Richard said no more but went into his father’s study. It was kept just as his father had left it. A gentle widowed scholar and teacher who had died as quietly as he had lived, Edward Plante had left only his book-lined study as a legacy for his boy. The house and everything else had gone as a sort of bribe to his younger brother and sister-in-law to take care of Richard. Whenever Richard felt tired or mean, he would think bitterly that the arrangement had worked very well. Hugh Plante and his wife had moved in just in time to give Richard into the hands of a doctor and to nurse him through his long days of sickness.

  But most often Richard didn’t feel mean, and lately less and less tired. Still, he had never quite gotten over a certain distrust of his aunt and uncle. He felt, in the deepest part of him, that they were there because of the house, and he was just another part of it, another part to be kept clean and polished and presentable.

  In the study that was his but that he still called his father’s, Richard went over to the middle shelf. It was the shelf he had practically learned by heart. Here were his favorite books. Folklore. Bestiaries. Collections of the Brothers Grimm and Asbjornsen and William Butler Yeats. Fables and the fabulous. It was all there, all waiting for him to unriddle.

  He put his hand out and reached for his father’s well-thumbed copy of Robert Graves’s The White Goddess. Richard had not yet understood more than the smallest part of it. But he was sure it was great poetry and as he learned more he would understand more. He looked up unicorn in the index.

  “Richard!” It was his aunt again. “Don’t you ignore me, young man. Into a hot bath with you. Then bed. You might get sick all over again. Then where would you be?”

  “Where would you be?” Richard thought. He knew where he would be—in bed. But what his Aunt Marcie really couldn’t stand was the thought of all that waiting on him again. He had overheard her saying it to Uncle Hugh one day. And that’s where she’d be, his aunt, who always seemed to intrude on him when he wanted to be private. She meant well, he tried to tell himself. It was just that she and his uncle seemed to consider silence a personal affront, an antisocial attitude on his part that they felt duty-bound to change. So they tried to surround him with spoken words. He much preferred the quiet of the printed page.

  Reluctantly but obediently, Richard went upstairs. The hallway was dark and Richard remembered how he used to dread the trip upstairs when he was little, even when they carried him up trailing his quilt. He had to admit that he still felt a bit queasy about walking through the dark. And though he no longer woke at night shrieking, oppressed by the dark weight on his chest, he still felt safer in the light. Of course, he would never admit that to anyone, especially his aunt and uncle. He hardly liked to admit it to himself. So he squinted his eyes and barreled ahead, full tilt up the steps and into the bathroom. The contrasting glow of the lights was instantly comforting. He ran the bath as hot as he dared and sank down until only his nose showed. His body was underwater but his thoughts were still in the forest, where, with a flash of haunch and head, the unicorn danced on and on.

  Richard knew what he must do. Morning, tomorrow being a Sunday, would give him plenty of time.

  Three

  Heather Fielding was an enjoyer. She enjoyed other people, she enjoyed her family, she enjoyed new places, she enjoyed old legends, and she enjoyed slipping off quietly by herself on an adventure.

  Since she had been little, Heather had enjoyed going off alone. But she had an annoying habit of going too far and getting lost. After the third time the local police had been called out to find four-year-old Heather, the Fieldings began to keep a very careful eye on their only daughter. And even though she was now almost thirteen, she still had literally to sign out for an afternoon when she wanted to disappear. It meant leaving a detailed note on the bulletin board for her mother or three brothers. It was one of those many rules she had first resented and then found ways to make enjoyable. And so this day the bulletin board read:

  Don’t have time to really stop.

  Into Five Mile Wood on Hop.

  Hop was Heather’s horse, an appaloosa gelding, gentle and undemanding, with a gray-dappled hide that looked as if it had been spotted by raindrops. His slow, loose-limbed pace fitted Heather’s style. It gave her plenty of time to enjoy, to drink in the world as they ambled by.

  The fall day Heather saw the white deer, the sky was overcast and threatening. This only heightened her enjoyment, for the woods always changed colors under a leaden sky. Little creatures began to creep out that might otherwise have hidden, terrified of the bright, revealing sun.

