Unicorns II Page 9

  Frank whispered something to Sandy and then said to Steiner: "Steve, if you've no objections, we're going to take a little walk . . . we'll be right back. Give you two a chance to talk. Nice meeting you."

  "See you soon, honey," Sandy said to Joline, smiling warmly as she stood up.

  "We'll hold down the fort," Joline said shyly, her knee still wedged woodenly against Steiner's.

  "Would you care for another drink?" Steiner asked Joline after the others had left. He had to say some thing to her. Her silence was oppressive, and he was uncomfortable enough as it was.

  "Yes . . . thank you." Joline didn't seem to be able to look at Steiner now that her friend had left, but she leaned against him until he said, "Excuse me," and tried to disengage himself.

  "You aren't going to leave me here alone, are you?" Joline asked. There was a pleading in her voice, and suddenly Steiner felt sorry for her . . . she was lonely and ugly and past her prime. He felt both loathing and pity. "No . . . I'll be right back," he said as he stood up.

  "Promise?" Joline asked coyly, trying to smile again without revealing her crooked teeth.

  "I promise," Steiner said. Jesus, Mary . . . he thought as he walked away. Is that the way Mariana saw me . . . the way I see that poor old girl at the table? Could I be that repulsive to her? He knew the answer . . . he was an old man wearing old man's pastel clothes. He was an old man carrying a Jewish bankroll. No! he insisted. His skin might be like old clothes, but he wasn't old. Suddenly he understood why his wife, Grace, may she rest in peace, had become obsessed with butterflies. She had filled her house with butterfly-shaped bric-a-brac before she died.

  He walked to the far end of the bar, as if he were going to the men's room, then ducked under the rope that separated deck from beach. Joline would be sitting back there alone, waiting. But I can't go back, he thought. He shivered at the thought of kissing that mouth . . . feeling that long, protruding tooth with the tip of his tongue . . . smelling her odor.

  He walked along surf's edge, shoes squishing in the wet sand, and he became lost to the sound of waves pummeling the shell-strewn beach . . . lost to the waiting darkness ahead . . . lost below the clear sky filled with clusters of silent stars.

  He passed a small hotel, which had one beachlamp on overhead, and standing upon the shadow line was the unicorn. It had been waiting for Steiner. It stood tall and gazed at him, only its great horned head clearly visible. The unicorn's blue eyes seemed to glow, the same melting, beautiful color of the water in the Blue Grotto in Capri. Steiner stopped, and suddenly remembered being in Europe as a young man, suddenly felt the selfsame awe of the world he had once felt. He also felt lost and empty. He grieved for himself and for the poor woman waiting for him at the Fontainebleau. What would she tell her friends when they returned? Would she, indeed, even wait for them?

  Steiner gazed back at the unicorn, trying to make certain it was real and not just the play of shadows, or his imagination. It was not his imagination, he told himself. Staring into the unicorn's eyes seemed to stimulate memories he had forgotten for years:

  He remembered swimming in the Mediterranean. He remembered a two-week vacation in Atlantic City with Grace and his two sons. He remembered riding bicycles on the boardwalk with his family. He remembered cooking eggs at four o'clock in the morning after a party and permitting the kids to come down and eat, too. He remembered his first trial . . . as a lawyer and as a judge. He remembered uneventful days with Grace . . . beautiful, precious, never-to-be-recovered days. He remembered coming home to problems with the boys and sharing dinnertime conversation across the table with Grace.

  And he suddenly, desperately missed it all. He wanted the days back!

  He also remembered the nameless women, and how Grace had begged him to come back. She had waited, but couldn't wait long enough. He wanted to go home . . . to Grace. He looked into the unicorn's sad eyes and saw himself, as if in a mirror. He was an empty old man who had lost his life to foolishness. He had wasted all of Grace's love . . . and now it was too late to make reparation.

  Tears trembled and worked their way down his face, and the unicorn stepped toward him. It walked slowly, as if not to frighten him. Steiner stepped to the side, but did not try to run. The beast lay down beside him and rested its head in the sand, a gesture of submission. Steiner nervously extended his hand toward the unicorn's muzzle. The unicorn didn't flinch or move, and Steiner stroked its forehead. He touched its fluted black horn and saw that its tip looked red, as if dipped in blood.

