The Young Unicorns

by Madeleine L'engle

  “It’s not the same thing.”

  “You’ve known her for two years, haven’t you?” Canon Tallis asked. “Since shortly after she was blinded. You didn’t want the job of being her reader, but you love Mr. Theo—don’t deny it—and you couldn’t say no to him because you saw his grief over what had happened to the child who was the most brilliant student he had ever had, and who was far more than a student to him, who was the child of his heart. The two of you, you and Emily, are the two people in the world who mean the most to him.”

  “Dave.” The Dean came to him and put a strong hand on his shoulder in a quick gesture of comradeship. “I understand your reluctance to trust people. Trust came hard to me, too. And yours has been betrayed far too often, hasn’t it? By us here at the Cathedral as well as everywhere else. Would it help any if I tell you I trust you?”

  “Why would you?” Dave asked fiercely. “Hoods aren’t trustworthy.”

  The Dean gave his warm smile. “But, like me, you’re an ex-hood. And, Dave, I’d rather you didn’t talk about this conversation.”

  “I don’t talk to much of anybody,” Dave said, “if I can avoid it.”

  “What about the Gregorys and the Austins?” Canon Tallis asked. “Don’t you talk to them?”

  “Emily’s different. You said so yourself. She’s a musician. I think maybe she’s a genius. And the Austins are nuts.”

  “Nuts how?”

  “They’re just nuts. Crazy.”

  “But both you and Mr. Theo are rather fond of this insane family?”

  “They’re such silly, innocent idiots, and anyhow they’re great for Emily, they’re the best thing that ever happened to her, they’re much better than that hatchet-faced housekeeper, and Mrs. Austin’s a super cook.”

  “Are the Austin parents as innocent idiots as the children?” the Canon prodded.

  Dave agreed, saying somewhat crossly, “They keep expecting people to be truthful and good.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “They expect me to be.” He gave a rasping laugh. “Okay, now: you just met Vicky in the park, didn’t you? Look at the way she dumped everything out, telling you about the genie and all, as though she could trust any stranger walking in the park.”

  “You’re not being quite fair to her,” Canon Tallis said. “She made rather a point of explaining that it was not her own judgment she was trusting, but her dog’s, Mr. Rochester I think his name is—”

  “Isn’t that nuts, then?” Dave demanded. “And then she comes right home and tells me. And the kids tell their parents things that most kids … well, they’re babes in the woods, they’re sitting ducks, all of them, and I don’t know who’s going to look after them. So I suppose Mr. Theo’s why you knew Vicky’s name?”

  “Quite. Careless of me, letting that slip.”

  “But how were you sure it was Vicky? There’re lots of kids in the park walking dogs after school.”

  “There aren’t that many Great Danes, nor that many potentially lovely young girls asking strangers if they believe in genies. I realize that the Austins lived in a small village until this autumn, but I should imagine that in the United States generally that’s the kind of question the average fifteen- or sixteen-year-old wouldn’t be caught dead asking. Right, Juan?”

  “Right.”

  Dave’s hazel eyes met and matched the Canon’s long, level gaze. “I told you the Austins were nuts. Rob still probably believes in Santa Claus.”

  “And a high-school girl believes in fairies and genies and pixies and elves and asks strange middle-aged men in the park about them? I still find that rather difficult to believe.”

  “Okay,” Dave said. “She recognized you.”

  “From where?”

  “I don’t have to tell you that, do I?”

  “Not if you don’t want to. However, I can guess.”

  “Where, then?”

  “It’s really pretty elementary, Watson. When I came out of the junk shop, Phooka’s Antiques or whatever it’s called, and the rather spectacular man in smoky green robes was standing by Emily and the two younger Austins, I did enter briefly into the conversation. And if, as you say, the Austins tell each other everything, the incident was probably discussed over the dinner table and I, along with the—uh, genie, described. Didn’t you yourself imply this? And I am, you must admit, reasonably easy to describe, even when I am attempting to make myself look as anonymous and inconspicuous as possible.”

