The Unicorn Trade

by Poul Anderson

  Getting back to fictional ones, though, it’s surprising how many purely literary instances I can think of offhand. Norman Douglas’ South Wind has a St. Dodecanus who—even in the probability-world of the novel—looks implausible. Karen tells me there’s a St. Katy the Virgin who was a pig (again using the word in its original sense) but she can’t remember any details. There is certainly a pig that goes to Heaven in Der Heilige Antonius von Padua, Wilhelm Busch’s hilarious parody of the medieval Lives of the Saints. (He also originated the Katzenjammer Kids, way back in the last century; they were Max und Moritz then.) Science fiction fandom has an Order of St. Fantony. The most famous hallows in science fiction itself are surely Boucher’s Aquin—though here again you’re left in doubt whether the sanctity is real—and Miller’s Leibowitz. Fritz Leiber’s robots in The Silver Eggheads have a cult of saints with names like Karel and Isaac.

  Not all are so pleasant. I once described an accursed church of St. Grimmin’s-in-the-Wold, and a sonnet by H.P. Lovecraft warns you: “Beware St. Toad’s cracked chimes.” But of course the ultimately sinister figure in this subclass of dubiously benevolent imaginary saints is Trinian.

  Some names lead me to wonder about their possible calendrical origin. Who was the St. Peter (Ste. Pierre) Smirnoff whose name adorns vodka bottles? Any killjoys who claim that “Ste.” stands for “Société” and is a feminine form anyway, will please take their business elsewhere. I want to believe in some good, kind, white-bearded holy man who passed the miracle of turning water into vodka. Does St. Exupéry derive from a Christian named Exuperius, whom Nero martyred by shooting him from a catapult? St. Gaudens and St. Saëns likewise revive a flagging sense of wonder.

  There are millions of St. Johns. About forty years back, a Robert St. John was a well-known journalist and radio personality. He was also bearded, long before this was fashionable. The story goes that once he was waiting for a friend in a hotel lobby. A stranger came up and asked who he was. “I am St. John,” he replied, a bit miffed at not being recognized. “Ah,” said the stranger, “here for the Baptist convention, I suppose?”—I shall always think of him as St. John the Commentator.

  Who is not to be confused with St. John the Persian, a writer of poems, or with that Burroughs illustrator, the late J. Allen, who is surely St. John of Barsoom.

  The title of saint has sometimes been humorously bestowed, notably on Simon Templar. I’ll close this piece with an anecdote which probably no one but Minnesotans and the omniscient Avram Davidson will appreciate. Years ago, the state university there had a physics professor named Anthony Zeleny, a very moral man who gave little lectures on the evils of smoking and drinking, in between differential equations. Now the tech students at Minnesota have an annual day of parades, ceremonies, and frolic, presided over by St. Patrick, the patron of engineers. (When he chased the snakes from Ireland, he invented the worm drive.) So one year a float came along bearing an enormous caricature statue of Professor Zeleny, cigarette in one hand, whisky bottle in the other, and gorgeous blonde on his knee. The float was labelled “St. Anthony Falls.”

  —Poul Anderson

  ORIGIN OF THE SPECIES

  I can see it now: they were ready to lift gravs

  (Or whatever they did) but the cats weren’t in the ship.

  “Here, kitty!” they called, in whatever outlandish way

  They spoke to cats; but the cats were out in the sun

  Rolling about and sparring, and didn’t come.

  They held the airlock open, with tentacles

  Or claws or something, that clenched impatiently

  (I know how they felt) but the cats still wouldn’t come.

  And then they tried to catch them; well, what good

  Has that ever done, when cats don’t feel like coming?

  The cats scampered off, flicking their tails in the air,

  And all climbed up in some trees; and there they sat

  Sneeringly patient. Nothing could be done—

  It was time to leave—they put it in the log,

  “Third planet of Athfan’s Star: the cats deserted.”

  —Karen Anderson

  CONJUNCTION

  (Venus and Jupiter, February 1975)

  How pale is Venus in the lingering light

  When sun is set, but day is not yet done;

  While in the thronging lights of middle night

  Great Jupiter has splendor matched by none.

