The Black Unicorn

by Terry Brooks

  The River Master stared out into the rain for a time, motionless, silent, and then he shrugged. “I could heal so much, but not that,” he said quietly. “I did not know how.” Suddenly he looked back again at Ben—and it was as if he were seeing him for the first time. “Why is it that I tell this to you?” he whispered in surprise.

  Ben had no idea. He kept silent as the River Master stared at him as if mystified by his even being there. Then the lord of the lake country people seemed simply to dismiss the matter. His voice was flat and cold. “You waste your time with me. Willow will go to her mother. She will go to the old pines and dance.”

  “Then I will search for her there,” Ben said. He rose to his feet. The River Master watched him, silent. Ben hesitated. “You need not send a guide with me. I know the way.”

  The River Master nodded, still silent. Ben started away, walked a dozen paces from the shelter, stopped, and turned. The single remaining guard had faded back into the trees. The two men were alone. “Would you like to come with me?” Ben asked impulsively.

  But the River Master was staring out into the rain again, lost in its dull silver glitter, lost in its patter. The gills on his neck slowed to a barely perceptible flutter. The hard, chiseled face seemed emptied of life.

  “He doesn’t hear you,” Edgewood Dirk said suddenly. Ben glanced down in surprise and found the cat at his feet. “He has gone inside of himself to discover where he’s been. It happens like that sometimes after revealing something so carefully guarded for so long.”

  Ben frowned. “Carefully guarded? Do you mean what he said about Willow? About her mother?” The frown deepened as he knelt next to the cat. “Dirk, why did he tell me all that? He’s not even sure who I am.”

  Dirk looked over at him. “There are many forms of magic in this world, High Lord. Some come in large packages, some in small. Some work with fire and strength of body and heart … and some work with revelation.”

  “Yes, but why …?”

  “Listen to me, High Lord! Listen!” Dirk’s voice was a hiss. “So few humans listen to anything a cat has to say. Most only talk to us. They talk to us because we are such good listeners, you see. They find comfort in our presence. We do not question and we do not judge. We simply listen. They talk, and we listen. They tell us everything! They tell us their innermost thoughts and dreams, things they would tell no other. Sometimes, High Lord, they do all this without even understanding why!”

  He was still again, and suddenly it occurred to Ben that Dirk wasn’t speaking in general terms, but in very specific ones. He wasn’t talking about just everyone, but about someone definite. His eyes lifted to find the solitary figure of the River Master.

  And then he thought suddenly about himself.

  “Dirk, what …?”

  “Shhhhhh!” The cat hushed him into silence. “Let the stillness be, High Lord. Do not disturb it. If you are able, listen to its voice—but let it be.”

  The cat moved slowly off into the trees, picking his way gingerly over the damp, water-soaked forest earth. Rain fell in steady sheets out of skies clouded over from horizon to horizon, a gray ceiling canopied above the trees. Silence filled the gaps left by the sound of the rain, cloaking the city of Elderew, the houses and tree lanes, the walkways and parks, and the vast, empty amphitheater that loomed behind the still-motionless figure of the River Master. Ben listened as Dirk had said he should and he could almost hear the silence speak.

  But what was it saying to him? What was it that he was supposed to learn? He shook his head hopelessly. He didn’t know.

  Dirk had disappeared into the haze ahead of him, a pale gray shadow. Abandoning his efforts to listen further, Ben hurried after.

  That there was something inordinately peculiar about Edgewood Dirk was no longer a matter for debate with Ben Holiday. You might have argued that all cats were somewhat peculiar and that it should come as no surprise therefore that a cat out of the fairy world would turn out to be even more peculiar than your average feline, but Ben would have disagreed. The sort of peculiar exhibited by Dirk went far beyond anything encountered in—oh, say—Alice in Wonderland or Dick Whittington. Dirk lent a whole new meaning to the word, and the most aggravating part of all was the fact that, try as Ben might, he could not decipher what it was that the beast was about!

  In short, who was this cat, and what was he doing here with Ben?