  Dave returned the Canon’s smile with a scowl. “No. Not at first glance. It’s Rob, the little kid, who has a way of seeing things other people don’t notice. Okay, so what about it?”

  “About what?”

  “The man in green robes?”

  “What do you think?” the Canon countered.

  “I wasn’t there. You were.”

  “I don’t really know any more about him than you do. I went into the junk shop because I thought I saw a rather good icon hidden off in the shadows. Stranger things have happened in places like Phooka’s Antiques. But it turned out to be a poorish copy. When I left I could hardly help noticing the unusual group out on the sidewalk: your young friends and a figure out of the Arabian Nights’ tales. I admit that curiosity, if nothing else, made me stand and listen for a few moments.”

  “But you don’t think the guy in robes was a genie?”

  “I somehow doubt it, though I am always open to the possibility of mystery. How about you?”

  “I think there’s a rational explanation of everything,” Dave said doggedly.

  “Everything?”

  “Everything.”

  “Truth is only provable fact?”

  “If you like. And certainly there aren’t any genies.”

  The Dean checked that Dave’s cup still had tea in it. “It’s too bad, isn’t it, that we can’t be completely open with each other like your friends the Austins?”

  Dave shrugged.

  “I’d like to meet the Austins, Dave,” Canon Tallis said. “Do you think you could arrange it?”

  “You’ve met them, haven’t you?”

  “Not the parents.”

  “Can’t Mr. Theo arrange it?”

  “I’d like it to be a little less formal.”

  “Is it okay if I ask you why you want to meet them?”

  Canon Tallis looked over at the Dean, who said, “When I told you I trusted you, Dave, I meant it. We think there’s a connection between Dr. Austin and the leader of the Alphabats.”

  “I do trust him,” the Dean told Canon Tallis. “I’ve known him since he was a gentle and open child. I’m convinced he was telling the truth when he said he was through with the Alphabats.”

  The Canon leaned back thoughtfully. “I agree with you that he wants to be through with them. But you yourself said that they may not be through with him.”

  The Dean began to pace the small room and Cyprian lumbered up from his lump of a rug and moved back and forth with his master, sighing resignedly. “Over and over again as I walk about the streets I get veiled warnings. The Bats are preparing for something; the city’s in danger; the Bats are going to take over. It all sounds absurd, but when one adds the warnings together, and the fact that the people they come from are not known for their naïveté, one has to take them seriously.”

  “I understand. What you take seriously I am not likely to take lightly,” Canon Tallis assured him. “But this isn’t all that’s on your mind, is it?”

  “Go sit down, Cyprian,” the Dean said, and the dog thumped back to his rug and flopped down with loud and protesting snortings. “If there’s a threat to the Cathedral in all this, and there have been recurring whisperings that there is, then I’m worried about the Bishop. He isn’t well, Tom. Ever since his brother’s death his frightful headaches have been worse. Something like this could kill him. I’m glad you’ve come. I was beginning to feel totally alone in a nightmare. You’ve made me realize that I’m not dreaming, though this is not in itself reassuring. But it�
��s good to know that I’m not alone. Do you think Dave’s in any danger?”

  “Very likely,” Canon Tallis said.

  Six

  When Dave got to the brownstone building in which he and his father had the front basement room, three leather-jacketed youths were sitting on the crumbling steps, smoking. This was Alphabat territory, and he flicked them a glance of feigned indifference, waved, said, “Hi,” and turned to go through the rusty grillwork gate under the brownstone steps. One of the boys ambled down, jerking his head at the other two to follow.

  “What’re you always running off for, Dave?” he asked. On his sleeve was a small bat with spread wings. “What’s the hurry?”

  “Long day, A,” Dave grunted. “Work to do tonight. Hungry. Pop’s waiting.”

  “Yes,” the boy called A said. “But not in there.”

  Dave looked at him expressionlessly, shrugged, and started in.

  “Hold it.” A knife appeared in A’s hand. Behind him the other two boys produced knives.

  “So what’s up?” Dave asked impassively, his hand on the rusty latch.

  “Message from your pop,” A said. “He wants to see you.”

