Morris and the Unicorn

By Barbara Davies

Morris of Worcester hitched up his robe with one hand, grasped his staff firmly with the other, and stepped over the fallen branch. What had started out as a well-trodden path had dwindled to little more than a faint trail strewn with decomposing leaves and twigs. Clearly no one came this way through the forest any more. He sighed, and wondered if Mother Katherine had misdirected him.

One could never be quite sure of wise women. Their potions and cures were handy enough, Lord knows, but when it came to payment, there were no set tariffs. Morris had paid her a penny for directions to Chester and a rheumatism salve--the dank forest had aggravated the ache in his knees. At the time he had cursed himself for offering too much--a labourer could earn that much in a day--but maybe it had been too little after all.

Mother Katherine had seemed harmless enough, a middle-aged widow trying to make a living from the only skills she had. The little cottage and herb garden in the forest clearing had been well tended, the pigs and hens in the pens content. And then there was Lillian, with her makeshift hospital for sick and injured animals. No one with such a daughter could be all bad.

Morris thoughts dwelled pleasantly on willowy limbs and long flowing hair. If he hadn't been three times Lillian's age, and if there weren't the little matter of his vow of celibacy... She was one of the prettiest girls he'd seen in his wanderings through England and the Holy Land, as blonde and beautiful as her mother was dark and ugly. The thought brought him up short. How had the wise woman persuaded anyone to couple with her, let alone produced such a daughter?

A twig snapped beneath his sandals, jarring him back to awareness. Massive ribbed oak trees now surrounded him, their trunks fissured, their branches gnarled and twisted with age. Where had the path gone? Sunlight could barely penetrate the dense canopy above him, and Morris shivered, wishing the worsted of his robe wasn't so threadbare. It was so cold he could see his breath.

He felt a sudden need to be out in the open, and lurched forward, forcing his way between the trunks and crowding branches. Something black burst from the undergrowth at his feet with a loud chattering cry. His heart had almost stopped with fright before he realized it was only a startled blackbird.

Morris's panic changed to anger. This definitely isn't the way to Chester, he thought. And he turned, determined to retrace his steps and demand his money back from the wise woman.

He had been walking for five minutes, and was passing what had clearly once been a hazel coppice, when something caught his eye. He stopped instantly, but whatever had caused the flicker of movement--something white?--was no longer visible. Tensely, he waited, scanning the dim silhouettes and shadows.

He had all but convinced himself it was just his imagination, when he saw the rhythmic plume of steam, like air from a blacksmith's bellows in Winter. Breath, he thought. Someone, or something, was hiding among the smooth, grey-barked hazel stems.

Morris gnawed his lower lip. Surely an experienced thief would know from the cut and condition of his robes and knapsack that he was only an impoverished pilgrim. There were no silver shillings to be had; the only things he carried of any value were six pennies and some battered relics from the Holy Land. But maybe it was relics the thief was after...

He grasped his staff more firmly. "Show yourself, whoever you are."

Nothing happened.

"I said show yourself!"

Out of the coppice charged a large white horse, riderless, whinnying loudly. It made straight for him, and before he could move, its solid shoulder had brushed him aside like a feather. For a moment, its breath was warm on his cheek--a sweet, almost floral scent--then he was off-balance and falling, rolling over and over in the musty leaf mould, until a root stopped him.

As he lay bruised and winded, listening to the thudding of hooves fading into the distance, Morris realized belatedly that there had been a single large horn in the centre of the horse's forehead. Could it be possible? In this day and age? Eagerly, he reached for his staff.

Morris had been chasing the unicorn--for what else could it be?--for several miles, following the unshod hoofprints stamped deep in the mud, before it occurred to him to wonder what he would do with the mythical beast when he caught it. For he had no doubts of his right to catch it, kill it even--the Book of Genesis clearly taught that Man had dominion over all beasts.

He winced as an overhanging branch added a scratch to the dozens already adorning his face, and ruefully glanced down at his robe, its hem dirtied and shredded by roots and brambles. The hardship would be worth it, though. The Church would buy the unicorn from him--it was supposed to represent Our Lord, its single horn the Gospel of Truth. Or if they declined, there were others who would pay well for its legendary skills: determining if a maiden was still a virgin, detecting poison in liquids...

At the entrance to a small clearing, he stopped to rest his sore lungs, and pressed a fist into his aching side. It was only when the discomfort had begun to ease that he realized the clearing was surrounded by an impenetrable bank of brambles, and facing him on its far side, trembling like a beech leaf, was the unicorn.

