Hey, everybody. Here is the third draft of “Of the Unicorn” - it is very different, but I like it much better than the previous two. Warning: there will be a gay relationship somewhere in this story.

o

Once my name was Katsy Bloomsbuckle. It is no longer; it has not been so for weeks; but once it was what I called myself and others called me.

“Katsy,” they would say, “Katsy, you are too pretty. Mess your hair, wrinkle your skirt. It will make you stronger.”

You are jealous, I would think, you are jealous and petty: you are bluejays, you are starlings, you are the fickle creatures of the forest. But I wanted to be liked, so I did, until my hair was too tangled for a comb and my skirt was too wrinkled to be salvaged.

“You are better now,” they said; and so I was apprenticed to the midwife, who would make me wiser.

“You are too dull, Katsy,” said the midwife. “You must think and quickly; you must learn the language of children, that they will come to you without complaint, and only cry once you tell them they may with a slap. You must learn the language of plants, for your poultices, for your potions. You must learn the language of animals for their advice.” She looked at my tangled hair and my ruined skirt. “At least you already know the language of people.”

And so I learned how to turn a baby so its feet came last, and what plants ended which ailments, and how the stillness of a deer or the cleverness of a fox could end a heart’s anguish.

“You are better now,” she said; and so I was betrothed to the woodcarver’s second oldest son, who would make me kinder.

“You are perfect,” said the woodcarver’s son, whose name was Jair. “You are beautiful and you are strong and you are wise.”

He made me a gift, something delicate and fair, and put a ribbon through it for my neck, for my wrists, for my waist.

“Thank you,” I said. “You have inherited your father’s talents.”

“You are kind,” he said, and he kissed me once on the cheek.

“I am not,” I said, and kissed him once on the corner of his mouth. “But perhaps in time I will be.”

My mother and I, we readied my dowry; we packed lace, china, crystal, gifts from my parents and my sisters. On top of it all went a thick down blanket my mother had sewn in secret, during nights and pinched, hidden hours. “For your marriage bed,” she told me. “In it I have put my love, my blood, my tears. It will keep you from sadness, from fright, from danger, but never sleep under it angry or it will lose what power I have given it.”

“Never,” I agreed.

“You and Jair,” my mother said and then stopped. “You will make each other happy, I think.”

“He is kinder than anyone I have ever known,” I said. “He is not cunning like the baker, or beautiful of face like the tailor, or educated like the priest. But he is kind, which is more important.”

“It is very important,” my mother replied, “but it is not most important. Find joy, my Katsy, in yourself and in each other, for that is your saving grace.”

o

But I was afraid. I had learned to be things besides beautiful, but things can be unlearned, and beauty disintegrates with age.

“You are nervous,” my oldest sister said, caressing her belly, her fourth child. I had helped birth the last one; my sister’s hips were wide and the baby eager to be born. “Take a walk in the wood,” she continued. “The wind will whistle through the tree limbs as music. The sun will beat down on your golden hair.”

“My hair is not golden,” I said, “it is brown, a plain boring brown.”

“It is not,” my sister said. “You will listen to the wind and feel the sun on your shoulders.”

“All right,” I said, and I followed the deer to a trail that had long been lost to every villager save a lonely child, or an adventurous one, here and there. I followed the faint marks their slender legs and sharp hooves had left until I was surrounded by trees. The wind whistled and the sun shone on my shoulders; I closed my eyes and covered them with my hands, wishing for Jair and his crooked smile, or my sisters and their gray eyes.

I turned my hands, so my eyelashes brushed against my knuckles and my palms, no longer soft, faced the forest. Impossibly fast, something sharp struck my right hand, piercing the lines of the gypsies: life, heart, fate. I cried out involuntarily; I could not help it; the pain was stunning.

I stumbled back, wrenched my hand away and cradled it against my stomach. My fingers were stained with blood and a pool had collected in the very center of my palm. I looked up and before me was a unicorn––the only unicorn left, if the gypsies and the witches had the right of it; I had never met anyone else who would know. Its horn was long and bright, whorled like a pearl; the end was lethal and streaked with my blood, shockingly red. The creature looked at me for several long seconds and then touched its horn once more to my hand.

