The Clockwork Toymaker and Other Fables

The Unicorn

And so it was that spring turned into summer, and the early springtime buds were transformed into full and fragrant flowers, and the fragile greenness of the trees slowly grew into a rich and wonderful canopy, and the coldest winter winds were swept away in a haze of sultry heat. And the Unicorn stayed in the Forest.

She watched him as he danced and pranced and paraded himself across her coloured glades. How proud he looked as he explored her shaded hollows, the concentration of his eyes hinting at a depth his demeanour kept well hidden. Every day she watched him, and every day she worried that he would surely stay too long. She worried, but could not bring herself to utter any words, for she was sure they would be rejected forthwith by the Unicorn. And so she suffered in uncomfortable silence, and this uneasiness was echoed in the increasing summer heat.

But then, as the summer reached its zenith, and the heat began to grow so strong that even the most sheltered trees were moist with languorous humidity, tempers began to tighten, and the Forest felt sure she could be silent no more. The Unicorn seemed maddened by a summer fever. His passion was high; the burning heat ensured that far too little sleep had passed his way. He was becoming reckless: kicking and jumping and taking no care to keep himself safe. And so the Forest resolved to speak her mind:"Unicorn," she said, as confidently as she could muster, "Be careful not to stay too long."

She faltered as she spoke, for she had meant to tell the Unicorn to leave.

As it was, he brayed, and wondered why she would bring this up now – again – after he had stayed with her so long. 

"What would you have me do," he asked, making no confidence of his indignation, "Go back to the mountain streams, who I met on my journey here? They were all too keen to have me back, and never filled my head with foolish worries."

"No," she replied, for the thought of him returning to the mountain streams in some way made her sad. She hated herself now, because she was only trying to protect the Unicorn, and she knew he did not understand. She also knew no clear way to communicate her feelings. As it was, she felt unsure even of what she wanted, and was trapped by her own confusion. And so, again, she resolved to say nothing at all.

The Unicorn thought of the mountain streams, of how refreshing they would be, the chill water flowing round his ankles. And, he mused, in their fast flowing water, I could hardly be accused of leaving a mark; my trace would wash away. He did not leave, though; the Forest's labyrinthine expanse offered too much pleasure.

And so summer turned slowly to autumn, and the Forest's sadness found release in the yellow and orange of her falling leaves. The gradual change of season brought with it an abstract peace, the general pace of life much slower now than it had been in the months before. Yet, deep within the Forest, the sense of melancholy remained. The Unicorn was no longer her constant visitor. Gradually, he had taken to spending time away from the Forest. As autumn crept on, he took his leave more often, and she was in many ways relieved.

The Unicorn, though, had begun to visit the mountain streams; thoughts of their gentle, bubbling flow had become far too vivid to be ignored. He did not speak of this, however; although he was certain that the Forest knew of his travels. How could she not, he asked himself. And why discuss things that are so implicitly clear? Who could possibly benefit from such idle honesty?

And the Forest was fairly certain that the Unicorn had returned to the mountain streams, and she was in some ways relieved for this to be so, for she no longer had the strength to continually protect him. In a way, she hoped that he would not return, that he would leave her one day, without ever being discovered. But that day refused to come.

And then it was that winter began. The air again turned cold, and the cruel winds started once more to blow, and though still he came to the Forest, the Unicorn came ever less.