Morris thought at first that there must be some mistake. Surely, his unicorn had been perfect, whereas this... Its skin was off white, patchy in places, and he could clearly discern the outlines of its ribcage and spine. The whites of its eyes were an unhealthy yellow, and its horn...why, it was skewed! But he had only caught a brief glimpse of the creature before, and there couldn't be two unicorns, could there?

Willing the animal to remain still, he swung his knapsack round onto his right hip, and groped inside it for the coil of hempen rope. Quickly, he formed one end of the rope into a loop, using the skills gained while working as a deck hand in Rhodes when money had been scarce and hunger pressed. Unerringly, he threw the rope.

The noose flew over the horn and settled round the scrawny neck, and as Morris pulled it taut, strange images flooded through his mind. He could still see the unicorn, its head now bowed so that its horn almost touched the churned up ground, but he was also staring at a grey-haired man dressed in a sweat-stained robe with a torn hem. The man was clutching the end of the rope and looked thoroughly bemused.

For a moment he was terrified that he'd been possessed, then another explanation occurred to him. What if he was somehow picking up the unicorn's thoughts, seeing what it could see?

The overlapping visions made him feel quite giddy; movement made it even worse, so he stayed still. He tightened his grip on the rope. "Easy."

Hasn't Man done more than enough to harm my kind? The voice, a strange fluting tenor, seemed to come from nowhere.

Morris shook his head to clear it.

What have we ever done to you?

By Our Lord. Was he going out of his mind? He took a step forward, and the shifting double images brought him to his knees, retching. When he could again look up, the unicorn had raised its head and was staring at him, its eyes the clear blue of summer skies.

Once, things were different, said the tenor voice.

"Different?" Morris wondered what he was doing trying to hold a conversation with a dumb beast, a unicorn no less!

Watch.

Images exploded inside his head, dissolving and reforming like quicksilver, and he gasped with disorientation. Then came a moment of resolution and calm, and he was viewing a strange landscape as though from a great height.

Thousands of unicorns, manes streaming in the breeze, thundered over a sun-drenched hillside leaving a swathe of crushed vegetation in their wake. Around crags and outcrops they ran, parting and rejoining like dancers in some complex dance. A huge unicorn, its skin a gleaming white that was almost silver, its horn straight and true, led the herd. Morris saw it stop and rear, and at its whinnying call, the other unicorns paused and replied in kind. The noise was deafening.

Exhilaration surged through him. This is how God meant unicorns to be, he thought suddenly. Not burdened with riders and their baggage, or penned and made to test the virginity of maidens or the purity of water... He could have watched for hours, but all too soon the vision faded and he was back in the clearing, back with the overlapping images and the nausea.

"Where are they?" he asked eagerly. "Take me to them."

That was long ago. Few are left now.

Morris felt a sense of foreboding. "What happened?"

Are you certain you wish to know?

He frowned uneasily. "What do you mean?"

The unicorn nickered. Watch, then.

Once more unicorns raced across a hillside, but this time the weather was overcast and the whinnies were shrill cries of terror. What are they running from? wondered Morris. Then he realized that what he had taken to be a bank of grey storm clouds was in fact a wall of water several miles high. And it was closing swiftly on the fleeing creatures.

The magnificent unicorn was at the rear this time, trying to drive his herd to safety. Morris watched, utterly horrified, as the gigantic wave reached the leader, who reared and screamed his defiance. Then the wave smashed down, tossing him and the other unicorns like pieces of driftwood, until only mangled corpses and broken pieces of horn remained. The wave thundered on, unchecked, pursuing the last surviving members of the herd... The vision faded.

It was deathly quiet in the clearing, and in the distance Morris could hear the pink, pink of a blackbird and the soft cooing of wood pigeons. Dampness had soaked his knees; they ached dully.

No wonder unicorns are rare, he thought. It's a miracle any survived at all. A miracle. Why, O Lord? he prayed silently. Why create such noble beasts only to wipe them out again? But of course he knew. For didn't the Bible give the reason for the Great Flood as Man's corruption and wickedness? To make matters worse, Noah been tasked with saving the animals, but it was well known no unicorns had boarded the ark.

Have you seen enough?

Miserably, Morris nodded.

He found that he was still clutching the rope, and for a moment he stared at it, noting absently that it was beginning to fray. Then, deliberately, he dropped it onto the muddy floor. Instantly, the double vision stopped.

