The Legacy

by Suzanne de Montigny

  Azaria whipped around and broke into a gallop. They searched, but never found him. When they returned, all they could do was watch, their hearts sick while Ishmael led Dorianna from dwelling to dwelling, each time with the same results, the cries of joy and the filthy sack growing fuller and fuller.

  “Look, Gaelan, her horn has changed colour. It’s grayish,” cried Azaria as the sun approached the horizon.

  Dorianna had slowed her pace. She staggered and then stumbled. Catching herself, she pushed forward, her eyes dull and listless. Taking a few more steps, she shuddered, and then fell. Ishmael grabbed her cord and pulled with all his might to force her up. The mare trembled, but couldn’t rise. He shouted, and then pulled out the dreaded whip. She let out a hoarse neigh, her eyes wild with fear, struggled to her feet and traveled a few more steps, only to collapse again. Ishmael raised the whip, striking his mark, but this time she didn’t move. He kicked her, but it was too late.

  “She’s dead,” cried Gaelan.

  “Oh, my gosh!” shouted Azaria. “We’ve got to warn the others!”

  The young unicorns galloped, their hooves thundering, to where they finally found Polaris and the herd. Azaria recounted the story, his voice shaking. The herd listened, stunned, and then broke into loud neighs and whinnies of grief.

  “We must do something,” cried a mare. “Otherwise, all the unicorns will die, and we’ll cease to exist.”

  Azaria watched Polaris. The stallion’s tail and ears twitched. He’d never seen the noble stallion look so unsure or frightened in all his life. The great leader stared at the settlement, helpless, defenseless. Azaria thought he saw the glint of tears in his eyes as he turned away.

  “Darius was right,” Polaris said, facing the herd. “Ishmael is far worse than the Rexus. I was so wrong. We’re all in grave danger.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Powder

  Ishmael basked in the glory of a hero. He had single-handedly been responsible for the destruction of the plague. The frail townspeople held a ceremony for him and built a monument in his name. Women threw flowers at his feet, and the men honoured him with flasks of their finest wines. Ishmael strutted about for weeks until the townsfolk grew weary of his gloating, and he became just another man.

  “I don’t get it. I save the whole town from the plague and everyone’s already forgotten about it?”

  He paced back and forth, fuming, before turning his attention to the sacks of gold sitting on his table.

  “Hmmm! Nine bags for nine unicorns,” he said aloud, placing a finger on his lip. “Let’s see. It’ll cost five bags to pay for the new house. That leaves four.” He dreamed of the envious looks the townsfolk would give when they saw his new home, but he wasn’t satisfied. Ishmael wanted more. He approached Adiva.

  “The men will begin the work on the house tomorrow,” he said, breaking the icy silence of the room.

  “So be it,” she said, her voice void of emotion as she uncovered the rising bread dough.

  Ishmael’s muscles tensed at the coldness of his wife. “So what’s wrong now? I thought you’d be happy being so rich.”

  “I would think a daughter, a wife, and food on the table would be enough riches for anyone.” She turned and pointed an accusing finger at him. “And why did you have to kill the mare that saved Ali? That was unforgivable!” She thrust her fist hard into the dough, turned it over, and punched it several more times.

  Ishmael’s face reddened at the memory of his behaviour during Ali’s illness, but it wasn’t his fault. There was a plague going on. Anyone would have done the same.

  “It’s just an animal,” he growled, his voice filled with sarcasm.

  “No she wasn’t. She saved your little girl’s life. And for that, you should be eternally grateful.”

  Ishmael’s shame burned deep. He bowed his head for a bit, then shook it hard and changed the subject. “That’s all in the past. Now let’s think about the future.” He rubbed his hands with greed. “I think I know of a way to make more gold,” he said.

  Adiva didn’t answer – just kept pounding – but he persisted anyway.

  “There are nine horns. I could grind them up into a healing powder. Then I could go upriver and sell it for a fortune.”

  His eyebrows rose at the thought of his fame in another town. His chest puffed out as he imagined the scene: more monuments, more flowers and wine, and best of all, more gold.