  He would have loved to find immediate answers to his questions, but time did not permit it. The cat was leading the way once more—presumptuous beast that it was—and he was forced once again to hurry after. Rain pelted his face in a quickening downpour, and the wind gusted in chill swipes. Nightfall was approaching and the weather was growing worse. Ben was drenched, cold, hungry, and discouraged, despite his resolve to continue, and he found himself wishing fondly for a warm bed and dry clothes. But he was unlikely to find either just now. The River Master was barely tolerating his presence as it was, and he must use the time that remained to him to try to find Willow.

  He passed through the city of Elderew, head bent against the weather, another of dusk’s faceless shadows, then plunged into the forest beyond. The lights of cottages and homes disappeared behind him, and the darkness closed about in a wet, rain-sodden curtain. Trailers of mist floated past like kite tails broken free from their winged flyers, touching and rubbing, forming into gradually thickening sheets. Ben ignored it all and pushed on. He had gone to the old pines often enough to know the way blindfolded.

  He arrived at the clearing moments later—several steps behind Edgewood Dirk. He glanced about expectantly, but there was nothing to be found. The clearing sat empty, ringed by the old pines, ancient sentinels of the forest, as damp and cold as the rest of the land. He cast about briefly for tracks or other signs of Willow’s passing, but there was nothing to indicate whether the sylph had been there or not.

  Edgewood Dirk paced the clearing once, sniffing at the earth, then retreated to the shelter of a pine’s spreading boughs and sat down daintily. “She was here two nights ago, High Lord,” he announced. “She was seated close to where you stand while her mother danced, then let the change take her. She left at dawn.”

  Ben stared at the cat. “How do you know all this?”

  “A good nose,” Dirk advised disdainfully. “You should cultivate one. It can tell you all sorts of things you would miss otherwise. My nose tells me what your eyes cannot tell you.”

  Ben moved over and hunched down in front of the cat, ignoring the water that dripped off the pine’s branches and ran down his face in steady streams. “Does your nose tell you where she has gone now?” he asked quietly.

  “No,” the cat answered.

  “No?”

  “You are repeating me without need,” Dirk sniffed.

  “But if your nose told you all the rest, why can’t it tell you that?” Ben demanded. “Is your nose always this selective?”

  “Sarcasm does not become you, High Lord,” Dirk admonished, head cocking slightly. “Besides, I deserve better than that. I am, after all, your sole companion and supporter in this venture.”

  “Which needs some explaining, I might point out,” Ben snapped. “You persist in taunting me with what you know, then tell me only what you wish. I realize that you have a perfectly good excuse for this behavior, being a cat, but I hope I can impress on you how aggravating it is to me!” His temper was getting the better of him, and his voice was rising. “I simply asked how you could determine that Willow was here, that her mother danced, that she transformed, and yet not be able to tell me where …”

  “I don’t know.”

  “… she might have gone after leaving … What? You don’t know? You don’t know what?”

  “I don’t know why I don’t know.”

  Ben stared once more.

  “I should be able to read her passing from the clearing, but I can’t,” Dirk finished calmly. “It is almost as if it was deliberately hidden.”

  Ben took a moment to consi
der this new piece of information, then shook his head. “But why would she hide where she was going?”

  Dirk did not answer. Instead, he hissed softly in warning and rose to his feet once more. Ben stood up with him and turned. The River Master’s dark figure reappeared from out of the mist, striding the length of the clearing to where Ben waited. He was alone.

  “Has Willow been here?” he asked abruptly.

  Ben hesitated, then nodded. “Been and gone. The cat says her mother danced for her two nights ago.”

  There was anger reflected in the eyes of the water sprite, but he smoothed it away quickly. “She would appear to her daughter, of course,” he murmured. “They share that bond. The dance would reveal truth in the fairy way, would show what was sought …” He trailed off, as if thinking of something else, then straightened. “Have you determined where she has gone, High Lord?”