He rose, stiff knees protesting, and walked towards the unicorn. It trembled slightly but held its ground; he felt honoured by its trust in him. Soon he was close enough to smell the sweat drying on its flanks, to see the delicate eyelashes that fringed its eyelids. Once more he smelt the sweet scent of its breath.

He reached for the noose, loosened it, then eased it off over the crooked horn. The unicorn nickered softly. Its large tongue, warm and wet, scraped across his knuckles, then withdrew. As he coiled the rope and repacked it in his knapsack, he wondered how he could atone to this bedraggled creature for the sins of his fellow men. Suddenly, he knew what he must do.

"Follow me," he said, and he began to walk across the clearing. At the entrance, he turned to look back. It hadn't moved. One enigmatic blue eye gazed at him.

"Follow me," he repeated. "I know someone who will help you."

The unicorn bowed its head and trotted after him.

It was nearly dusk when Morris sighted the cottage. Lamps burned like homing beacons in its tiny windows; a wisp of blue-grey smoke curled skyward from the chimney--he hoped it signified cooking. The unicorn, trotting docilely at his shoulder, had been able to nibble blades of grass and leaves, but Morris hadn't eaten since breakfast. He was hungry, and cold through to his bones. He opened the wicker gate and trudged up the path, narrowly avoiding a hen, which loudly clucked its outrage.

The front door creaked open and someone stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the flickering lamplight. Mother Katherine. She showed no surprise at seeing the animal that accompanied him, but said only, "Welcome, Pilgrim. You have traveled far today. Come in and eat." And she stood to one side in invitation.

He stared at her for a moment, then stepped past her into the warm. The unicorn remained outside, its horn swinging nervously from side to side as it scanned the woman and its surroundings.

Through the cottage doorway, Morris watched the wise woman lay a gentle hand on the animal's scrawny flank. For a moment it was overcome by the violent trembling he had seen earlier, then it calmed as she began to stroke it and murmur soothing words into its twitching ear.

"Lillian," she called, her gaze never leaving the unicorn. "Come here, my sweet."

Morris's eyes brightened, and he turned. Suddenly the object of his recent thoughts was in the room with him, bobbing her blonde head shyly, murmuring a greeting. A soft "Oh!" escaped her when she saw the unicorn.

"Look after it, daughter," said Mother Katherine. "While I see to our guest."

Carefully, Lillian took her mother's place at the animal's side. Then she urged it, with whispered endearments and gestures, to follow her. Morris sighed enviously and watched the girl and unicorn, which seemed to understand what was required of it, disappear round the side of the cottage.

Mother Katherine shut the door. "Sit," she directed him. Then she vanished through a doorway into the interior.

He chose a three-legged stool in front of the fire, grateful to rest his weary legs at last, and surveyed his surroundings. Suspended from a drying rack were bunches of flowers and herbs. He sniffed appreciatively: lavender, thyme, sage... On a wooden table against the wall marched rows of pots, each labeled in Mother Katherine's spidery black script. Her potions, he thought, remembering how she had scooped the messy rheumatism salve out of a similar pot and wrapped it in a piece of muslin.

Mother Katherine returned with a bowl of steaming stew and two large hunks of bread. "Eat."

He needed no further encouragement.

Later, when he was warm and well-fed and had been offered a bed for the night on the rush mat in front of the hearth, he squinted across at the woman in the rocking chair, busy with her knitting. Lillian had long since returned from making the unicorn comfortable, and had retired leaving him alone with her formidable mother. But to his surprise, he found he was no longer frightened of Mother Katherine. She wasn't as ugly as he remembered, either--why, in the firelight she was almost handsome! Quickly, he pushed such disconcerting thoughts away.

"That wasn't the way to Chester, was it?" His tone was neutral.

She glanced at him, smiled, and shook her head.

He grunted and rubbed his itching nose--the salves she had smoothed on his scratches were already doing their work. "I paid you good money."

She turned her needles, and started another row. "Enough for the rheumatism salve, no more."

"Ah."

"But what you did today made up the deficit," she added.

He wondered how she had known that the unicorn needed help. It irked him slightly to have been used in such a way, yet what could you expect when you did business with a wise woman? He sighed, but it was not an unhappy sigh. A full belly, the glow that comes from doing a good deed, the prospect of sleep by a warm fire...what was there to be unhappy about?

"Tomorrow, after breakfast, I will tell you how to get to Chester, Pilgrim," promised Mother Katherine.

Suddenly unable to suppress a series of yawns, Morris nodded. Noting his tiredness, the wise woman put down her knitting, rose and bade him good night. And before her empty chair had stopped rocking, he was sound asleep.