

The Unicorndoll

Jon Jacks

Other New Adult and Children's books by Jon Jacks

The Caught – The Rules – Chapter One – The Changes – Sleeping Ugly

The Barking Detective Agency – The Healing – The Lost Fairy Tale

A Horse for a Kingdom – Charity – The Most Beautiful Things (Now includes The Last Train)

The Dream Swallowers – Nyx; Granddaughter of the Night – Jonah and the Alligator

Glastonbury Sirens – Dr Jekyll's Maid – The 500-Year Circus – The Desire: Class of 666

P – The Endless Game – DoriaN A – Wyrd Girl – The Wicker Slippers – Gorgesque

Heartache High (Vol I) – Heartache High: The Primer (Vol II) – Heartache High: The Wakening (Vol III)

Miss Terry Charm, Merry Kris Mouse & The Silver Egg – The Last Angel – Eve of the Serpent

Seecrets – The Cull – Dragonsapien – The Boy in White Linen – Porcelain Princess – Freaking Freak

Died Blondes – Queen of all the Knowing World – The Truth About Fairies – Lowlife

Elm of False Dreams – God of the 4th Sun – A Guide for Young Wytches – Lady of the Wasteland

The Wendygo House – Americarnie Trash – An Incomparable Pearl – We Three Queens – Cygnet Czarinas

Memesis – April Queen, May Fool – Sick Teen – Thrice Born – Self-Assembled Girl – Love Poison No. 13

Whatever happened to Cinderella's Slipper? – AmeriChristmas – The Vitch's Kat in Hollywoodland

Blood of Angels, Wings of Men – Patchwork Quest – The World Turns on A Card – Palace of Lace

The Wailing Ships – The Bad Samaritan – The 13th Month – The Silvered Mare – SpinDell

Swan Moon

Text copyright© 2019 Jon Jacks

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# Chapter 1

'The Mirror of Ladies.'

The book still lies open, more or less untouched.

As does 'The Treasury of the City of Ladies'.

My father and mother had insisted I thoroughly read and digest these vast tomes while they're away defending the borders of our kingdom; but why should I waste my time reading such nonsense?

It's a treatise on queenship, my mother had told me as she'd shown me the gorgeous illustrations illuminating the first book.

Yet as soon as they return, I'll be used to cement some favourable treaty with another kingdom, married off to some king or a prince destined to become one; I'll never be expected to rule on my own.

I had a quick look, a flipping of its pages, obviously.

It's all morals and virtues, all instructions on how I should behave; not just in matters of ruling my government either, but also how I must hold myself regally erect at all times when addressing my subjects – for even a queen must endeavour to rise above the vices the very worst of our nature lies prone to.

It's a _large_ , _heavy_ book.

So _llloooonnnngggg_!

I was bored before I'd even read the very first page.

*

My embroidery, like the book, lies untouched.

It's not like we need any more embroideries or tapestries anyway.

My mother recently bought six gigantic tapestries to hang on our walls, and at fabulous expense too. I doubt if she would have ordered them, had she known that our kingdom would soon be under attack.

My father had raged at the cost incurred, lamenting the huge numbers of mercenaries denied us for the sake of unwarranted indulgences.

We couldn't sell them. No one was prepared to pay anything near their true value in such uncertain times.

They are quite, quite beautiful though, each one featuring an obviously high-born lady with a unicorn and a lion. There are plenty of fluttering pennants, bright flowers and leafy trees too, all colourfully rendered in the most glorious golds, reds, blues and greens.

I think, though, that mother had purchased them as yet another means of enhancing my education.

The lady delights in playing her elaborately carved positive organ, with its lion and unicorn topped supports, or in constricting posies of carnations. In another, she's taking what could be sweets from a dish held by a maidservant, yet it seems to me she intends to selflessly feed them to the parakeet she hold up on her left hand.

Slightly more confusing, admittedly, is the one where the unicorn lies within her lap as it stares into a mirror she holds.

Naturally, I'm fully aware that unicorns are only pacified by unblemished maidens; but I fail to see the role of the mirror here.

That, of course, is precisely what my mother intended – that l would become intrigued by the imagery and, in trying to successfully interpret it, I would be taking lessons without even realising it.

The last of the tapestries is the plainest of all to understand, for it shows the lady joyously beaming as she locks away in a casket the expensive necklace she's worn in every other rendering. The hardest thing to interpret here are the words 'À Mon Seul Désir', written upon the tent she's standing beneath: 'my sole desire,' maybe?

Behind me, the large door to the room swings open nosily.

Even before I turn around to face him, I know it can only be my uncle. No one else would dare disturb me in this way with without any prior announcement.

I am surprised, though, to see that he's wearing battle armour, its sheen an expensive bloody-red. Of course, it's spotlessly unblemished and wondrously polished – for uncle is far more accustomed to the expensive loose silks he likes to lounge around in.

Not that I can fault him on that score; we all enjoy our little pleasures, don't we?

