . waited for him to come back home. But he just couldn’t have gone back. Grace would have been a constant reminder of everything Steiner feared. He needed younger women to feed his eg
o . . . to be in awe of him. They all probably thought he had money, but they were his only barricade against the fustiness of old age . . . against death itself. They kept him feeling young.

  He felt the old guilt weighing down upon him. Grace, I’m sorry . . .

  The air conditioner was on; it suddenly felt cold in the room. The graft on Steiner’s back, where he had had a melanoma removed, hurt him tonight.

  He’d inquire tomorrow at the desk whether there were any reports of a horse running loose. It was a horse, Steiner told himself, as he lay his head against the lumpy, overlarge pillow.

  But he couldn’t fall back to sleep.

  After morning prayers in the makeshift synagogue on the fourth floor of the hotel, Steiner met his three sisters for breakfast. He escorted them to their table on the eastern side of the grand old dining room, which overlooked the beach and the perfectly blue ocean beyond. The table was prepared, and their waitress was waiting to attend them. Behind each setting was a glass of borsch mixed with sour cream. An unopened box of egg matzoth stood in the center of the table, as prominent as a bouquet of freshly cut flowers.

  Steiner sat each of his sisters and then himself.

  It was Passover, and Cele and Kate and Mollie had decided it would be better for Steiner if they all spent the holiday together at a hotel. Steiner could not disappoint them . . . somehow he would get through it. Although Cele was quite well off, she lived with her two sisters in Flatbush. Those two counted their pennies as if they were all being chased by the specter of relief. But Cele would spend her money for a good cause, especially if it involved family and religion . . . so this was a real vacation for them. And who knew how long Steiner might have them, anyway? Cele was the youngest, and she was seventy-seven.

  Steiner was five years her junior. . . .

  “It’s another beautiful day,” Cele said brightly, placing her green linen napkin on her lap. She wore a crisp red flowerpot hat that matched her square-shouldered jacket with patch pockets. It was as if she had never left the 1940s. Her dyed blonde hair was combed down smoothly, and tightly rolled up at the ends, and she was growing a bit thin on top. She had a long, oval face with great blue eyes, the same lively eyes that used to tease Steiner sixty years ago. Cele was going to make the best of her vacation in the sun. “Don’t you think so, Stephen? Isn’t it a beautiful day? Of course, you live here in Florida, so sunshine is probably old hat to you.”

  Steiner managed a smile, but he was in a disagreeable mood. Two hours of sitting and standing and praying with a congregation of evil-smelling, doddering old men had sapped him of all joie de vivre . . . had soured his morning. Although Steiner had always prided himself on being a religious man—he donned his prayer shawl and phylacteries every morning to pray toward the east, and it was to just that habit that he attributed what wealth and fame and good fortune he had acquired over the years—he couldn’t stand being around old people. It was as simple as that. Steiner glanced uncomfortably around the room. Just sitting in the dining room made his flesh crawl—this entire hotel seemed to be filled with the most Orthodox and the oldest of Jews. Association could kill you . . . would kill you. Make your flesh shrivel right up. That was another reason why Steiner had never gone back home; even before his beloved Grace had died, she smelled of the grave. Her skin had turned wrinkled and dry, and she exhuded an odor that could not be concealed by even the most expensive perfume.

  He turned to Mariana, his waitress, who was ready to take their orders. Her very presence lightened his mood. She was Brazilian, dark, strong-featured, with full lips and tilted green eyes; her wiry black hair, though disguised in a bun, was long. She couldn’t be more than twenty-one, the epitome of youth itself. Steiner flashed her a smile and ordered breakfast for his sisters and himself. He felt as if he were swelling up, regaining everything he had lost upstairs in the synagogue; and he heard a pompous affectation come into his voice, which was rather loud and bombastic, but he couldn’t help himself . . . and anyway, a fine, articulated sentence had always impressed the young ladies.

  When Mariana left and the busboy was out of earshot, Steiner’s sister Kate said, “You know, Stephen, you make a fool out of yourself talking like that to the waitress.” Kate was two years older than Cele, and she seemed to bear a grudge against any woman under sixty . . . or so Steiner thought. Kate had once been beautiful, high-breasted and thin-waisted, but now she had become puffy. She dyed her hair orange-red. Steiner nicknamed her “the Flying Nun” because she wrapped paper around her hair every night so it wouldn’t muss.

  “I’ll thank you to mind your own business, ma’am,” Steiner said stiffly, still using the artificial inflection he used with people he wished to impress. Cele gave Kate a nasty look and shook her head. Mollie, who was the oldest, didn’t seem to be listening; instead she began talking about her children, who were supposed to visit her the week after Passover.