  Heather reined in Hop and slid off his broad back. She allowed the horse to wander and graze, knowing he would not let her out of his sight.

  Then she sat down by the shimmering pool. Strangely, it was new to her. In all her wanderings, she had never made the precise series of turns that led through the old apple orchard to here. It was a find. Heather breathed in the air. It was heavy, as heavy as the day. But that didn’t make her feel unhappy. Nothing about this new discovery, this crystalline pool, blue and still, could make her feel sad.

  She picked up a palm-size rock and flipped it over and over in her hand. It was cool and smooth; a faint gray-white line wormed its way across the rock’s surface.

  Heather flung the rock into the pool in order to watch the ripples. At the splash, another sound, a high whistling, started up from below the wild apple tree to her right.

  There was an explosion of white head and flank. The dark hooves and horns were invisible against the brush, so gleaming white was the hide.

  Heather leaped up at the same time, as startled as the deer.

  “An albino,” she breathed, and then was still. The beauty of the animal burned itself into her eyes. She blinked. The deer was gone. She closed her eyes. The image of the white hart seemed imprinted on the inside of her eyelids.

  The animal’s sudden, crashing flight broke across the stillness of the pond. As though a spell had been broken, the pond itself was ruffled by a breeze, and a hound bayed from far off. The mood changed. Heather felt it was impossible to stay any longer. But she repeated “an albino” to herself as she swung a leg over Hop’s broad back.

  She kept rehearsing the scene to herself and paid no attention to the road. The horse, without being guided, brought them both safely home.

  Heather dismounted and settled Hop in the barn as if in a dream, for her thoughts were still back at the pool. Only the fact that her arms and legs knew the routine of feeding and bedding so well saved Hop from a long, cold, hungry night.

  Entering the bright yellow kitchen, Heather was awakened by the smells. Saturday-night stew again. The famous Fielding leftover pot. As always on Saturday, they ate late, gathering in the scattered clan from the holiday tasks and events.

  Heather debated telling of the pool. Usually her tongue ran ahead of her brain and she spoke without considering the consequences. Brian, her oldest brother, would often knot her long braids under her chin and say “You’re tongue-tripping again.” It might sound mean to someone outside the family, but Heather knew that Brian said it with affection.

  Still, because the white hart had so captured her imagination, Heather hesitated about mentioning the pool to her family. The pool would lead them right to the white deer, and she could not tell them about that. Her brothers were all hunters. Nineteen, eighteen, and sixteen, they’d had guns as long as she could remember. A shudder went through her as she pictured the white hart, crumpled and bleeding, on the forest floor.

  No, this was one time she could not say anything to the family. Not even to her father, Julian, whom she adored.

  And glancing guiltily around the table at the faces of those people she most dearly and truly loved, Heather resolved herself to silence. In fact, she was so quiet throughout the meal, it was noticed.

  “Come on, Heath, where’s your tongue?” It was Brian.

  Dylan added, “She must be sick.”

  “Am not.”

  “Are, too.” It was Ian. They always argued.

  “Am not.”

  “Then why are you so sickly silent?”

  “I’m just thinking.”

  “Come on, Heath. You never think.”

  “Mama.” It was a plea.

  “Children, children. Her silence is a blessing. Why not give me a wholesale blessing,” said Mrs. Fielding, not having to add that Heather was the brightest one of the lot and well they all knew it, though her school work never reflected it.

  “Amen,” said Julian Fielding with such a hearty sigh that they all had to laugh. Even Heather. They left her alone after that as they talked about the hunting season to come.

  In her silence, with the conversation so ordinary and familiar eddying about her, Heather planned what to do. Tomorrow, after church, there would be plenty of time.

  Four

  When the striped rock hit the water, the white hart leaped from his bed without thought.

