The Clockwork Toymaker and Other Fables

The Unicorn

A note to the purists: There are no virgins in this story; there are other unicorns in this world. My unicorn is more the "prowd rebellious Unicorn" of The Faerie Queene, the "supernatural being of auspicious omen" spoken of in Chinese folklore, a creature who can talk to forests; perhaps, he is a figment of my imagination.

It was early spring when the Unicorn arrived.

The Forest was still bare, the first whispers of green not quite woken from their furtive buds. He slowed as he approached and considered what lay ahead: Dark tangled branches and low sweeping boughs. His gaze was met with indifference, the coldness of winter still evident in the arching of the wind. The Forest swayed, lackadaisical and tired.

Come forward, she seemed to say, though I hardly think I'll care.

At first he faltered, surprised to see his advances so tacitly undermined, but then, as he took his first tentative steps toward her, he was welcomed by a dance of flowers, so coincident with his approach that he was certain they'd been conjured just for him. He marched forward with reclaimed confidence.

The Forest smiled at this cocksure arrogance. She watched the Unicorn from her bed of springtime pink and innocent white, saw him dance and prance and raise his head in pride and fitful sway, and was happy to let him believe what he wished.

Neither spoke in these early moments, both still testing the mode of the other's countenance, and responding with posture and silent challenge. The Unicorn flicked his head, his lavish mane sweeping to cover first one side of his face and then the other. He stamped his feet and stood erect, certain that the Forest had noticed, marvelling at her ability to stay silent.

The Forest swayed, shimmering now in a gown of green, and let the waft of her perfume stand as her response. She knew that she would be the first to speak, the Unicorn so clearly unused to the rigours of conversation. She waited a while, enjoying his fragile bravado. After a time, though, his stance became less sure and his head began to fall, and she worried that she had waited too long.

"Unicorn," she said, her voice gentle, but rich with a certain confidence, "You may stay with me a while. I enjoy the way you dance and prance and play around me. Indeed, I wish you to stay here."

The Unicorn raised his head – aloof and regal – certain that he did not need to be asked.

He began to marshal a response, to make clear that he knew he was invited and that certainly he would stay – for as long as he cared to do so; but the Forest had not yet finished speaking.

"But Unicorn," she said, her voice now serious and pointed, "You may not stay too long."

The Unicorn brayed. How dare she say this? To whom does she think she speaks?

But the Forest continued: "Unicorn, listen. Please listen to these words, for I am thinking only of you. It is dangerous for you to stay here. Many mortals visit me and they will likely find you. You must not let this happen, for you are an imaginary creature and exist for them only in their dreams."

The Unicorn snorted through his nostrils.

"Unicorn, be certain, you are not real. Take heed of this, for it is from here that you find your strength, your identity. You must not stay too long or you will surely be discovered. And, Unicorn, remember this: to be discovered is to be forever changed. And so I say, don't stay too long. And ask, also, that you take care. Take care to leave no trace, no evidence of your existence here with me; for your mark, too, will make you real. Unicorn, you must be careful, or you will be forever changed."

The words fell on his ears with such seriousness and foreboding that the Unicorn could do nothing but laugh. He was uncertain what to think of the Forest's recalcitrant beseeching; so casual in her request for him to stay, and yet so adamant in her rejection. He thought of the mountain streams, whom he'd passed on his travels, who'd called to him to splash his feet, and laughed as he danced in their tickling chill. They hadn't voiced such serious concerns. And their bubbling voices had begged him to return the very moment he had left them. Then he remembered the Forest's feigned indifference to his arrival, and wondered why, if she thought so little of his presence, she cared so much for his disappearance. She's scared, he reasoned, of becoming too attached.