“I thought you could only stop poison,” I said, as the wound closed. There was a scar, now, perfectly round, pinker than the skin around it.

The animal continued staring at me impassively. “You are stupid,” I tried. “You are ridiculous. You are absurd and your coat is inconvenient––how would you ever get mud out of it?”

Finally, as a last resort, I said, “You are not beautiful,” and I bared my teeth in a mockery of a smile, but it didn’t move. “If you will not leave, you could at least show me to a stream so I may wash your folly from my skin.”

It turned, then, its cloven hooves flashing silver in the sun; I followed it to a stream where the water was sweet and cold and pure. I washed my hands and my face and my skirt, as best I could, and then I brought a handful of water to the unicorn. The blood had run down its face, staining its beard and its graceful neck––I poured water and scrubbed with my fingers, but it would not come off. I took off my skirt, for there was no one to see me in my underslip, and wet it, and washed the unicorn as I had washed infants, but while the blood faded to pink it would not disappear.

“Come on, then,” I said to it, reclothing myself. “You will come with me, and we will go see the midwife. She will know what to do with you.”

I pet its neck, tangled my fingers in its curly mane. It followed me, willingly, past the stream and the trees and back through the deer trail until the village came into view. Then it stopped; “No,” I said, “they are not all virgins, and certainly not innocents; but you will come for me, if nothing else.”

The unicorn bared its teeth to me, but I wrapped my hands around its nose and forced its jaws shut. “No,” I said again. “You will listen to me. I have learned to be kind, but I have not forgotten what it was like before my lessons. I have learned to be wise, but I am foolish enough to defy even you. I have learned to be strong, and my strength is enough to subdue you if I must.”

The unicorn looked at me, and shook its head, but let me place my hand upon its proudly arched neck. We walked to the village, the two of us; the little children in the street opened their mouths and shouted an alarum. “Katsy!” they cried. “The gypsies! A witch!”

Doors opened and closed again, but the midwife appeared. “Katsy,” she said, and stopped in her tracks. “You have found a unicorn.” The unicorn bared its teeth again, tossing its head dangerously.

“Yes,” I said. “Don’t come closer. It will bite.”

“He, not it,” said the midwife. “Didn’t you think to ask? Haven’t you learnt the language of the animals? What else have I taught you wrong?”

“It was a shock,” I explained. “His horn––he––look.” I held out my hand for her to see; she would not step closer, but the healing wound was still livid against my skin. “But that is not why I have come here.” I stepped away, to the unicorn’s side, so his stains were visible. “I bled on him,” I admitted. “And I cannot get it out.”

The midwife scratched her nose and then her ear. “Stay here,” she said. “Keep everyone away. I will go find the witch.”

o

The unicorn and I waited for three days and three nights while the midwife was gone. My mother baked us bread, and my maiden sister, who was blind in one eye and lame in one leg and could not find a husband, brought it to us. She held her hands clasped behind her back, until she asked me, “May I touch him?”

“Do not ask me,” I said. “I am not his master.”

She moved forward, reaching out one of her pale, beautiful hands to touch the unicorn. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you.”

The unicorn extended his neck to touch her leg with his horn.

“What––” said my sister.

It raised its head once more to touch her eye, which was open but dead. She startled back, with her hands covering her eye; her body tensed to fall, but her leg miraculously bent and saved her. She removed her fingers and blinked once, twice, three times, then shouted.

“My sister!” she said. “My beautiful, wonderful sister and her beautiful, wonderful unicorn.”

She kissed me on my forehead, on my cheek, and the unicorn on the very tip of its horn. “Thank you,” she kept repeating, then turned and ran as she never had before.

“You are kinder than I thought,” I said to the unicorn. “But perhaps you cannot help it.”

The midwife returned the fourth day, leading the witch and the witch’s three sons behind her.

“Katsy,” said the midwife. “That’s the girl.”

