Chapter Six
When the living heart is in the running, there is no creature that can outpace the unicorn. So I ran, even with the unaccustomed weight on my back, faster than a dream through time. The drum of my hooves echoed in that dark forest that night; creatures turned their heads, their eyes sparking as they leapt out of my way, their distant, half-terrified cries falling into my wake. I could feel it in my blood: the hunt! No matter what Michaelmas had said, I was guardian of the wood. I was Khan! The whole world was mine to defend and to cradle, to urge up on its shaky legs.
What goes through a person's mind when the war-blood is pounding, that is hard to say. It was as fierce as love, but lasted longer; it bore me on over the hills and valleys under the stars and pine-boughs until, at last, I reached the baleful clearing and plunged through the air down into the midst of the marauders. The weight left my back; I became aware of my two-legger rolling to the ground and rising, sword shimmering in my body's light. Everything became sharp as ice in my mind. I saw the mournful, frail figures cast about the ground: Narnians like Nutkin, larger animals striped black and white with their enemies' blood still shining on their claws and snouts, cats like Minkle, a lamb or two with their haunches torn off. And in the gloom I perceived the drum-beat of hearts. Through the darkness, under the pines, I saw those cruel teeth gleam at me, those surprised, wicked eyes narrowing at me, sizing me up. It was only a moment, only a brief lull in which the clearing and invader drew off to breathe before plunging in again.
So soon I heard the shrieking battle-cry split the air. In the darkness my two-legger and I, poised for the fight, saw a glowing pearl figure dashing in and out with the brindle wolves around its flanks. She reared, dancing on her hind hooves, lashing with her forehooves like a thousand furious knives. Her horn was soiled and her face bloodied. But before her cry could sound again in the wood, my curses exploded, shaking the ground. I shot through the air and met the first wolf head on. He fared the worst; I slit him down the spine and shook his ragged, reeking body off. My two-legger was up to his neck in the dogs, ripping them away with his ravening blade. Flank to flank I found myself with Michaelmas, mouthfuls of fur dropping like fog around me. I ripped and tore and beat and sliced the wolves, all the while—I didn't know it until later—screaming at them as though they were Sori and Nasha, treacherous fiends from the pit. Death filled my eyes, my nose, my body. I made rugs of the wolves. I made the clearing remember until the end of time what Darjeeling Seymour Khan had done that night.
Then it was over. Waves of heat flooded over my body as I stood, trembling, in the dim light of the moon. My throat was raw with my roaring, my head aching with the strain I had put upon my horn. But the moon was cold and gentle. It hung untouched above me, and somehow its light made my head that much clearer. Across the clearing my two-legger rose from beneath a dead wolf and came toward me, a wry, triumphant grin on his face. "It is good?" he asked softly when he was within whispering distance.
I looked around at the littler bodies, their innocent hides shredded in the sheer wanton pleasure of death. They had been avenged. "It is good," I panted.
"Darjeeling." A tiny, bell-note voice broke the stillness. Michaelmas stood quivering on her slender deer-like legs, gazing at me through the moon-veil. She gave her tail the smallest flicker, her eyes the gentlest shimmer of gratefulness. I saw red on her coat: her own blood and that of the wolves. Somehow it struck a knife through my heart to see her shining coat soiled like that. It made me angry all over again.
My two-legger's voice came through to me from the distance, my reply following clearly after:
"She is unclaimed."
"And so she should be!"
The spell was broken. I lowered my head with a weary sigh, knowing all over again that my goddess would remain a far-off dream to me. It was bitter, but somehow, I knew, I would find a way to make it good. I had Minkle now. Stepping over the wolves, I made to go.
"Darjeeling." The voice came again, this time closer. I turned and saw that she had come up beside me, her deep eyes confused and hurt. I wanted to cry out. Can I do nothing but hurt people? I am cursed! She sidled round and made room for my two-legger to walk between us. "Darjeeling," she whispered in an awed tone, "you were amazing."
I let my forelock fall over my face. "I hate the wolves, the wild, wicked wolves. It was duty that compelled me to kill."
"Then I thank your sense of duty," Michaelmas replied, giving herself a shake. Little flecks of blood flew off and fell, accidentally, upon me. I shied at the touch, then felt good to know I was carrying the blood instead of her. "And they—they will sing of you," she went on, lifting her eyes shyly under her lashes. She seemed just like the uncertain little mare that had crept through the dawning that morning in search of me. "You will be their avenger, the others, the ones that got away."
"They know nothing of me," I replied heavily.
"I know of you," said Michaelmas. She took a trot forward, then stopped, cheeks pink. She swallowed and added almost hastily in a quick, kingfisher tone, "I will sing of you." Then she hastened off eastward toward the cottage while my two-legger and I continued on at a slower pace, pausing only to wash ourselves at a little burn.
"I'm not deaf and I'm not blind," I replied to my two-legger's steady, wry grin.
He wiped his hands off on the seat of his pants. "I didn't say you were. Still, I thought it highly amusing that she is unclaimed, but she seems to have claimed someone."
I stomped impulsively. "She's foolish! She doesn't know what I am."