  As he ran down the path, his body gleaming in the twilight, he looked like a statue in motion. Under his gleaming coat, the muscles rippled. The dark antlers, curving in a wide arch over his head, were a large, bony crown, all but invisible in the dusk. The brow tines were long and straight, and above them sprouted the bay tines, slightly curved. A third pair grew higher, with little fingers of horn on the spatulate tines.

  The first fear gone, the white hart slowed down and began to feel hunger gnawing. Even though it was fall, there was still much rich food in the forest. Groves of young birch offered leafless shoots where he might browse, to grow fat against the coming winter. And there were acorns hidden in the mossy caves between the rocks or under the rotting leaves.

  Far away, the hart could hear the baying of hounds. They were upwind, tracking some small animal across the meadow. It was a motley pack of farm dogs, led by a Scottish deerhound whose master never kept him tied. Abruptly, the baying stopped. The quarry was caught.

  The hart knew the pack was too far away to fear, and so he kept up his search for food. But as he looked for the shoots and nuts, the sounds of water called to him. There was a small stream nearby, tumbling over rocks, into riffles and pools of standing water filled with fish.

  The hart went over to the stream, through a chest-high stand of dried sunflower disks that rattled crisply as he passed. He looked up the stream and down, then walked in. Pushing against the current, he came at last to one of the pools that was deep enough for him to stand in and let the water swirl about his body.

  He bathed then, going down first onto his knees and then rolling over, frightening the fingerlings and sending them fleeing in all directions.

  Then he rose and walked out of the pool, upstream against the current, and onto the mossy bank. He shook himself all over and then rolled again, drying himself on the bank.

  The hart stood up and raised his head, with its rack like a giant crown. He sniffed the air. There was no more danger. The intruders had left. Slowly he made his way back to the path, circled carefully for almost a mile, eating as he moved. But always he knew that he would return to the shimmering pool and his bed before morn.

  Five

  Richard woke up early enough to avoid his aunt and uncle. Sunday was their sleeping day. It was always a special day for Richard, too. He could have breakfast and the whole early morning to himself without their annoying questions.

  For Aunt Marcie and Uncle Hugh always wanted to know why. Why don’t you go out and play with other boys? Why can’t you sit up straight at the table? Why do you read all the time? Why don’t you ever want to talk about your father and mother? Why do you make those indecipherable lists? Why do you stare into space? Why? Why? Why?

  All those questions were impossible to answer, because the only reasons Richard could give them, they refused to accept: I am just me. It’s just the way I am. Just because. He wondered over and over how they could have known his father and not recognized that Richard had the same insatiable need to know, to understand, to study, to put bits of information in order. Richard wondered at their obtuseness. It was a good word, “obtuseness”: dull and blunted. It seemed strange that his uncle should not be like his own brother, should not understand Richard at all. But then, they didn’t really need to understand him, if they would just leave him alone. But they didn’t leave him alone. They both kept asking Why? Why? Why? So Richard had stopped giving them his reasons, had virtually stopped talking to them beyond answering grunts at the breakfast and dinner table. And all they did was add a new question to their list: Why don’t you talk to us? Why? Why? Why?

  Richard went downstairs as quietly as he could, given the amount of clothes he had bundled on. If he was going to spend all day in the woods, he had to be sure to keep warm. Two pairs of socks, long johns, and two undershirts under his heaviest clothing. An extra sweater to carry along, just in case. Not to mention the jacket, mittens, scarf, and hat he was going to wear.

  Breakfast was a quick snack of cheese and raisins. He packed a couple of peanut butter and apple jelly sandwiches in case, and stuck them in the jacket pocket. He did not know how long he would be gone. It might be all day. And if it was all day, he did not want his stomach talking to him in loud growls.

  He did not even take a book, for he had sneaked down with a flashlight to his father’s study after Uncle Hugh and Aunt Marcie had gone to bed. He had been up much of the night reading. He had read again all the references to unicorns in the folklore books. He had read from Ctesias, a Greek historian of the fourth century b.c. He had read a passage he had not understood at all in The White Goddess about a deer and a unicorn in the forest. He had checked The Bestiary by T. H. White and the encyclopedias of mythology. And he had even borrowed one of Uncle Hugh’s hunting magazines from the bathroom bookshelf and read it.