  “He knows where I am.”

  “Orders are for us to take you to him.”

  “Who says?”

  “Come and find out.”

  “Not interested.” Dave jiggled the latch. The grillwork gate was usually unlocked until he and his father went to bed. He knew the Bats would not let him go in, but if he went with them too easily they would be suspicious.

  Dr. Austin connected with the leader of the Alphabats? No! Dave’s mind was dark with confusion and unformed anxiety. He had quit the Bats. He wanted them out of his life forever, the past to be past. And now here he was being drawn in again. Did the Dean’s past ever backlash at him this way?

  “Come on,” the first boy said. “You’re going with us, so save us all some trouble. B, get him. C’mon, C.”

  Dave found himself flanked on either side by B and C, the points of their knives tickling against his ribs. “Put the knives away. I’ll come myself.”

  “No huggermugger,” the first boy said. “Your dad said we was to bring you and we don’t want to get rough.”

  “I told him I didn’t want any part of it,” Dave said. “I’m through.”

  “That’s what you think. Get moving.”

  They walked in the direction from which Dave had come. When they reached the always locked back gate of the Cathedral Close Dave was told to get out his key. Silently he unlocked the gate, shook the bunch of keys on his ring so that the back-gate key would be indistinguishable from the other keys. The key ring, a heavy steel one with a small Cathedral emblem, had been given him by the Dean as an act of faith in his reliability. He shoved it back in his pocket, saying, “Dad’s left the Cathedral for the night.”

  “Yeah, we know that,” B said.

  “You can’t get away from us,” C said. “Once a Bat—”

  “Shut up,” A said. “He never took a flight. He don’t even know what it’s about.”

  They climbed up to the sleeping buildings of the Cathedral School. On their left, lights shone out of the Dean’s rooms in Cathedral House. Ahead of them the Cathedral itself lifted to the sky. As they approached if from the east, where the land sloped sharply down to Morningside Park and Harlem, the Octagon, unlighted now, curved against the wind-racked sky. The boys skirted the heavy curve of a buttress by the south transept; then B and C shoved Dave up a steep flight of steps. Above the door was a number 5.

  “Open up,” he was ordered.

  Dave pulled out his keys again. The Cathedral was locked for the night, and the door opened to a vast plain of darkness. Above the great central altar the Octagon was dark; there was neither moonlight nor starlight to break through. A glimmer of light from the seven hanging lamps in the choir touched the huge cross but did not penetrate the sea of dark. The piers and columns soared upward and were lost in night. The footsteps of the boys were dark, echoing on the marble floor.

  A took a flashlight from his pocket, but the beam was thin and ineffectual in the vast nave. A, holding the flashlight, led the way to the ambulatory. They walked around it, passing the seven chapels. During Dave’s years in the Cathedral School the choristers had named seven lavatories after the chapels: St. James, St. Ambrose, St. Martin of Tours, St. Saviour, St. Columba, St. Boniface, St. Ansgar. Now they started at St. Ansgar, and walked the half circle, ending up by St. James chapel and the side door which Dave usually used.

  Across from St. James chapel was the entrance to the great organ loft, and here again A paused. “Open.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Dave asked. “Play you a lullaby?”

  “Don’t you touch that organ,” B said. “It’d give me the creeps in the dark.”

  “Cut the talk,” A said. “He’s not going up to the organ. His dad says the key to the circular staircase hangs up in there. We’re going down into the crypt.”

  “Burial-alive service?” Dave asked. His lips were cold.

  “Get the key.”

  “I don’t have to get the organist’s key,” Dave said. “I’ve got one of my own.” He took out his key ring. There was no use pretending he couldn’t get into the crypt. There were three of the Alphabats and he had already felt the sharp points of their blades. And here, immediately and unexpectedly, was his opportunity to do what the Dean and Canon Tallis had asked him to do. If the Bats were taking him to their new leader he was positive—wasn’t he?—that we would not find Dr. Austin there.