  Again Ben hesitated, this time as much in surprise as out of caution. The River Master had called him High Lord. Had he now decided to accept Ben’s claim? Ben met his steady gaze. “Her trail has been concealed from us,” he said. “Hidden deliberately, the cat thinks.”

  The River Master glanced briefly at Dirk, frowning. “Perhaps.” His chiseled face swung back on Ben. “But my daughter lacks the guile and her mother the means. The concealment, if there be one, comes from another source. There are some who would help her and not tell me. There are some.” The anger in his eyes flared anew, then was gone. “Still, it hardly matters. I have the means to find her anyway. And anything else I wish.”

  Abruptly he turned, muttering. “Time slips away. The rain and the dark will hamper my efforts as it is. I must act quickly if I am to be effective.” There was an urgency in his voice—and a determination. “I will not have these games played behind my back. I will know the meaning of the dream of the black unicorn and the golden bridle and I will know it whether Willow and her mother wish me to or not!”

  He disappeared back into the forest in a rush, not bothering to see if Ben was following. He needn’t have worried. Ben was right on his heels.

  Edgewood Dirk stayed beneath the pine boughs and watched them go. After a moment, he began to clean himself.

  The River Master had undergone such a complete transformation that Ben could scarcely believe it. One moment he was disinterested in the matter of his daughter and the black unicorn, the next he could not find out about them quickly enough. He strode back through the forest to the edge of the city, calling his guard to him as he went. Retainers appeared from everywhere, hanging at his side momentarily for their instructions, then disappearing back into the night. Like shadows, they came and disappeared again, a smattering of sprites, kelpies, naiads, and others—voiceless, momentary appendages to the dark figure of their lord. The River Master spoke rapidly and precisely, then turned away from each, his pace never slowing. He skirted almost furtively the boundaries of Elderew proper and turned back into the forest. Ben trailed after, all but forgotten.

  The moments slipped by as they passed deeper into the forest trees, east and north of the city now. Nightfall had closed down so tightly that nothing beyond a dozen feet was visible. The rain washed over both of them in sheets, a steady downpour that showed little sign of abating. Thunder rolled out of the skies in long peals, and lightning split the clouds from somewhere distant. The worst of the storm had not reached them yet. It was still coming.

  The River Master seemed oblivious. His concentration was absolute. Ben began to wonder what was going on and to grow uneasy.

  Then they emerged from the trees onto a broad hillside clearing that stretched downward to a vast lake into which a pair of rivers fed at opposite ends. The rivers, swollen with rain water, cascaded down through rocky gorges that fell away from heights anchored by massive clusters of the giant redwoodlike trees. The lake roiled with the pumping action, and the flare of new lightning danced and glimmered with a mix of torchlight from stanchions that ran the length and breadth of the hills in widening arcs and lit the whole of the slope. Ben slowed and stared out into the black. The lake country people seemed to be everywhere—or were there simply a few amid the vast number of torches? Wind whipped the rain into his eyes, and he could not tell.

  The River Master turned, saw he was still there, and beckoned him forward to a shelf of rock that jutted out from the hillside and overlooked the rivers, the lake, and the weaving lines of torchlight. The fury of the storm broke over them as they stood on the unsheltered platform, pressed close against each other, their words almost lost in the howl of the wind.

  “Watch now, High Lord!” the River Master shouted, his strange, chiseled face inches from Ben’s. “I cannot command Willow’s mother to dance for me as she danced for her daughter, but I can command her kindred! I will know what secrets are kept from me!”

  Ben nodded mutely. There was a frenzy in the other’s eyes that he had never seen before—a frenzy that hinted of passion.

  The River Master signaled, and a sticklike being approached from out of the night, a creature so thin that it appeared to have been fashioned of deadwood. Rough woolen clothing hung about its body, whipped by the wind, and green cornsilk hair ran from the crown of its head to the nape of its neck and along its spine and the backs of its arms and legs. Its features were formed of what looked to be a series of slits cut into the wood of its face. It carried a set of music pipes in one hand.

  “Play!” the River Master commanded, one hand sweeping the valley slope. “Call them!”

