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.
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.
He was visiting, perhaps, but once a week, when the snow began to fall. It fell thickly, in a single night, and by morning all the Forest was covered in a blanket of white. It was into this whitest Forest that the Unicorn walked that icy day.
The snow felt cold against his feet, and teased him into playful prancing. He began to dance and run and leap about. As he jumped and pranced, snow from the boughs above him fell gently on his face. He delighted in the fun he was having, the way he felt in the flurried snow, and wondered what had ever possessed him to leave the Forest, for even the shortest time. But then, as he looked around to savour the magnificence of the Forest's beauty, he saw the prints that his uninhibited dancing had left behind in the snow, and he remembered at that moment, her warning, and he knew that he had left his mark.
At once, he grew frightened, for he knew the Forest's warnings had been true. In his panic, he tried to remove the marks, to rub them out by dancing over them again and again, and then, when that had failed, by rolling over them on the ground, but he simply encouraged the marks, packing them down, and making them increasingly obvious. The Unicorn knew then that all was lost and he fled immediately from the Forest.
In his fear, he sought solace in the mountain streams, hoping that they might somehow relieve his anxiety, but on this coldest day the streams were frozen over, and, no matter how hard he kicked upon their covered ceilings, he could not make them take notice. And so he continued running, heading ever further from the Forest, frightened all the while of what would become of him, frightened that he would have to change.
And he travelled so far – over the mountains and passed the valleys that lay beyond them – that he nearly reached the edge of the world, and yet the air stayed winter chilled, and the Unicorn could not forget his image of the Forest: her snow covered bed, his dancing tracks, so clearly visible; and he dared not return there.
And he travelled on and on, never daring to stop, never daring to turn around, all the while running from what he would certainly become, the memory of the Forest so constant before his eyes.
And then one day he reached the edge of the world, and found that he could run no further. And so he stood, quietly frozen, looking out into the darkness, and wondered where he could go now. To him, it seemed that all was lost. He had but two choices: the first, to throw himself off the edge of the world; the second, to return to the Forest, to certain change, to what he would become. He walked forward, pushing himself as close as he dared toward the edge. He stared out and knew that with a single step, he would surely fall into oblivion. But he could not take that step.
And so, the Unicorn resolved to return the Forest, to face whatever was to come. With reticence, he turned, and began his journey back across the valleys and over the mountains. He had travelled a great many miles, and, increasingly tired, the pace of his walking had become slow. And, all the while, his head was filled with images of the Forest and the unknown future that lay ahead.
At two days' distance from the Forest, the Unicorn passed the mountain streams. Too fast flowing to stay frozen long, they called him as he travelled by. "Oh, Unicorn, come sooth your feet," their voices chimed. But the Unicorn was focused on returning to the Forest and paid them little heed. And so they taunted him as he passed. "Oh, Unicorn, where are you going in such bad humour, that you will not rest with us a while? To what engagement are you headed that you cannot pause to dip your feet? Unicorn, who do you think you are, to ignore us in this way?"
But the Unicorn found their chiding foolish. He had no time for their idle chatter. He shivered in the freezing air, and focused only on what lay ahead. The gravity of his future was what mattered to the Unicorn; thoughts of the Forest and of his frozen tracks had filled his mind for so very long. And now he was nearly home, and his heart was filled with an increasing uncertainty. Soon I will experience change, he thought, and the mountain streams and the coldness of the winter air seemed insignificant. Nothing in his past had touched him; he had been forever the same: The Unicorn. Now he was heading to something new, something quite unknown.
Again, he thought of his frozen tracks, lying so visibly on the Forest floor, and he prayed that change would be something good. It was the first time he had even imagined this possibility. The mountain streams continued to call to him in the distance, and he knew he wanted to be free of their laughing voices. Perhaps, he thought, I need to change. And the mountain streams kept singing, "Oh, Unicorn, come dance with us, for you know we flow just for you," and he didn't want to hear their lies. And the mountain streams continued to sing, "Oh, Unicorn. Oh, Unicorn," and he knew that he wanted to change. Inside, he felt a strange excitement, a sudden expectation at the things to come. Soon I am going to change, he thought. And at this, he increased his pace. By the time he reached the Forest, he had practically reached a gallop.
Much time had passed since he'd left the Forest, and his arrival coincided with the beginning of spring. As he entered the Forest, he saw that her budding flowers were once again starting to grow, and that a suggestion of green had returned to her tallest branches.
The Forest watched him as he wandered in her midst, reacquainting himself with her form and nature. She watched him as he gazed lovingly at her flowers, and as he stood beneath her crisscrossed canopy. She watched him as he realized that the snow was melting, and as he bowed his head and touched the ground in recognition that his tracks, too, had begun to fade away. And then, she smiled.
"Unicorn," she said, "Unicorn, rejoice, for I have so much to tell you. Your tracks are disappearing. And they were never found. Unicorn, rejoice, for no mortals have visited me this winter, and soon all this will be nothing but a faded memory. You are saved, Unicorn. You have not been changed. You are saved, Unicorn. You will never change."
And the Unicorn nodded his head, and tried once or twice to bray. And he wondered, perhaps, if he should dance, though, in fact, he felt nothing of the sort.
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