  He felt that he now knew what he needed to know about unicorns. He had taken notes on all that he had read. Neatly written on 3 x 5 cards in his private code, they were now in his jacket pocket, nestled next to one of the sandwiches. Facts. Legends. Lists. He was as organized as he could be for seeing and understanding the beast. Beyond that . . . the pain in his chest came swiftly as it sometimes did when he was excited, a quick burning that went as fast as it came. Beyond that, he did not plan, for he did not dare. What could one do with a unicorn? Look at it and long for it, and love it. It was enough for now.

  The door clicked behind him quietly. As he walked down the road toward Five Mile Wood, he finished dressing. He buttoned his jacket and wrapped the maroon scarf loosely around his neck. An old stocking cap of bright red yarn fitted over his mousy hair and stopped just short of covering his ears. They were always difficult to cover, his ears—they stuck out so. The gloves were from two different pairs, one of green wool and one of tan leather. The mismatch of color and material bothered him, and he kept his eyes off his hands, but he could not help feeling the difference. He hadn’t had time to make a more thorough search. He was afraid that his aunt and uncle would be getting up soon.

  As Richard walked along, his breath came out in short, wispy gusts, clouds of panting. The morning seemed to dare him. He took the dare and began to jog along. He could feel the sandwiches keeping time, hitting his sides in a soggy rhythm.

  When he got to the turnoff into the woods, he stopped and looked around. The road was clear. No one was in sight, for it was still too early for the main church traffic. The Sunday silence, the early fall silence, lay over all. With a big smile, Richard plunged into the brush.

  Within twenty minutes, he had rediscovered the shimmering pool. He came upon it almost unexpectedly, after a last turn in the apple orchard. He had thought it was farther on, and to find it there, so close, was a shock.

  There was no unicorn that he could see. But he hadn’t expected to find it at once. That would have been too lucky, and Richard didn’t believe in that kind of luck for himself. He was going to have to remain, in the words of the hunting book, “still and silent.” It might be a long wait.

  He found an inviting spot not far from the wild apple tree. He settled himself on the ground, sitting on the extra sweater to keep out the cold. Taking the sandwiches from his pocket, he found the cards, too. He spread them around where he could see and read them over and over but would not have to pick them up. He forbade himself any movement.

  Today he would just see the unicorn. He would think about the rest later. But as he sat still, his thoughts began to drift to next week and beyond. Without a book to lead him on, for once he let himself be led by his own desires. And what he really wanted—he was beginning to understand it now—what he really wanted was to capture the unicorn. Not to hurt it, of course. Not to cage it. Just to tame it to his hand. His. His very own hand.

  But from his reading, Richard knew that the unicorn could be a dangerous beast. Its horn, its hooves, were lethal. So Richard had a problem to solve. In this time of still waiting, he would devise several plans.

  One book—he found the card with his eye—told how to catch a unicorn by provoking the animal to charge. Then the hunter would dodge behind a tree and the beast’s horn would become lodged in the tree. Once held fast that way, the unicorn was said to be easy to capture. Richard remembered the picture some ancient artist had made; it had been in the book, too. It was an interesting plan, to be sure. But he was not positive such a trick would work. For one thing, what if he couldn’t outrun an angry unicorn? Or for another, what if it merely came ’round the tree? More important, a friendship shouldn’t begin in anger. And he wanted the unicorn—rare and magical—to be his friend.

  Another card caught his eye. He translated his code with practiced ease: “A pure Maid need only sit in the wood and the unicorn would come and place its head gently on her lap. Then she would secure it with a golden bridle and lead it like a pet out of the forest.”

  Richard was dubious. It might work. But there were two problems. The gold bridle was one. And the pure Maid. That was the other.

  Richard puzzled over this and other problems for about two hours. Then the lack of sleep, the fresh air, and dreams overcame him. He fell asleep, still sitting backed up to the tree by the shimmering pool.

 

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