  He felt a contentment radiate through him as he stroked the unicorn. He also felt the throbbing return of the pain in his chest and arms, yet as the pain became greater, so did his sense of being removed from it. As he rested against the unicorn, he felt it quiver, then begin to move. It raised its head, all the while watching Steiner, but before it stood up, Steiner pulled himself upon its back. I can ride the beast, Steiner thought as he held onto its coarse mane as the unicorn brought itself to full height.

  "Come on, boy," Steiner whispered, feeling an almost forgotten heart-pounding joy. The unicorn sensed it, too, because it broke into a playful canter. It shook its head, as if miming laughter, and kicked its hind legs into the air. Steiner held the horse tightly with his legs. He felt his youthful strength returning. He felt at one with the unicorn. The unicorn jumped, galloped, and stopped short, only to sprint forward again. It ran full-out, edging closer to the sea, until it was splashing in the water. Steiner was shouting and laughing, unmindful of anything but the perfect joy of the moment. Steiner felt wonderful. For the first time in his life, everything was right. He felt he could do anything. He was at one with the world . . . and he rode and balanced on the back of the unicorn as if he had spent the past forty years of his life riding the wind.

  Suddenly the unicorn turned and headed straight out into the ocean. Waves broke against its knees and chest. Steiner's legs were immersed in water. "What are you doing?" Steiner shouted joyfully, unafraid but holding on tightly to its neck. The unicorn walked deeper into the sea, past the breakers, until it was swimming smoothly and quickly through the warm, salty water. The sea was like a sheet of black glass, made of the same stuff as the unicorn's horn. It seemed to go on forever.

  As the dark water rose over Steiner, he finally accepted the wreck of his life.

  The unicorn lifted its great head as it descended into the sea. Steiner took hold of its red-tipped horn, and the unicorn carried him gently down into the ocean's cool, waiting depths.

  The Hole in Edgar's Hillside

  by

  Gregory Frost

  Here's a sprightly little story about an ordinary suburban couple who find a small enigma deposited, literally, on their doorstep . . . and who also find a good deal more trouble than they bargained for when they try to investigate it!

  Gregory Frost has made an enviable reputation for himself in three genres—fantasy, science fiction, and humor—and, when last consulted, was planning to branch out into mysteries as well. His short fiction has appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine, Whispers, The Twilight Zone Magazine, Night Cry, Liavek, Faery, and in many of today's best horror anthologies. His novels include Lyrec, Tain, and Remscela. His most recent novel is The Pure Cold Light. Born in Des Moines, Iowa, Frost now lives in Philadelphia with a twenty-pound cat named "Poot," who steadfastly denies any resemblance between himself and Edgar the Cat from the story that follows.

  "I think the cat's caught something again."

  "What?"

  "A mouse, I think."

  "Well, open the door and see."

  She had been looking through the window in the storm door. Not wishing to have a mouse dragged through the living room, she opened the door just an inch or two. The sky outside threatened rain.

  "No, it's not a mouse, it's—" She stopped, crouched down. The cat was sitting on the small concrete porch, triumphant over his prey. "Oh, my God! Honey—Ted, I think you'd better come
here."

  The newspaper rattled. Making grumbling noises, her husband walked down the steps to the landing. "All right, what?"

  "Here, look."

  He knelt beside her, groaning slightly at the effort. "Where?" She edged out of the way to let him see through the crack in the door. The first thing he saw was Edgar, the cat, squatting on the concrete with eyes hugely black, wild, and crazy. He had to reach past his wife and push the door further open to see the other thing.

  At first he doubted his own eyes. Then he figured out that the cat had picked up a piece from some neighbor kid's play set. "It's just a toy," he said annoyedly, and reached out. The cat growled, and he drew his hand back.

  Esther said, "Wait, I'll take care of him." She opened the door wide and stepped out. "Good kitty! Oh, good boy!" She stroked Edgar's head. He stood, raising his tail, mincing in place, proud and happy to be made a fuss over. After all, he'd brought his kill all the way home just for them. "Let's give you some food, monster," and she swept the fifteen-pound tabby up in her arms. He glanced back worriedly at his abandoned kill as she carried him inside.