  But watch them now, as in the western sky

  Along the paths for them aforetime set

  He night by night strides lower, she more high,

  Until the stars of Power and Love are met.

  Behold, as night around them darkens, how

  Queen Venus’ glory overmasters Jove,

  Nor doubt the truth of what we witness now

  On earth below as in the skies above:

  For as each subject to the king must bow

  So even kings must bow them down to Love.

  —Karen Anderson

  ADONIS RECOVERED. The asteroid 1936 CA Adonis, missing for 41 years, has now been recovered.—Sky and Telescope, April 1977.

  ADONIS RECOVERED

  We first beheld him twoscore years ago,

  Poor fleeting pebble, named and straightway lost

  Amidst the myriads of the starry host

  Whose birth and death and life we seek to know;

  Among the worlds of nobler state and show

  How briefly seen was faint Adonis’ light

  Ere he receded into Stygian night,

  Thenceforth to come unsought, unseen to go.

  Unseen, but not forgotten: we but wait

  Until we have the means to find our strays:

  As with Adonis, Venus’ wandering lover,

  Lost asteroids anew we calculate,

  And comets long perturbed to distant ways

  We still remember, hoping to recover.

  —Karen Anderson

  THE PIEBALD HIPPOGRIFF

  The edge of the world is fenced off stoutly enough, but the fence isn’t made that will stop a boy. Johnny tossed his pack and coil of rope over it and started climbing. The top three strands were barbed wire. He caught his shirt as he went over, and had to stop for a moment to ease himself off. Then he dropped lightly to the grass on the other side.

  The pack had landed in a clump of white clover. A cloud of disturbed bees hung above, and he snatched it away quickly lest they should notice the honeycomb inside.

  For a minute he stood still, looking out over the edge. This was different from looking through the fence, and when he moved it was slowly. He eased himself to the ground where a corner of rock rose clear of the thick larkspur and lay on his belly, the stone hard and cool under his chin, and looked down.

  The granite cliff curved away out of sight, and he couldn’t see if it had a foot. He saw only endless blue, beyond, below, and on both sides. Clouds passed slowly.

  Directly beneath him there was a ledge covered with long grass where clusters of stars bloomed on tall, slender stalks.

  He uncoiled his rope and found a stout beech tree not too close to the edge. Doubling the rope around the bole, he tied one end around his waist, slung the pack on his back, and belayed himself down the cliff. Pebbles clattered, saxifrage brushed his arms and tickled his ears; once he groped for a hold with his face in a patch of rustling ferns.

  The climb was hard, but not too much. Less than half an hour later he was stretched out on the grass with stars nodding about him. They had a sharp, gingery smell. He lay in the cool shadow of the world’s edge for a while, eating apples and honeycomb from his pack. When he was finished he licked the honey off his fingers and threw the apple cores over, watching them fall into the blue.

  Little islands floated along, rocking gently in air eddies. Sunlight flashed on glossy leaves of bushes growing there. When an island drifted into the shadow of the cliff, the blossoming stars shone out. Beyond the shadows, deep in the light-filled gulf, he s
aw the hippogriffs at play.

  There were dozens of them, frisking and cavorting in the air. He gazed at them full of wonder. They pretended to fight, stooped at one another, soared off in long spirals to stoop and soar and stoop again. One flashed by him, a golden palomino that shone like polished wood. The wind whistled in its wings.

  Away to the left, the cliff fell back in a wide crescent, and nearly opposite him a river tumbled over the edge. A pool on a ledge beneath caught most of the water, and there were hippogriffs drinking. One side of the broad pool was notched. The overflow fell sheer in a white plume blown sideways by the wind.

  As the sun grew hotter, the hippogriffs began to settle and browse on the islands that floated past. Not far below, he noticed, a dozen or so stood drowsily on an island that was floating through the cliff’s shadow toward his ledge. It would pass directly below him.

  With a sudden resolution, Johnny jerked his rope down from the tree above and tied the end to a projecting knob on the cliff. Slinging on his pack again, he slid over the edge and down the rope.