“Nice to meet you,” said the witch, coming closer to me, though out of the unicorn’s range. “What need have you, unicorn maiden, of this old woman?”

“This need.” I moved aside once more and gestured to the unicorn’s face, beard, neck, faintly pink. “He cut me and I bled on him. He healed me, but I cannot wash all of my blood off of his white hair.”

“Hmmm,” said the witch, twisting her lips. “The blood of an innocent is not a mark easily removed.”

The first son, dressed in black, stepped forward and held out his hands. “See,” he said. “I killed a man who did me no wrong. I did not intend to; I wept afterward and begged his spirit for mercy; and his spirit showed and kissed me on each hand. But it would not bring him back. I begged the gods for forgiveness, and they appeared and kissed me on each hand, one after the other. But still the blood remained, though it has faded with time and effort. It will be gone after I have repented long enough; seven years and seven years and seven years again.”

“When my son dies, his soul will be clean,” the witch said. “At least he has been granted that mercy.”

“What will I do for a unicorn?” I asked. “He did not kill me, and he is no man.”

“Will it not wash off?” asked the second son. “Have you tried blessed water, or blood for blood?”

The third son stepped forward beside his brother, and said, “This man slighted an evil witch,” he said, with his hand on the second son’s shoulder. “He did not mean to; but still she cursed him. Though no frogs leap from his mouth, he is forced to ask questions only, so I beg you: be kind to him and ask him only what you must.”

“What did you mean, blood for blood?” I asked.

The witch answered for him. “The blood of an evil man. If he can bring himself to be touched by a wicked thing, it may work.”

“We have no evil men in this village,” I said.

“You may,” said the witch. “But again, you may not. There are not so many people here.”

“Would you stand for it?” I asked the unicorn. It touched its horn to my cheek. “He will try,” I said. “Or I can convince him somehow.”

“There are very few evil men around these parts. I have made sure of that, and my sons help me.”

I felt like crying, burying my neck into someone’s neck––Jair’s, maybe, or the unicorn’s––to hide. “Then what may I do?”

“Go to the capital,” said the witch. “Bring the unicorn. If you cannot find blood, maybe the lack of innocents there will force the blood off.”

“The capital?” I said. “I do not even know how to get there. I know nothing of cities; I want to know nothing of cities.”

“Here,” said the third son. He came to me and touched Jair’s gift, which I had tied around my neck. “You need only to speak to it, and it will lead you where you must go.”

“A gift and a gift?” asked the second son, and touched the scar on my hand. “Will not this scar warn you in the presence of evil?”

“Three gifts for your safety,” said the first son. He did not touch me with his hands, but placed them between the unicorn’s ears. “He will speak, now, in the language of animals. I cannot teach it to you,” he warned.

“I have learned it from the midwife,” I said. “All right.”

“Pack tonight,” said the witch. “Pack lightly, for you have a long way to go; pack well, for beauty and strength and wisdom and kindness are all very well, but common sense will do you the most good. And leave tomorrow morning, in the gray light before the sun rises; say your farewells tonight.”

“All right,” I said again.

“Good luck,” whispered the witch, and kissed both my cheeks. “Give nothing of yourself to anyone. Give none of your possessions away.”

“Thank you,” I said. “See you––I will see you again.”

“Of course,” she said. “Of course.”

o

I left the streets in a daze; the unicorn returned to the edge of the forest: close enough should I need him, far enough to avoid the less innocent villagers; the married, the courting.

Jair came, a sadness in his eyes that matched the sadness in my family’s. We stood, too close for propriety but never close enough for comfort, and we talked quietly.

“Don’t say goodbye to me,” I said. “I don’t think––I couldn’t––”

“All right,” he promised. “I won’t.”

And he didn’t. He kissed me once on the crown of my head, and I kissed him once again on the corner of his mouth.

“I will come back,” I said. “I will try to come back as soon as I may.”

Jair left after brushing my hair back from my forehead and pinning it there with something he had been whittling since I returned from my walk; a pin capped with something as delicate and fair as the pendant he had given me. My five older sisters came in, following our parents.