  Ted put one foot out onto the stoop to prop the door open while he scooped up the unicorn. The instant he touched it, he almost flung it away in disgust. "Ugh," he said. He overcame his revulsion, and brought it closer.

  The unicorn was very dead. It had bled from puncture wounds at its throat, and its neck appeared to be broken. It was still warm. Ted took one finger and nudged its legs, noting its unshod hooves, its tufted fetlocks. He prodded its tiny muzzle with his pinkie, pushing up the lip to see its very real teeth and lolling tongue. Carefully, he pressed at the tip of the spiraled golden horn. "Esther . . ."he said, then realized he'd barely made a sound, cleared his throat and shouted, "Esther, come here!"

  "Just a second," she replied, "I'm giving him his treat."

  That second lasted a million minutes for Ted. Crazy thoughts banged around in his head like BBs in an engine, tearing up the works.

  "All right," she said, "what?"

  He showed her.

  They sat on the couch, both hunched over the little corpse, which lay on a china plate on the coffee table. "What if he's the last one?" she asked, breaking the silence. Ted frowned at her. "Well," she said. "We haven't exactly seen a thousand of the little things prancing around, have we? It could have been the last of its kind."

  "We'll have to call the Smithsonian."

  "I'll pay to hear that call. 'Hello, Smithsonian? My name's Ted Heubler, and I have this unicorn lying on my coffee table.' Remember what happened in the Thurber story?"

  He remained silent, mulling over the term "booby-hatch."

  "Okay, suppose it isn't the last one," she suggested. "What if there's a whole herd of 'my little ponies' out there? What are we going to do about Edgar?"

  "Edgar?" He glanced at the cat, who solemnly met his gaze, having heard his name. They traded judgmental looks.

  "He's going to keep hunting them," she explained.

  Ted pursed his lips. All of a sudden, he smiled. "That's right," he said. "That's right, he will. He will. Won't you, you good kitty?" He reached over and patted the cat's head. His wife stared at him as if he'd gone mad; he never talked to the cat like that. "Good kitty," he said again. He grinned at her. "All we have to do is follow him, don't you see? The next time he goes out? He's going to go hunt in the woods again, and we just follow him, right to where he caught this critter." She blinked. He repeated, "He's going to keep hunting them." He stood. "I'll go get our coats."

  "What if he doesn't want to go out?" she asked, but the cat, anticipating things, bounded out of the room and down the stairs to the front door. Esther looked over the railing at him making figure eights on the landing. "Okay, get our coats. I'd better get my hiking boots, too. God knows where we're going."

  Rain drizzled erratically out of the gray sky. She wore a green vinyl poncho, and he wore an oilcloth coat from Australia that he loved, even though he had to treat it periodically and it made the rest of his coats smell like a dock.

  The cat drove them crazy, checking out every piece of ground, every bush, on his trek across the various front lawns. "He thinks he owns the whole damn development," Ted grumbled. At one point, a raindrop must have nailed Edgar, because he suddenly bolted as if he'd been electrified, and ran for the hills.

  The houses edged a large wooded area that wrapped around the hillside. They felt fortunate that it hadn't been cleared in the traditional manner when the development had been erected. At first they'd speculated that the developers might have been ecologically conscious, but one of the other neighbors cleared the matter up, explaining that a farmer who ran a dairy on the far side of the hill owned the stretch of woods, and that he'd flatly refused to sell. Esther and Ted were glad of it, frankly, since there was nothing they liked more than the smell from those pines wafting through the windows on a breezy night.

  The cat prowled slowly, errantly, pausing to sniff at leaves. At one point, they stood around while he dug himself a little toilet in the loose detritus. He pretended all the while that he didn't see them, just as they pretended not to be there.

  He took them through rusted and forgotten barbed wire fences, strung like a wicked trap in the dimness of the deeper woods. The trees on the hillside were enormous, without branches for a good twelve feet overhead, and seemed to absorb the sound of their footsteps. The air was full of pine and earth.

  After awhile, Ted muttered, "I didn't know he went this far."

  "I didn't think the woods did, either."

  They came to where the forest floor leveled off in a narrow valley covered mostly by short, broad-leafed green vegetation. The cat stopped suddenly. He crouched down low, ears flattened. Like two secret agents, his owners ducked back to press themselves against two trees. "What's he got?" she hissed.

  "I don't see anything . . ."

