The Unicorn Anthology.indb

by Peter S. Beagle

  “My mother split when I was two. Mostly I was raised by my aunt and uncle. My Uncle Dan did occasional second-story work, stealing jewelry and cash, stuff like that. He hardly ever got caught, and he had a good lawyer. My aunt was into welfare fraud. She got about ten checks a month under different names. They treated me okay as long as I kept running scams and bringing in some cash. I mean, they didn’t beat me all that much.”

  I looked away from Jo. How could I be saying this? The truth was a door I thought I’d closed a long time ago. I focused on the mountains in the distance. If I squinted just a bit, one of them looked a little like an eagle half-turned away from us.

  “You ever been married, Mark?” she asked.

  “Twice,” I said. “Not very long either time. The first was a big mistake; we were too young. The second—Mary was her name—well, I was just bad to her. She was okay and tried hard, but I just didn’t have it in me.”

  “What didn’t you have in you?”

  “I dunno,” I said. “Love, compassion; whatever you want to call it, I fell short. She needed a stable life, and I had a bad case of the wanders. She was good to me, though. Better than I deserved.”

  “Life started in a place like this,” she said, reaching down for a handful of sand and letting it trickle slowly through her fingers.

  “Pardon?”

  “Africa,” she said, looking off into the distance. “Probably wasn’t too different from this place. It was a harsh beginning, but we’ve come a long way since then. I think the heat’s elemental, kind of like we were forged in some big furnace. Eventually we all come back. I think that once in our lives we find a place like this, and if our heart is clean, we’ll see the magic. Do you still love her?”

  “Mary?” The shift caught me unawares. For some reason, I’d been thinking about lions. “I guess I do. I don’t know. She’s somewhere in California, last I heard. Bakersfield. I try not to think about her too much. It was a long time ago, and we were different people.”

  “Some Indian tribes think we came from a spirit world. Some say it was from a cave not far from here. Others say we came from the sky. I like legends. Mostly I like them because they can all be true. It’s a vast universe, and there’s room for all kinds of things. What’s important is what is in your heart. Did you always want to be a con man?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “It’s what I know, I guess. Oh. I finished high school all right, and even sat in on a couple of junior college classes. Mostly art classes. But my uncle, he didn’t see much use for that, and as long as I was staying at his house, I had to pull my own weight. I did okay.”

  “It gets cold here, too,” she said. “Bitter cold. That’s elemental, too. The Inuits believe that all animals have spirits and should be treated with respect, even when it is necessary to kill them for food. Are you hungry?”

  Polar bears. Walrus. Flat tundra, harsh and cold.

  “I guess I am,” I said.

  “Good,” she said, hopping off the rock. “I’ll put you to work and you can earn your dinner.”

  Walking back down the path to the restaurant, I was embarrassed at having told Jo so much. It wasn’t like me at all to reveal so much of myself to anyone, much less to someone I hardly knew. My duffel bag was getting heavier. I wished I’d left it.

  Someone must have been working on the lawns in front of the broken-down houses while we were at the corral. They looked a lot neater. It was only after we walked in the back door to the restaurant that I realized that I hadn’t seen the buildings when I’d come into town.

  Jo put me to work scrubbing pots and doing dishes. For a nowhere place, they served a lot of dinners. I didn’t see most of the customers, since I was working in back, but once in a while someone would wander through the kitchen and talk to Jo or me. Everyone seemed to know everyone else. It was like a neighborhood bar and restaurant, except that there was no neighborhood.

  There was no shortage of kids, though. It seemed like there were always one or two underfoot. They didn’t seem to bother Jo, and she chatted with them as she cooked. They seemed to like her a lot.

  One of the kids, her name was Donna, took a real interest in my rose tattoo. She was shy about it at first, but then I showed her how I could flex my arm and make the stem move. She thought that was great fun, and kept bringing her friends back into the kitchen to see it.

  We kept busy all night. I enjoyed the work, and the chili Jo made was outstanding. The easy friendliness of the people coming back into the kitchen to visit made it seem like one big family. The time passed quickly, and I was surprised when Jo started closing down.