They helped me pack, light enough to carry but sensible enough to last me through my journey. My mother opened my dowry chest and pulled out the blanket. “You have no need of china or lace,” she said, “but this will protect you from the cold, and you may make another carry case out of it.”

My father gave me new boots, sturdy but just broken in. “They will fit you,” he said, and smiled a little. “They are no seven league boots, but they will carry you as far as you must go.”

Each of my sisters embraced me, once that night, and once again in the morning. I had not slept well, but I had slept long enough to wake early.

“Goodbye,” each whispered. “We love you.”

“I love you all, too,” I said, as I left, and turned my head so they could not see my tears.

o

The walk was long and lonely: six weeks of mind-numbing tedium. We met no one along the way, not even merchants, and we only saw one or two; perhaps it was the unicorn’s magic, or perhaps it was just coincidence. I used the midwife’s lessons to gather food after mine ran out, and held all of it to the unicorn’s horn just in case.

We walked the spiraling roads, through the slums and around the wealthy houses, until we reached the markets; witches were here, selling their spells and charms and amulets.

“Please,” I asked each of them. “How do you remove the blood of an innocent?”

The witches would not answer, and did not seem to see the unicorn, until I asked the very last one.

She was old and gnarled, like the roots of a tree; her hair was graying and pulled back tightly. “A tricky question, that,” she said. “One I cannot answer. But I know one who can.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Information is hard to come by,” said the witch, wrinkling her nose. “I need a little something in return.”

“But I have nothing,” I said. “I have no coin, no food, nothing I can give away.”

“You can give me your necklace,” said the witch.

“I cannot,” I said.

“You can give me the pin from your hair.”

“I cannot.”

“You can pluck me a hair from your head.”

“I cannot.”

“You can pluck me a hair from your creature, then.”

I looked behind me; the unicorn came forward and offered his mane to me; I pulled one hair gently from his neck.

“Here,” I said.

She took the hair and put it in her pouch, marveling at its silvery sheen. “The court magician,” she said. “He will know it, or he will fix it, or he will find someone to fix it for you.”

“Thank you,” I said, and left her there to peddle her wares in peace.

As we turned our backs on the witch, the unicorn flicked its lion’s tale once, then twice, then for a third and final time; the air shifted and I knew he was now visible to everyone.

“Help!” a child cried. “It is a demon!”

“That is no demon,” said a man with his vegetable cart. “That’s a––that’s––someone get a palace guard, they’ll know what to do with her.”

I stood frozen where my feet had stopped, one hand still on the unicorn and one hand grasping uselessly at my pack, empty but for my blanket. I closed my eyes as I had done in the forest, but kept my hands safe and hidden where they were; I ignored the sounds until I felt a shadow upon my eyelids.

“Who are you?” said the shadow, and I blinked. A man in red and yellow livery stood in front of me, his forehead furrowed in confusion or anger.

“I am Katsy Bloomsbuckle.”

“Where are you from?”

“North,” I said. “I am from the north and I have walked for six weeks in a southern path until I reached the capital.”

“And what are you leading?”

“A unicorn,” I said. “He found me in the forest and will not leave.”

“Come,” said the guard. “Follow me.”

We walked again through the streets, following his garish costume. The unicorn nodded its head docilely: do not be afraid.

At last we came to the palace gates, wrought iron and grown thick with thorns. The guard raised his right hand and pressed his thumb to a thorn; blood fell; the thorns drew back enough so the gate would open and let us through.

“I will bring you to the king,” said the guard. “He will know what to do you with you.”

“I was told to see a magician,” I said.

“The king will know what to do,” he repeated, and walked on. It was too long a path for my tired legs, but my boots and the unicorn lent me strength so I would not stumble. We walked through a garden of gold, then a garden of silver, then a garden diamonds––no, it was glass, though it looked like diamonds from afar.

“How did these gardens grow?” I asked the soldier. “I have never seen their like.”

The guard did not say anything besides a perfunctory “We must see the king,” and so onward we went.

Eventually we reached the castle itself, something like a fortress that had outgrown its use; though its center was clearly a stronghold, the wings that extended from it were not.