  The stick creature hunched down against the sodden earth, settled itself with its legs crossed before it, and brought the pipes to its lips. The music began softly, a sweet, lilting cadence that rocked in the troughs of momentary stillness left by lulls in the wind’s deep howl. It meshed and blended with the sounds of the storm, weaving its way through the fabric like thread hand-sewn. It had the texture of silk, smooth and quiet, and it wrapped itself about the listeners like a blanket. Downward along the slope it carried, and there was the sense of something changing in the air.

  “Hear it!” the River Master said in Ben’s ear, exultant.

  The player of the pipes lifted the pitch gradually, and the song rose higher into the fury of the storm. Slowly it transcended the dark and the wet and the chill, and the whole of their surroundings began to alter. The howl of the storm diminished as if blanketed away, the chill gave way to warmth, and the night brightened as if dawn had come already. Ben felt himself lifted as on a cushion of air. He blinked, disbelieving. Everything about him was changing—shape, substance, time, everything. There was a magic in the music that was greater than any he had ever encountered, a power that could alter even nature’s great force.

  Torchlight brightened as if the fires had been given new life, and the slope was lit with their glow. But there was a new glow as well, a glow that hung on the night air like incandescence. It radiated out across the slope and downward to the waters of the lake. The waters had gone still, the churning smoothed away as a mother’s hand would smooth a sleeping child’s ruffled hair. The glow danced at the water’s edge, a living thing.

  “There, High Lord—look!” the River Master urged.

  Ben stared. Bits and pieces of the glow had begun to take shape. Dancing, whirling, lifting against the torchlight, they had begun to assume the forms of fairy creatures. Slight, airy things, they gathered strength from the glow and from the music of the pipes and took life. Ben knew them instantly. They were wood nymphs, the same as Willow’s mother—childlike creatures as insubstantial as smoke. Limbs flashed and glistened nut-brown, hair tumbled waist-length, tiny faces lifted skyward. Dozens of them appeared as if from nowhere and danced and flitted at the shores of the mirrored lake in a kaleidoscope of movement.

  The music heightened. The glow radiated the warmth of a summer’s day, and colors began to appear in its brightness—rainbow shades that mixed and spread like an artist’s brush strokes on canvass. Shape and form began to alter, and Ben felt himself transported to another t
ime and place. He was young again, and the world was all new. The lifting sensation he had experienced earlier intensified, and he was floating free of the earth, free of gravity’s pull. The River Master and the player of the pipes floated with him, birdlike in the sweep of sound and color. Still the wood nymphs danced below him, whirling with a new exhilaration into the glow, into the air. They spun outward from the shore’s edge, skipping weightless across the waters of the still lake, their tiny forms barely touching the mirrored surface. Slowly they came together at the lake’s center, forming intricate patterns as they linked briefly and broke away again, linked and broke away.

  Above them, an image began to take shape in the air.

  “Now it comes!” the River Master breathed from somewhere so distant that Ben could barely hear him.

  The image came clear, and it was Willow. She stood alone at the edge of a lake—this lake—and held in her hand the bridle of spun gold that was the vision of her dream. She was clothed in white silk, and her beauty was a radiance that outshone even that created by the music of the player and the dance of the wood nymphs. Flushed with life, her face lifted against the colors that spun about her, and her long green tresses fanned out in the whisper of the wind. She held the bridle out from her as if it were a gift and she waited.

  Beware! a voice warned suddenly, a voice so tiny as to be almost lost in the whirl of the vision.

  Ben wrenched his eyes momentarily from Willow. From what seemed an impossible distance below, Edgewood Dirk stared up at him.

  “What’s wrong?” Ben managed to ask.

  But the question was irretrievably lost in what happened next. The music had reached a fever pitch, so intense that it locked away everything. The world was gone. There was only the lake, the whirl of the wood nymphs, and the vision of Willow. Colors flooded Ben’s vision with impossibly bright hues, and there were tears in his eyes. He had never known such happiness. He felt as if he were breaking apart inside and had been transformed.