  The island was already passing. The end of the rope trailed through the grass. He slithered down and cut a piece off his line.

  It was barely long enough after he had tied a noose in the end. He looked around at the hippogriffs. They had shied away when he dropped onto the island, but now they stood still, watching him warily.

  Johnny started to take an apple out of his pack, then changed his mind and took a piece of honeycomb. He broke off one corner and tossed it toward them. They fluttered their wings and backed off a few steps, then stood still again.

  Johnny sat down to wait. They were mostly chestnuts and blacks, and some had white stockings. One was piebald. That was the one which, after a while, began edging closer to where the honeycomb had fallen. Johnny sat very still.

  The piebald sniffed at the honeycomb, then jerked up its head to watch him suspiciously. He didn’t move. After a moment it took the honeycomb.

  When he threw another bit, the piebald hippogriff wheeled away, but returned almost at once and ate it. Johnny tossed a third piece only a few yards from where he was sitting.

  It was bigger than the others, and the hippogriff had to bite it in two. When the hippogriff bent its head to take the rest Johnny was on his feet instantly, swinging his lariat. He dropped the noose over the hippogriff’s head. For a moment the animal was too startled to do anything; then Johnny was on its back, clinging tight.

  The piebald hippogriff leaped into the air, and Johnny clamped his legs about convulsed muscles. Pinions whipped against his knees and wind blasted his eyes. The world tilted; they were rushing downward. His knees pressed the sockets of the enormous wings.

  The distant ramparts of the world swung madly, and he seemed to fall upward, away from the sun that suddenly glared under the hippogriff’s talons. He forced his knees under the roots of the beating wings and dug heels into prickling hair. A sob caught his breath and he clenched his teeth.

  The universe righted itself about him for a moment and he pulled breath into his lungs. Then they plunged again. Wind searched under his shirt. Once he looked down. After that he kept his eyes on the flutter of the feather-mane.

  A jolt sent him sliding backward. He clutched the rope with slippery fingers. The wings missed a beat and the hippogriff shook its head as the rope momentarily checked its breath. It tried to fly straight up, lost way, and fell stiff-winged. The long muscles stretched under him as it arched its back, then bunched when it kicked straight out behind. The violence loosened his knees and he trembled with fatigue, but he wound the rope around his wrists and pressed his forehead against whitened knuckles. Another kick, and another. Johnny dragged at the rope.

  The tense wings flailed, caught air, and brought the hippogriff upright again. The rope slackened and he heard huge gasps. Sunlight was hot on him again and a drop of sweat crawled down his temple. It tickled. He loosened one hand to dab at the annoyance. A new twist sent him sliding and he grabbed the rope. The tickle continued until he nearly screamed. He no longer dared let go. Another tickle developed beside the first. He scrubbed his face against the coarse fibre of the rope; the relief was like a world conquered.

  Then they glided in a steady spiral that carried them upward with scarcely a feather’s motion. When the next plunge came Johnny was ready for it and leaned back until the hippogriff arched its neck, trying to free itself from the pressure on its windpipe. Half choked, it glided again, and Johnny gave it breath.

  They landed on one of the little islands. The hippogriff drooped its head and wings, trembling.

  He took another piece of honeycomb from his pack and tossed it to the ground where the hippogriff could reach it easily. While it ate he stroked it and talked to it. When he dismounted the hippogriff took honeycomb from his hand. He stroked its neck, breathing the sweet warm feathery smell, and laughed aloud when it snuffled the back of his neck.

  Tying the rope into a sort of hackamore, he mounted again and rode the hippogriff to the pool below the thunder and cold spray of the waterfall. He took care that it did not drink too much. When he ate some apples for his lunch, the hippogriff ate the cores.

  Afterward he rode to one of the drifting islands and let his mount graze. For a while he kept by its side, making much of it. With his fingers, he combed out the soft flowing plumes of its mane, and examined its hoofs and the sickle-like talons of the forelegs. He saw how the smooth feathers on its forequarters became finer and finer until he could scarcely see where the hair on the hindquarters began. Delicate feathers covered its head.