It was through one of these wings we entered the place; they were sturdy and durable, but certainly lived in. The guard beckoned someone to him, who was also dressed in yellow and red but carried no sword at his side or armor under his shirt.

“Take her to the court,” he said. “She has something for the king.”

The boy could have been no older than Jair, who was only one year my senior, and his eyes widened to see my unicorn. “Yes, sir,” said the boy, and bid me follow him; I did.

Again we walked, through a maze of hallways that were hung with tapestries and opened occasionally by narrow windows; but the floors were still of hardwood and stone and my poor feet ached through my boots.

“What are you called?” asked the boy.

I told him my name and he nodded absently, as though his mind were utterly elsewhere. The unicorn behind me shifted uncomfortably; this was a boy and I was alone with him.

My virtue is not compromised, I told the unicorn with a pat to his shoulder. Do not be afraid, either.

A huge room, gilded and filigreed, came upon us quickly; names were being called and a booming voice welcoming them. A soft constant susurration behind it proved to be the courtiers; as we entered the room, all three of us, I could hear whispers of greatness, guilt, greed.

“Wait here,” the boy told me, and whispered something to a runner, who whispered to another and another, until the relay reached a tall, thin man with a mustache and a sneer. It was he who was calling each name; nothing more than the title and name of the guest before moving onto the next.

“Katsy Bloomsbuckle,” said the man, curling a lip in distaste. “And her companion.”

I could feel the eyes on me, on the terrible state of my hair and my skirt, and I was ashamed; but we reached the throne without incident.

“What is this?” asked the king, and it was the first difference I had heard from his preordained script, which had been composed of a dull welcome and dismissal.

“A unicorn,” I said, and curtsied as the ladies before me had done. “Your Majesty.”

“Leave,” said the king. “All but this girl and her pet, leave these chambers now.”

“But,” began the man with the mustache. “It is not safe––”

“No,” said the king, “look at her; she cannot hurt me, she is nothing but air.” And a mass exit began until I was left before the throne. The king descended; I stepped back.

“Have you been married?” I asked. “Have you any children?”

“Yes,” said the king, surprised.

“He bites.”

“I see,” said the king. “This is most unusual, you understand. There has not been a unicorn sighting since my children were young, and no maiden along with him since I was a boy.”

“I hadn’t known,” I said.

“Right,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“I am known as Katsy Bloomsbuckle,” I said cautiously. “But I am not here to stay; I came only to beg help of your magician, for I must remove the blood of an innocent from this beast’s horn and hair.”

“You are not here to stay?” asked the king. “Of course you are; you belong here, rightfully; the maiden chosen by the unicorn always lives here.”

“I––” I said.

“I forbid you to leave this city; you must stay within half a league of its walls; you must be supervised.”

“I,” I said again, but could not continue as fear lumped itself into my throat.

“And your name is ridiculous,” said the king. “It will have to be changed.”

My blood ran cold and blue under my skin; “but it is my name!” I cried. “It is mine!”

“Katsy is no courtier’s name,” said the king. “Rolf!” he called, far too loudly for a human voice alone. The man with a sneer entered the room quickly; he must have been expecting a summons and so stayed outside the door.

“Yes, my lord?”

“Give her a name befitting her new station,” said the king, “and then escort her to her chambers, which have lain in wait for a three dozen years.”

“Of course,” said the man named Rolf, his face smooth. “I will do as you tell me to, for you are my sovereign.”

The king turned and left, then, collecting guards by the door; Rolf turned to me and his unpleasant look returned. “Katsy,” he said. “Katsy––no. You are Katsamina Bloomflower now, and you shall live up to your name.”

“Yes,” I said, for what else was there to say?”

“Release your beast,” he said, and I let go of the unicorn’s mane; he sniffed once at my hair and then turned, abandoning me to my fate. “Follow me, now,” Rolf said, and I did.

Once upon a time, my name was Katsy Bloomsbuckle, and it is no longer; but I cradle the memory of my name to my breast so that one day, it may be my name again.