  We sat in the quiet bar and talked for what seemed like hours. I told her things I’d never told anyone else. I even showed her my sketch book and she didn’t laugh.

  She said I had a lot of natural talent, and, with a little training, I could be a professional-level artist. I was embarrassed, but secretly pleased.

  It wasn’t like I was just jabbering. She really listened to what I said, like it was important. Not that is was, really; I was just telling her about how I grew up.

  Jo said I could sleep on one of the sofas in the bar, and she brought in some sheets and a pillow. After she had gone, I looked in the cash register. It was full of money. She trusted me more than I trusted myself.

  I closed the register and fell asleep, surrounded by all the ghostly artifacts that lined the walls of the bar.

  The next morning. I followed my nose into the kitchen, where a pot of coffee was brewing. There was a note from Jo, saying that she’d gone to help a neighbor whose cow was having a difficult delivery. I poured a cup of coffee and went out the back door. I expected to feel bad for having said so much about myself the night before, but the truth was, I felt fine.

  It was cool outside, the air was clear and sharp. As I walked down the path to check out that moth-eaten burro, the row of buildings didn’t seem nearly as broken-down as they had the day before. I guess I was getting used to them.

  I stopped short at the end of the path. The corral was gone, and in its place was a lush green field. A beautiful chestnut stallion was grazing in the middle, and looked up curiously when I dropped my coffee cup. He came over, stopping about three feet away from me.

  Impossible! I reached out to touch him, and he casually stepped aside. I bent down and pulled up several sprigs of grass. They seemed real enough. I chewed on one, and it tasted like grass. It was all too strange. I put the grass in my shirt pocket.

  As I hurried back down the path, I thought I saw a shadow move in a window of one of the adobe houses.

  Jo had not returned, and I was the only one around. All the junk in the bar suddenly seemed ominous, as if each piece had a sinister story attached to it, and I started thinking about all the horror stories I’d read and all the Twilight Zones I’d watched on T.V. I was looking at my duffel bag and thinking about getting out of this crazy place before something horrible happened, when someone knocked on the door to the general store part of the building.

  A man and a woman with three children stood outside the door. Their car was behind them, a rusted-out wreck loaded down with what must have been all their worldly belongings. Mattresses and a rocking chair were strapped to the roof.

  “Sorry, we’re closed,” I said.

  “Please, sir,” said the man. “Milk for the children. I have one dollar.” He slowly unbuttoned the front pocket on his frayed jeans jacket and pulled out a carefully folded dollar bill. He held it out for me to see.

  I opened the door.

  The man went over to the double glass doors where the drinks were kept. For one dollar, he might be able to get two small cartons of milk. I wondered how far that would get him. As he read the prices on the milk, the woman and their three kids—a boy and two girls—stood by the register.

  “Daddy’s got work in Mesilla,” said the young boy proudly. “We’re going to live in a real house this time.”

  “Hush, Danny,” said the woman. “Don’t bother
the man.” She looked up at me and smiled shyly. “Kids . . .” she said.

  The woman was dressed plainly, in old, but neat and clean, clothes. A scarf around her neck was held in place by a beadwork pin, decorated with small feathers.

  “That’s a nice pin,” I said.

  “I made it for Mama,” said one of the girls, holding the woman’s hand tightly. “The last school we went to had an art class. It was fun, but we had to leave.”

  “I do like that pin,” I said. “I couldn’t talk you into trading it for some groceries, could I?”

  I saw hope flash through the woman’s face, but she covered it well, and looked down at her daughter. “That would have to be Lisa’s decision,” she said. “I can’t trade a gift.”

  “Would it be enough for a jar of peanut butter and some crackers?” the girl asked.

  I nodded. “And a little more,” I said.

  “Give him the pin, Mama. I can make you another one now that I know how. And they’ll probably have an art class at the school in Mesilla. It’s a big place, and I love peanut butter.”

  I had to send them back three times to get more groceries. They filled four bags, and I slipped a twenty-dollar bill down in the bottom of one of the bags, so that they wouldn’t find it until later. When they left, I put the closed sign back in the window and went into the dark bar.