  “And how do you know the healing powder would even work?” she asked, the tension in her voice as sharp as a knife. “Those nine unicorns died because they couldn’t handle that much disease. I doubt there’s any magic left in those horns.”

  “There’s always the others,” he said, twiddling his fingers together in anticipation. “I could take them upriver.”

  “But you can’t transport them. Remember how hard it was to get the horses here? These animals are far more intelligent. They’d escape.”

  “All the more reason to try the powder.” He flashed a wicked grin and left the house before she could argue.

  He set out to where Dorianna’s skeleton lay along the path, but when he got there, he found two small bouquets of laurel laid by her bones. Puzzled, he picked up the bundles, stared at them, and then threw them aside. He sawed off the mare’s horn from her skull and wrapped it in a soiled cloth. Returning home, he ground it to a fine powder. The horn smelled, so he threw in lavender for good measure. Next, he added some sweet clover to lessen the bitter taste. After a few hours, he thought he had a finished product.

  The next day, he marched into town, his head held high. He walked past the monument where the flowers had shriveled and dried, where the streets now lay quiet. A few men raised their hands in acknowledgement, their faces void of any camaraderie as he passed them. Ishmael smoldered inside. No respect – he’d show them.

  Strutting as though he didn’t care he, he found his way to his old neighbour, Zeb. He knocked, but there was no answer. Pushing his ear close to the door, he heard a weak call from within.

  “Can’t an old man get any rest around here?”

  “Zeb, it’s me, Ishmael,” he said, his voice as sweet as strawberries.

  “Away with you! I’m in rough shape today. My joints are just killin’ me, and it hurts so bad that I can’t even cover myself with my blanket. Not only am I in pain but I’m freezin’ too. I should’a let the plague get me,” Zeb complained, breaking into the rattling cough of an old man.

  Ishmael ignored Zeb’s rudeness and shoved the door open. “Well, I have just the thing for you then.”

  “What? You got a unicorn hidden in that bag somewhere? I thought you killed them all off.”

  “No, my man,” said Ishmael hiding his annoyance at the accusation.

  “Well, that’s what I heard,” said Zeb, coughing again, this time much deeper.

  “I have a few left, but I’ve got something better.” He pasted on a phony smile.

  “What?” Zeb croaked.

  “Healing powder, made from the horn of a real, genuine unicorn. Guaranteed to cure you of all your ills.” Ishmael recited his well-practiced sales pitch.

  “Healing powder, you say?” The old man looked a little interested. “But will it work?”

  “Try it and see,” said Ishmael, hiding his excitement. He removed one of the sacks, took a pinch of the powder and dropped it onto the old man’s shriveled tongue.

  “Aaaaacccckkk! That’s the worse stuff I ever tasted. What’d you put in there – horse dung?”

  Zeb gagged and retched several times, but managed to swallow the foul mixture. When the gagging had passed, he lay back. A few moments later, his sour old face cracked like dried earth into a smile, and he sat up.

  “You know, I think it actually worked. The pain’s gone.” He rose to his feet. “I feel new. This is amazing!” Walking about like a spry young man, his eyes glowing, he asked, “How much do you want?”

  Ishmael lured his prey in. “Two pieces of gold for this sack full.�
��

  Zeb’s eyes widened, and his eyebrows slowly locked together. “That’s a lot!”

  “Well, that’s my fee. Take it or leave it,” said Ishmael, the corners of his mouth turned up in a sly grin.

  “Ishmael, you know what I’ve always thought of you and your business dealings,” reproached the old man.

  “Take it or leave it.” Ishmael’s voice was firm.

  Zeb dropped a hard fist on the table. “Alright, then!”

  Ishmael left the house, a broad, triumphant smile on his lips. He spent the rest of that afternoon harvesting the remaining horns. Again, he was puzzled when he noticed each skeleton had two small bouquets laid carefully beside them.