  “Well, he does make a fool out of himself,” Kate said to Cele.

  “Stephen’s right,” Cele said, speaking sharply but in a low voice. “Mind your business.”

  “We can’t even talk to each other around here,” Kate said petulantly, as she smoothed out the napkin on her lap. Kate was overdressed in a silk gauze summer dress trimmed with black; she also wore a small pillbox hat with a veil.

  “Why are you wearing a veil this morning?” Steiner asked. “You look like you’re still in mourning.”

  “Well, I am . . . and you should be, too!” Then she caught herself. “I’m sorry, Stephen. I’m just not myself this morning—”

  “On the contrary, you’re very much yourself this morning,” Mollie interrupted. Mollie wore a tan suit and blouse. Her hair was gray and frizzy, and she had a crinkly, Irish-looking face.

  “Mollie, shut up,” Kate said, and then continued talking to Steiner. “I didn’t sleep well last night at all. I have a canker sore or something in my mouth, and my whole jaw’s killing me. I don’t even think I’ll be able to eat.”

  “Oh, she’ll eat,” Mollie said sarcastically.

  “And for your information”—Kate was still talking to Steiner—“I’m wearing a hat because this is a religious hotel, and religious women are supposed to wear hats. I can’t help it if the hat has a veil.”

  “She’s right, Stephen,” Cele said. “Look around, all the women are wearing hats.” She self-consciously adjusted her own hat.

  “Of course I’m right,” Kate said softly, indicating by her tone of voice that she was willing to drop the argument.

  Mariana brought the food, purposely serving Stephen first, which stimulated a tssing from Kate. Steiner teased the waitress by telling her how beautiful she looked, and she blushed and backed away.

  Cele changed the subject by saying, “I think we should all sit by the pool when we’re finished with breakfast. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

  “I’m going upstairs,” Kate said. “I’m not feeling at all well.”

  “Kitty, you can take me upstairs with you,” Mollie said. She was slightly infirm, and had trouble navigating stairs by herself.

  “I think we should all spend at least a few minutes together in the sun,” Cele said firmly—although she was the youngest, except for Steiner, she made all the decisions for her sisters.

  “He shouldn’t be out in the sun with his cancer,” Kate said petulantly.

  “You see, there she goes again,” Mollie said to Cele. “Always starting something.”

  Cele flashed Kate a nasty look, and Mollie seemed pleased with herself. Then Cele said in a calm, quiet voice, “The morning sun is not dangerous, I’m told . . . it’s the afternoon sun that has the dangerous rays.”

  Steiner nodded without paying much attention, but he always sided with Cele. She had enough of a cross to bear, living with and supporting her two sisters. He looked up and smiled generously at Mariana as she cleared the table. He could see the tiny dark hairs bristling on her arms, and could smell her slightly pungent, musk-like odor. She returned hi
s smile, her cheeks dimpling, and for an instant their eyes met. Steiner felt his heart pump faster . . . felt his glands open up. He imagined making love to her . . . imagined her naked and holding him like a baby in a dimly lit bedroom. She would be beautiful naked, he thought, daydreaming about how she would look with her hair undone and hanging loose down her bare back. She would look like a wild animal. . . .

  She’s a perfect madonna, he thought . . . but then he had thought that about every waitress and shop clerk and hatcheck and typist he had ever dated. Perhaps later, when his sisters went upstairs for their afternoon nap, he’d work up the courage to go into the hotel kitchen and ask her out. He could buy her a tall, lemony drink by the pool, talk to her in whispers, caress her, and then take her back to her apartment. . . .

  That thought alone gave him the strength to take his sisters outside to the pool, where they could gab and complain and gossip in Yiddish with their newfound octogenarian friends and neighbors.

  Steiner did not go upstairs with his sisters, but made the excuse that he wished to take some more sun and maybe a walk before going inside. Cele seemed a bit agitated that he would get sick from too much sun, but he promised to sit in the shade near the cabanas. Steiner felt nothing but claustrophobic in the presence of his sisters.

  “I wouldn’t mind taking a walk myself,” Cele said, standing over him and looking forlornly out to sea.

  “Come, we’ll take a walk now down Collins Avenue, and then you can sit in the sun if you really want to.”

  “Well, I have to go upstairs,” Mollie said. “My feet are killing me.”

  Kate, who had wanted to go upstairs earlier, now said, “I wouldn’t mind taking a walk and doing some window-shopping. It might be good for me, make me forget how much my jaw is aching me.”