  The pin looked good on a shelf next to a carved piece of driftwood. I picked up my duffel bag.

  “Some con man you are,” said Jo, with a gentle laugh, from the darkness. “Five cents’ worth of beads and a few chicken feathers for all that food!”

  “I was going to leave you money for it,” I said. “How long have you been here?”

  “Long enough. And you know I don’t care about the money.”

  “I was fixing to leave,” I said. “This place does strange things to me.”

  “It does nothing but bring out what is already there,” she said. “And I want to show you something before you go.”

  She turned and went through the kitchen. I set my duffel bag down and followed her out the back door.

  There was magic in the air. The houses along the path shimmered and shifted as we walked past them. I held out the blades of grass.

  “I found these,” I said.

  “You found more than that,” she said. “Look.”

  We had reached the end of the path. An impossibly white unicorn stood in the middle of a field lush with wildflowers. It walked up to Jo and nuzzled her hair. She turned to me and smiled.

  “Everyone comes to a place like this once in their lives,” she said. “If your heart is right, you will recognize it for what it is. If your soul is hardened, you will pass it by and never know.”

  She walked over to me and kissed my cheek. Then she went back to the unicorn, and, with a fluid movement, pulled herself onto its back. They looked perfect together, as if they were one animal.

  “Gook luck, Mark Rogers,” she said. “You have found your path. To walk it or not is your decision.”

  She nudged the unicorn, and it turned to the right, rearing up slightly and then breaking into a gallop across the lush field of grass, which now seemed to stretch unbroken all the way to the distant mountains.

  Smoke was curling from the first adobe house I passed on my way back. An old couple sat on the front porch. They waved to me and called my name. I waved back to them, as I did to all the others who lived in this place of spirit.

  I got a ride with the first car passing through, driven by a heavyset man with a red beard. The back seat was full of sample cases, so I crammed my duffel down at my feet.

  “Thanks,” I said, settling in.

  “No problem,” he said, putting the car in gear. “I like to have someone to talk to. Besides, that looks like a nowhere place to be stuck looking for a ride.”

  “It has its good points,” I said

  “Not for me. I’m a traveling salesman, and I’ve seen a thousand one-horse towns like that. Not worth bothering with. No profit there. What do you do when you’re not hitching rides?”

  “I’m studying to be an artist,” I said. I looked back over my shoulder, and, as I watched, the houses behind the restaurant wavered and faded from view. The pasture was gone. Nothing but sand.

  “Say, fellow, you don’t have the time, do you? I’ve got an appointment scheduled in Flagstaff and my watch is broke.”

  I reached down into my duffel and pulled out one of the watches. The battery was still good, and it was keeping time. I passed it to him.

  “Nice watch,” he said. “Rolex, isn’t it? Wish I had one, but I bet they cost a bundle.”

  I paused for a moment.

  “No,” I said. “It’s just a cheap imitation. Keep it. I appreciate the ride.”

  Somewhere I could feel doors slamming. But, at the same time, other doors were opening.

  “Thanks,” he said. “So, how far are you going?”

  “Bakersfield,” I said, after a moment. “I’m going all the way to Bakersfield.”

  A Thousand Flowers

  Margo Lanagan

  I WALKED away from the fire, in among the trees. I was looking for somewhere to relieve myself of all the ale I’d drunk, and I had told myself, goodness knows why, in my drunkenness, that I must piss where there were no flowers.

  And this, in the late-spring forest, was proving impossible, for whatever did not froth or bow with its weight of blossoms was patterned or punctuated so by their fresh little faces, clustered or sweetly solitary, that a man could not find any place where one of them—some daisy closed against the darkness, some spray of maiden-breath testing the evening air—did not insist, or respectfully request, or only lean in the gloaming and hope, that he not stain and spoil it with his leavings.