  The island glided further and further away from the cliffs, and he watched the waterfall dwindle away to a streak and disappear. After a while he fell asleep.

  He woke with a start, suddenly cold: the setting sun was below his island. The feathery odor was still on his hands. He looked around for the hippogriff and saw it sniffing at his pack.

  When it saw him move, it trotted up to him with an expectant air. He threw his arms about the great flat-muscled neck and pressed his face against the warm feathers, with a faint sense of embarrassment at feeling tears in his eyes.

  “Good old Patch,” he said, and got his pack. He shared the last piece of honeycomb with his hippogriff and watched the sun sink still further. The clouds were turning red.

  “Let’s go see those clouds,” Johnny said. He mounted the piebald hippogriff and they flew off, up through the golden air to the sunset clouds. There they stopped and Johnny dismounted on the highest cloud of all, stood there as it turned slowly gray, and looked into dimming depths. When he turned to look at the world, he saw only a wide smudge of darkness spread in the distance.

  The cloud they were standing on turned silver. Johnny glanced up and saw the moon, a crescent shore far above.

  He ate an apple and gave one to his hippogriff. While he chewed he gazed back at the world. When he finished his apple, he was about to toss the core to the hippogriff, but stopped himself and carefully took out the seeds first. With the seeds in his pocket, he mounted again.

  He took a deep breath. “Come on, Patch,” he said. “Let’s homestead the moon.”

  —Karen Anderson

  THE COASTS OF FAERIE

  Minna was a child of the fisher folk who dwell by the narrow harbor of Noyo on the western sea. Every morning she went with her father into his boat, for no sons remained to him, to draw the ling cod from the cold salt-stinging water. Whether in sun or cloud or rain, each day they went forth; and whatever the weather near shore, there was always a bank of low-lying mist that retreated toward the horizon when they approached it.

  One day as they returned to the narrow harbor Minna was sitting in the stern of the boat. She had taken the last fish from the hooks and coiled the lines. Now she looked behind, and saw that the mist was become clean-edged and had taken on the shape of hills like those of the land she knew.

  “Look, Father!” she cried. “What land is that?”

  “It is only the mist,�
�� said her father without turning, for the wind gusted about the bluffs and the harbor was not easy to enter.

  “But look! There are hills afire with scarlet flowers!”

  “It is only the sunset,” said her father. They passed under the headland, and the sight was gone; and at the wharf the fish must be unloaded for the fish market, to be sold to the folk who lived in the town atop the bluff.

  Many a time did Minna see that coastline as they returned with their fish to the harbor of Noyo, but her father would never look. “See to the lines,” he would say. “It is only the mist.” And Minna learned not to speak of it, but she watched. Not twice alike was the line of the hills, and the burning flowers changed their seeming as she watched: now poppies, now roses, now lilacs and purple heather. By this Minna understood that it was Faerie she saw. She looked, as if trying to will herself there: across the dark bitter water of the fishing grounds, to the silver shallows under the long lines of the hills, to the blossoming colors of the ridges. But her father bade her see to her work; and so she coiled the line. Its heavy hooks caught at her hands and left scratches that burned from the salt water.

  When they came home, she would wash away the salt and salve the scratches, but they would scab and break open again the next day. And each night she went to her bed in the little room under the roof, and she dreamed of the hills of flowers, where youths and maidens wore robes of changing colors and danced a long dance along changing slopes and ridges. And every day was the same as every other, as they took the boat from the gray wharf and out of the narrow harbor and set the bait on the barbs of the hooks.

  Out of the west one evening came a wind that smelled of roses and cinnamon, and on it were drifts of petals. “Look! Oh, look!” Minna cried; but her father would not look. She held up her hands and caught at the glowing petals, but when they touched her salt-burnt hands and the salt-crusted deck they vanished.

  Minna gazed astern. Never had she seen those bright hills so close. Little wonder that the petals flew and the scent of flowers rode over the sea! The coast was so close that it almost seemed she might swim to it. As she gazed, she saw a gray dolphin frolicking in the wake.