The grey came back to the fierce blue eyes. Eyes of a warrior, I considered. Eyes of something godlike, something noble. I wonder from what stock and house he springs. "Darjeeling Khan," he said slowly, falling into step beside me, "admit to yourself that you don't know what you are. No! I'm not going to whip up some trumpery about your soul and denial and whatnot. But the simple truth is that you're so bitter about being an alien that every attempt the people make—every little gesture—at inviting you in goes either disregarded or destroyed! You opened up to Minkle because he's simpleminded. He doesn't understand the head or the tail, he doesn't know there is a difference between you and Michaelmas, he simply loves you. Darjeeling, for once," my two-legger shut his eyes, his feet moving swiftly, urgently, as well as though he were looking where he went, "for once, realize that, while we're not simpleminded like Minkle, we're trying to open up to you too. We know the head and the tail of it, but—"
"It's almost dawn already," I broke in wearily. How swiftly the night had flown by! And my two-legger ceased talking. He laid a heavy arm over my withers and together we went back to his little house on the knoll. All was quiet as it is before the dawn-wind rises. All was deep and still as though the world was holding its breath—morning comes with a crash, and all creation holds itself in readiness for that entry of the sun. And in that between place, after night has been spent and before morning comes, I had time to think. I had cut him off not to be rude, but because my mind was awhirl with thoughts that his words just muddled all the more. I had to think. But while I thought the leering white eyes of the black-skinned two-leggers would come between me and the cottage, between me and Minkle, between me and home. The wolves slunk around the edges of my consciousness, always watching, waiting for me to let down my guard.
I paused when I caught the scent of horses ahead. Hastily I told my two-legger, and after a moment of confusion he replied with, "Oh yes, of course!" and he set off alone. I went after him warily; I didn't want another glance like Gunnfus' or Nutkin's, but in a lonely way I was eager to see Minkle again. I climbed up the knoll, skirting the woodshore, eyeing the troop of gaily-attired horses on the lawn. They were tired as if they had come far. Voices sounded inside the cottage. I crept closer, my shadow beginning to come out of the night behind me; in the east a silver line hung beneath the smiling crescent moon. And as there was commonality between unicorn and horse, I inquired of them, "What are you doing here?"
The first shook his mane and looked round at me. His voice was thick and low, not like the voice of Michaelmas or Minkle, those who knew two-leggers' speech. His was the true, unadulterated horse-tongue. "Who knows?" he replied. "But we'll be off soon, at any rate. Come and gone like leaves in the wind."
A chestnut raised her head over the group. "But it's not bad," she told me. "I'd rather be on the move with the wind in my ears than standing still like a hobby-horse. It's not bad, that."
They didn't say anything about my coat or the horn between my brows, though I could tell the sensation of my being unicorn swept over them like a warm summer wind. They shuddered and felt the difference, but seemed, for all my majesty—a unicorn can't help his majesty—glad of my company.
"Certainly not bad," the first horse said with a low grunt of approval.
"And," put in a handsome black with a star on his forehead, "it helps to have a good master. I say, one can take long journeys and rough weather if one's got a good master. It makes all the difference in the world. We've got a good life."
The others murmured their agreement and went back to cropping grass. I turned away, shamed at their simplistic happiness. I almost didn't dare go to the cottage, only by now Minkle had realized I was there. My heart lifted a little as he came running across the wet grass, scattering dewy gossamer all the way, crying for joy as he leapt and wrapped himself around my legs. His warm little body filled me with pride because, somehow, he was my own. I smiled, nuzzled him, wondered at him.
A unicorn with a cat for a son. I eyed the world with contempt; let them accuse me of this, I didn't care! Minkle belonged to me, and bending down, I told him so. "You're my very own, Minkle," I whispered into his ears. "You're my very own and—I love you so much."
He wiped his nose over my knees and hugged me. His little orphaned heart nearly burst—as did mine—and I realized he had been just as unbelonging as myself.
In the doorway strode my two-legger, his keen eyes their blue again, lustrous as dawn began to break. His hair lifted from his forehead, dancing over his brows in the wind, and he smiled at the paradox on the lawn. "Darjeeling Khan," he called across to me. I came, Minkle on my back. Setting a hand on my shoulder, he said, "Darjeeling Khan, I am going down to the capitol today. I would that you come with me, if it is anywhere in your heart to do so."
The first two fingers of cold unbelonging touched my heart again. The light in my eyes went out as I turned and watched the dumb horses at grass. To be even like them, that would be good, I thought. Servanthood would have a sweeter taste in my mouth than this severed drifting I am caught in now. "Yes," I said finally without any spirit in my tone. "It is in my heart."
But still the fear of a stranger thumped with the blood in my throat as we approached the horses and made to depart. Minkle would come with me; I would have it no other way. He was full of excitement and wonder while I—I was afraid. I shivered for a moment—for the dawn was quite cold—and almost went back. But then a pearl came by and turned my gaze. It was Michaelmas, hovering on the woodshore not too far away, her purple-and-golden eyes aglow. Her ears turned and turned to take in all the sounds of the two-leggers setting out, of the horses leaving their grass behind, of the thoughts inside herself. She was so beautiful there, the dim autumnal sunlight beginning to shimmer around her. And suddenly she was no longer the cold and distant goddess I thought she was. Across the distance I could feel her racing heart, her longing, her pride.
"I will come again," I whispered, letting the wind carry my words. Her ears stood up and her legs shivered. The wells of her eyes grew wide. "Wait for me," I told her. "I will come again."
One of the two-leggers broke the still dawn. "Come along, King Edmund! Your brother is needing you."
My two-legger's laugh sounded over the knoll like the morning itself. "I am wishing my cottage farewell. It is a full place."
I trotted along in their wake with Minkle on my back, and I knew what he meant. It was full of good times: of silvery, ghostly laughter from the past, of laughing buds yet to be born.
We topped the road and began our descent. The trees were yet iron-cold and the dew was becoming hoarfrost almost as soon as it gathered. Autumn was hanging all around, its breath still yet bronzen. Across the chilly white fields darted a grey titmouse. My road stretched out long and uncertain before me, but even in the coldness my heart was warm. I was alive. I had found my belonging.
The End