  “Who’s doing this?” he muttered to himself. “They’re just animals.” He kicked the bouquets aside, scattering leaves everywhere. “The fools.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Commemoration

  “Let us commemorate those who died,” said Mohala, her voice solemn and heavy with emotion.

  Azaria listened as Polaris spoke first the names of those deceased, telling stories of each one, praising them, and shedding tears. Other unicorns spoke too, sharing funny anecdotes of their fallen friends. But after the laughter died, the humour merely made them lament all the more.

  His head held low, Azaria remembered the last great meeting when they had all played and enjoyed each other’s company. How things had changed. Gone was the freedom and simplicity of the life they once reveled in. Sure, things had improved since the fireball, but the one thing they couldn’t fix was the presence of the creatures-that-walk-on-two-legs. They’d never leave, and they’d keep depleting the herds. Azaria sighed. How much more could they take?

  Orpheus, the storyteller rose and asked to speak. Everyone grew silent as they did whenever he spun one of his yarns.

  “My friends,” he said, taking a deep breath, “I have a message for all of you – from the dead.”

  Azaria’s mouth dropped.

  “From the ghost of Dorianna.”

  A few of the mares drew in sharp breaths while the others mumbled all at once.

  “Oh stop your nonsense, you old big-hoof,” scoffed one of the males. “Your stories are nothing but a lot of hot air.”

  “Yeah,” cried an older unicorn, “This isn’t a party. It’s a commemoration.”

  “Leave him be!” shouted Azaria. “He may just be the storyteller, but he deserves respect too.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not time for such shenanigans,” said one of the mares. “Ishmael desecrated Dorianna. He sawed off her horn.”

  “And all the others who gave up their lives for the creatures too,” added a male, his voice rasping with hatred. “Who does Orpheus think he is anyway? Darius?”

  Azaria raised a brow at the mention of the dinosaur’s name. “Come on, let’s hear him out,” he insisted. “He’s always good for a story or two. Besides, you haven’t heard what he has to say yet.”

  “Oh, all right,” grumbled the angry male.

  The crowd quieted down. Orpheus cleared his throat and began his story.

  “It happened the other day. I was wandering down the trail where Dorianna died, when I saw a shimmering near her skeleton. I stared for a few moments, thinking my eyes had a film over them. After all, I’m not young anymore, and eyes grow dim with age. But what I saw was real. My heart leapt and I was just turning to flee, when I heard someone call my name. I stopped dead and turned to face whoever or whatever it was. The voice spoke again, saying that it was she, Dorianna, come back from the dead.”

  Their eyes wide, the unicorns moved in closer to listen.

  “I couldn’t really see her the way I see all of you now. It was more like peering through steam rising above a fire, only there was no flame. But I answered all the same and asked her what she wanted from me since I’m just the storyteller. She burst into tears and sobbed bitterly. I didn’t know what to do. Should I console her? After all, she was a ghost. So I waited. When her tears dried, she said she was angry with Ishmael for taking her life before her time. She said to tell her family that she missed them, and that someday she hoped to see them again. And then she told me something that sent shivers down my spine.” He paused.

  “What? What?” The words traveled like a wave over the herd.

  “She said ...” he dropped his voice low, “‘Beware of Ishmael. He is a ruthless creature with no conscience, and he has far worse in store for all of you. Don’t wait for his next move. You must flee him!’” His voice rose on the word flee.

  Gasps rose from the herd.

  Nathaniel moved forward to speak. “If what you’re saying is true, then we should destroy Ishmael before he destroys the rest of us.”

  The young males brayed and thumped their hooves in support of his words.

  “Silence,” shouted Mohala.

  The grumbling died down, but the faces remained sour.

  “Violence is not the answer,” Polaris said.

  “And why not? We can’t do anything else. We’re all just sitting here waiting for Ishmael to capture or kill us. And pretty soon, there won’t be any unicorns left!” Nathaniel neighed fiercely.

  Polaris’ eyes lit up dangerously. “It doesn’t matter what we do or how many humans we kill,” he said, his voice filled with venom, “because not a single one of you can open the pen! And until one of you figures out how, stop complaining!”