  Edgar's hind end pistoned furiously, and then he pounced. He ripped through the plants at full speed. Something ahead of him ran for its life in a flash of tan. Spying it, they jumped from hiding and sprinted to keep up. The cat looked like a leopard in a documentary. His prey turned, bounding into view for a second; it was another unicorn all right. Edgar agilely cut back, too, right on the unicorn's heels. Esther couldn't believe the gracefulness with which he maneuvered his bulk, the ripple of muscles in his back.

  The race led right up against an outcropping of rock. By the time Ted and Esther got there, the cat and his prey had disappeared. They searched the face of the rock, which was sharp, layered, and black, like an exposed bed of shale. No cat. Ted ran around the side and climbed up on top. No cat.

  It was Esther who finally made the discovery. She got down among the ground cover and found the opening. "Ted!" she cried, and the urgency in her voice brought him sliding down on his rear.

  He crawled up beside her and looked. At the base of the outcropping, there was a hole. It was much like the entrance to a small animal's den, except that light was pouring out of it.

  "What is this?" Ted asked incredulously. He scooched up on his soggy knees and pressed his face against the rock.

  Through the hole, he could see a broad rolling field of grass, and a beautiful blue sky, and, way off in the distance, a castle.

  Withdrawing, he looked at Esther and laughed.

  "I know," she said. "I don't believe it either." She leaned in for another look, and yanked her head back with a cry as the cat came shooting out of the hole. He blasted off through the woods, his tail stiff and big as a boa.

  "At least we know where he went," Ted observed.

  Esther was about to lean back down, when the sharp-pointed striped tip of a long stick emerged from the hole, followed a heartbeat later by a miniature galloping destrier and armored knight. The knight reined in the horse and lowered his lance. "Whit ha'e, that's vanquished the beastie!" he said, with satisfaction. He pushed up his visor and looked around. "Odd's bollocks, now! Whit manner of place be this?" His attention was caught by E
sther's flannel sleeve rising up out of the leaves, and he followed it with his eyes, tilting his head, until he was staring up into her eyes, which must have seemed the size of dinner plates from his perspective. His face went pale as milk. His lips trembled. Gently, he jiggled on the reins to turn his horse; surreptitiously raised his lance till it rested against the rondel on his breastplate. "Methinks we'll gae back inside now, Averil," he announced to his mount, "before we give the impression that we're trespassing, which we're definitely not, gracious, no.''

  Ted leaned down. "Wait a second," he said.

  "Ted!" Esther snapped.

  The knight shrieked, "Ah, God save me!" and kicked his horse into a panicked gallop as the giant made a grab for him. Lance, horse, and rider shot back into the hole.

  "Damn it!" Ted cursed. He had caught only a fistful of dirt.

  "Nice going, dear."

  "Well, you would have let him turn around and get away."

  "He did turn around and get away," she said acidly.

  Muttering, Ted stared with her into the hole. A horde of people were approaching in strange clothes. The knight rode back to them, then dismounted and began talking frantically to a bearded old man in the lead, while gesturing back toward the hole. More circumspectly thereafter, the crowd drew near the entrance. The bearded leader came forward alone, scowling. He studied the edges of the hole, but seemed unaware of Ted and Esther watching from the other side.

  "I see," said the bearded little man. "Do we have your Megistus among us today?"

  After some mumbling among them, the crowd pushed forward a skinny, pimply young man wearing tights and a red leather jerkin.

  "You did this, didn't you?" accused the old man. "You stole my book and broached the sky, didn't you, you walking pottage?''

  Megistus put a bold face on it. "Yeah, as I'm apprenticed, ain't I?"

  "Apprenticed? You recreant, the only thing you're good for is test ammunition for a ballista!" Almost nonchalantly, while he spoke, the old man made a few peculiar gestures with his hands, the shapes of which hung in the air like clouds. Then the clouds began to expand. A few pebbles trickled down the face of the outcropping; one bounced off Ted's skull. He drew back, saw what was happening, and snatched Esther away just as the whole trembling, sparkling face of rock cracked and thunderously collapsed. The entire hillside flashed with a light like a hundred flashbulbs going off, the glare sizzling up the trees and into the sky like inverted lightning. Shadows shot through the woods. A booming echo rolled through the hills.