  “Damn you all,” I muttered, and stumbled on, and lurched on. The fire and the carousing were now quite a distance behind me, no more than a bar or two of golden light among the tree-trunks, crossed with cavorting dancers, lengthened and shortened by the swaying of storytellers. The laughter itself and the music were becoming part of the night-forest noise, a kind of wind, several kinds of bird-cry. My bladder was paining me, it was so full. Look, I could trample flower after flower underfoot in my lurching—I could kill plant after plant that way! Why could I not stop, and piss on one, from which my liquids would surely drip and even be washed clean again, almost directly, by a rain shower, or even a drop of dew plashing from the bush, the tree, above?

  It became a nightmare of flowers, and I was alone in it, my filth dammed up inside me and a pure world outside offering only innocents’ faces, pale, fresh, unknowing of drunkenness and body dirt, for a man to piss on—which, had he any manners in him at all, he could not do.

  But don’t these flowers grow from dirt themselves? I thought desperately. Aren’t they rooted in all kinds of rot and excrements, of worm and bird and deer, hedgehog and who knows what else? I scrabbled to unbutton my trousers, my mind holding to this scrap of sense, but fear also clutched in me, and flowers crowded my eyes, and breathed sweetness up my nose. I could have wept.

  It is all the drink, I told myself, that makes me bother this way, makes me mind. “Have another swig, Manny!” Roste shouted in my memory, thumping me in the back, thrusting the pot at me with such vigour, two drops of ale flew out, catching my cheek and my lip with two cool tiny blows. I gasped and flailed among the thickening trees. They wanted to fight me, to wrestle me down, I was sure.

  I made myself stop; I made myself laugh at myself. “Who do you think you are, Manny Foyer,” I said, “to take on the whole forest? There, that oak. That’s clear enough, the base of it. Stop this foolishness, now. Do you want to piss yourself? Do you want to go back to the fire piss-panted? And spend tomorrow’s hunt in the smell of yourself?”

  I propped myself against the oak trunk with one hand. I relieved myself most carefully against the wood. And a good long wash and lacquering I gave it—aah, is there any better feeling? I stood and stood, and the pis
s poured and poured. Where had I been keeping it all? Had it pressed all my organs out to the sides of me while it was in there? I had not been much more than a piss-flask—no wonder I could scarce think straight! Without all this in me, I would be so light, so shrunken, so comfortable, it might only require a breath of the evening breeze to blow me like a leaf back to my fellows.

  As I shook the very last droplets into the night, I saw that the moon was rising beyond the oak, low, in quite the wrong place. Had I wandered farther than I thought, as far as Artor’s Outlook? I looked over my shoulder. No, there still was firelight back there, as if a house-door stood open a crack, showing the hearth within.

  The moon was not the moon, I saw. It gave a nicker; it moved. I sidled round the tree very quietly, and there in the clearing beyond, the creature glowed in the starlight.

  Imagine a pure white stallion, the finest conformed you have ever seen, so balanced, so smooth, so long-necked, you could picture how he would gallop, easy-curved and rippling as water, with the mane and tail foaming on him. He was muscled for swiftness, he was big around the heart, and his legs were straight and sound, firm and fine. He’d a grand head, a king’s among horses, such as is stitched upon banners, or painted on shields in a baron’s banquet hall. The finest pale velvet upholstered it, with the veins tracing their paths beneath, running his good blood about, warming and enlivening every neat-made corner of him.

  Now imagine that out of that fine forehead, just as on a shield, spears a battle-spike—of narwhal-horn, say, spiraling like that. Then take away the spike’s straps and buckles, so that the tusk grows straight from the horse’s brow—grows, yes, from the skull, sprouts from the velvet brow as if naturally, like a stag-antler, like the horn of a rhinockerous.

  Then . . .

  Then add magic. I don’t know how you will do this if you have not seen it; I myself only saw it the once and bugger me if I can describe it, the quality that tells you a thing is bespelled, or sorcerous itself. It is luminosity of a kind, cool but strong. All-encompassing and yet very delicate, it trickles in your bones; slowly it lifts the hairs on your legs, your arms, your chest, in waves like fields of high-grown grass under a gentle wind. And it thins and hollows the sounds of the world, owl hoots and rabbit scutters, and beyond them it rumors of vast rustlings and seethings, the tangling and untangling of the workings of the universe, this giant nest of interminable snakes.