  Dead silence met his words. The tension cut like thistles.

  “Ah … I think I may have a solution,” Azaria offered, his voice hesitant.

  The unicorns rumbled again for a moment, and then quieted down.

  “Speak then and share your idea,” said Mohala.

  “Someone mentioned Darius earlier.” He paused, and looked around. “I think I know where he is.”

  The mares broke into high-pitched whinnies.

  “But surely he’s dead.” cried one of them. “There wasn’t enough food.”

  “No, he ran away from Ishmael because he knew he was in danger. He told me he had a purpose in life, and I think that it has something to do with us. And I’ll swear by the magic in my horn that he’s still alive and hiding out in the other valley. With Father’s permission, I can leave immediately and find him. I’m sure he’ll know what to do.”

  The herd nickered with hope, and soon their voices rose in an exuberant chorus of unicorn chant.

  “Let him go,” they called out. “Let him go.”

  Mohala quieted them again.

  “All right then, my son,” said Polaris. “You may go.”

  Then as Azaria turned to leave, Polaris whispered in his ear, “And fast before the herd turns violent.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Darius

  Azaria had been walking for hours in the cold night air when the sun finally rose in all its promising glory. His shivering ceased when its rays warmed his body, and his pace quickened at the thought of seeing his old friend again. He imagined the look on Darius’ face. Maybe the dinosaur already knew he was coming. Breaking into a canter, Azaria hurried until he spied the entrance to the valley, and then stopped.

  Suppose he hasn’t survived. What if I find him dead like the other dinosaurs?

  Scenes of the destruction of the fireball haunted him. He trembled with fear, and then, gathering up his courage, he rounded the corner, his heart thudding hard in his chest. He took a few more steps and ... leapt with joy!

  “It’s beautiful. Oh, my gosh! It’s like it was before the fireball. The waterfalls – everything! And so green ... except ... the plants have changed.”

  A ray of hope filled him. Could all this lush vegetation mean that Darius was alive and well? He didn’t have long to find out, for there a ways before him, stood the tall dinosaur, full-grown now, waiting for him.

  “Darius!” Azaria sprang forward and danced around the huge beast, holding back tears of happiness. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  The lofty dinosaur lowered his head to Azaria’s
level. “And I’ve missed you,” he said, his eyes watering. “I never wanted to leave the herd, but I had to. It was the only way. I have a purpose to fulfill, and Ishmael would have taken that away from me if he found me.” He shifted uncomfortably. “It’s been difficult being alone.” Large teardrops plopped on the ground below, soaking it.

  Azaria watched as Darius cried his eyes out. When the dinosaur’s tears finally subsided, Azaria took a deep breath and blurted out, “Darius, we need your help.”

  “Why? What’s happened?”

  “Ishmael captured Solomon’s herd and killed several of our kin by using them to heal the creatures-that-walk-on-two-legs.”

  Darius thumped his tail hard, shaking the ground. “Did I not tell you all he was dangerous?” His voice thundered.

  “Yes, but I was the only one who believed you. Polaris and the others thought he was harmless, and that’s why Ishmael was able to capture them. No one had their guard up – except me.”

  Azaria recounted all that happened. He told of the nine unicorn deaths and the desecration of the skeletons. He described the dilemma of the tied trees and the threats made by the younger unicorns.

  Darius listened intently, frowning and pacing. “Idiots,” he complained, shaking his head.

  “And now, Orpheus claims to have seen Dorianna’s ghost. She says that Ishmael has far worse in mind. And I don’t know if Orpheus is just spinning one of his tales or if it’s for real.” He caught his breath and looked up pleading. “What can we do?”

  Darius shook his head harder this time. “Ishmael is ruthless. He’s driven by his own greed and his desire for power. The man won’t stop until the very clothes he wears are woven of gold, and every one of the unicorns has been destroyed.”

  The truth of Darius’ words struck Azaria with the force of one of Ishmael’s whips. He broke into a sweat. “But there must be something we can do,” he cried.