  With the aid of A’s flashlight he opened the gate that led to the smaller organ which was used for St. James chapel. Stone chairs circled up to the organ, pipes, storage chambers, and down to the crypt. The light of the flashbulb wavered as A gesticulated with it, and the stairs seemed to sway, to lurch towards the boys. B gave an uncomfortable hiccup.

  “I’ll lead,” A said. “Dave, put your hand on my shoulder. B, your hand on Dave’s. C, on B. Get cracking.”

  “You been here before?” Dave asked. “You seem to know your way around.”

  “With your old man.”

  “How come?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  Dave said nothing. He intended to find out. A bumped against the wall and the flashlight went out; he swore under his breath. The small light had relieved more of the darkness than seemed possible. He shook the torch and the light came on again, a little yellower, a little dimmer. They circled slowly down the stairs, their feet shuffling from step to step in the shifting shadows, making a sound like sandpaper.

  Ahead of Dave, A was counting under his breath, evidently the number of steps. The sounds came with soft plosiveness from his lips, like small puffs of smoke. “Okay,” he said, and stopped. Ahead of them was a door which opened creakingly when he put his shoulder to it. They came out into a great room that seemed, in the dimming glow of the flashlight, to have no boundaries.

  “I thought I told you to put in new batteries,” A growled.

  “I did,” C protested. “Honest.”

  A swore again, this time at the low quality and the high price of batteries. In the beam which he swung around the room they could see great white flat slabs of tombstones, some with marble effigies recumbent upon their chill surfaces.

  “Who’s buried here?” C asked nervously.

  “What do you care?” A asked.

  “Yeah, but who?”

  “Who, Dave?”

  “Bad choirboys,” Dave said, started to add, “and bums like you who have no business here,” instead muttered, “mostly bishops.”

  A swung the light again, and it moved across an unending clutter of marble saints, kings, angels: angels with folded wings, outspread wings, broken wings. Periodically the crypt was cleaned and emptied; eventually it began again to look like a marble jungle dreamed up by Hieronymus Bosch. The Dean was far more concerned with the problems of the people about him than with what he consid
ered mere details of housekeeping. B and C moved closer to Dave.

  A jerked his head. “Come on.” He directed the light straight ahead and led them through the jungle of statuary, of unused lecterns, candelabra, pulpits, file cabinets, an old iron range, three refrigerators, a row of dour marble saints. The slight but recognizable odor of fear began to emanate from B and C, and Dave knew that if he were to break loose from them now he could probably get away: he had the keys; he could make a bolt for it, lock A, B, and C in the crypt, and be free.

  But would he be free? A was no fool and he very likely carried a gun as well as his switchblade. It would be easy enough to dispose of a dead Dave somewhere in the subcellars of the crypt. And who would know, until he did not appear to read to Emily the following afternoon? And then, even if Emily and the Austins raised a hue and cry, who would think to look for Dave underground in the Cathedral?

  Moreover, added to Dave’s respect for A’s foxiness, his concern for Emily’s need of him, his promise to the Dean and Canon Tallis, was his own personal curiosity. He wanted intensely to know what was up.

  They came to a new-looking door, which Dave, again, had to open. He tried several master keys before it gave way. It was a well-oiled door and swung open smoothly into the enormous boiler room, which was clear and uncluttered and in extraordinary contrast to the combination museum and junk room through which they had just made their way. A swung his flashlight around the gigantic blue boilers, which breathed quietly now. Even with this mammoth amount of modern heating equipment it was impossible to keep the Cathedral from cold drafts in winter; in this room was perhaps the only section of really warm floor in the entire building.

  In one corner of the boiler room was a door which led them into a small, comparatively clear stone storeroom. Cartons, neatly labeled, lined two walls, but the back wall was cold and naked stone. A played his beam on it, moving the light in slow circles until he found what seemed to be a particular section of wall, though to Dave the stones here looked no different from the rest, rough, unfinished, dank. A began running his hands over a stone that perhaps protruded slightly more than the others, cursing as he scraped himself on a jagged place. But he continued pressing against the stone, muttering under his breath, until a section of wall swiveled slowly under the pressure to make an opening just large enough for them to get through.