Urgently striding across the tiled floor, his gait is a touch ungainly, the armour clanking, a sure sign that he's not used to wearing it.

His bow is half hearted, but then, he treats me with only marginally more disdain than my poor, long suffering father and mother.

'I must leave you, Princess.'

He manages to say this like he's expecting my heart to break right in front of him. As if I'm about to start weeping, knowing he'll no longer be around to take care of me.

Still, it's a massive improvement on his more usual cordial greeting, delivered with a friendly snarl and somehow making the word 'princess' sound as slimy as a snake.

If anything, today his voice has a hint of joy to it.

'A messenger has just arrived, and I must take command of our army.'

_'You_ , Uncle? But my father–'

'Is _dead_ , I'm afraid.'

*

# Chapter 2

When my uncle tells me that he's afraid my father is dead, he doesn't actually sound afraid.

He sounds, rather, quite joyous, even though he naturally tries to hide the fact.

And that, of course, makes _me_ more afraid than ever.

'Dead? How?' I ask, hoping my calmly delivered tone hides my own emotional state.

I _won't_ break down in tears before him!

'In battle; bravely, I suppose.'

Once more, his delivery is at odds with his words. 'Bravely' could be 'foolishly'; then again, the 'suppose' has an air of falseness to it, as if he's implying it will merely be _reported_ that the king died courageously fighting for his country.

My uncle's comments always require an interpretation, especially those concerning my father or mother.

He loathes – _loathed_ – them in equal measure.

'My mother; the queen – is she–'

_'She_ is fine and well.'

He says this as if about to add a sad ' _alas'_.

Inside, I'm trembling with sorrow, fear; but I have to control it, at least until he leaves me on my own. He's already delighting too much in all this.

'But we won; the battle, I mean?' I ask hopefully.

'Alas, no.'

This time, I know, he would have preferred to _refrain_ from saying ' _alas'_. He will do all he can to benefit from my father's failure to hold back the invaders, using it to weaken Mother's hold on the throne.

'How long; how long before the enemy arrive at our city?'

'They have fallen back across the border; but only to regroup.'

Then...surely we _did_ win – despite the death of the king?'

In reply to my question, Uncle shakes his head morosely.

'Our losses, it seems, were _greater_ than theirs. It has been requested that I take command of the army–'

'But my mother–'

'Has the death of your father to contend with. The commanders _insisted_ ...'

He shrugs his shoulders, the image of a man accepting an unwelcome burden thrust upon him.

His followers amongst the lords will have used this near defeat to gain a tighter grip of the council. Maybe, too, my mother's supporters have died in greater numbers than his. Others, in light of my father's death, will have changed their allegiances, fearing the brutal reprisals of my uncle if he manages to wrest power from us.

I'm keeping my emotions in check, in control – but only just. At least, then, some of my training to be a future queen has somehow been instilled within me.

But what a dreadful talent – to be able to consider other things, rather than weeping over a dead father!

'Will my mother be returning with Father's bod–'

Here, as I attempt to say _body_ , I find the word catching in my mouth. I fear saying it will somehow make his death a reality, rather than letting it remain – as it could be at present – just an ill rumour.

This time, Uncle cannot hide his maliciously gratified grin.

'The king – our _previous_ king – will be given full battle honours, naturally: but the enemy took him–'

'Then he _could_ still be alive! Just _captured_!'

Uncle sadly shakes his head once more.

'I fear not; those closest to him saw him viciously cut down. He was struck a number of times. His body was slung onto the back of an assailant knight's horse before anyone had a hope of reaching him.'

_He_ has _no_ trouble saying _body_.

'Please don't worry yourself, Princess,' he says, close to sneering. 'The men will rally about me–'

'I'm sure they will, Uncle,' I reply scornfully. 'But don't forget that you command them in my mother's name, for she remains _queen_!'

He nods, half in recognition of this fact, half as a bow as he prepares to leave me.

'And her servant I remain,' he pronounces silkily, 'as long as she shall live.'

*

# Chapter 3

Outside the palace, throughout the streets, I can still hear the relieved laughter and loud, happy chatter of the townspeople.

They would have celebrated, of course, when the town criers announced the astounding victory of our army, but their joy was naturally tempered by the king's death; especially as he had sacrificed himself for the good of his people, taking with him at least ten of the enemy's bravest knights as he fell.

He was buried, they have been told, on the field, and soon a monument will be raised there to mark the spot where he saved us all for tyranny.

The king is dead.

Long live the queen!

If anyone from outside were to step _inside_ the palace, however, they might be forgiven for thinking we have taken mourning to a whole new level. There is a darkness of mood, a melancholy, tangibly hanging about every room.

Yet this deep sense of grieving isn't just for my father; it is a fear that others may soon be joining him.

Already, half of Mother's personal guardians have swapped their lily-emblazoned robes for the peacock cloaks of my father's guard, even though they have – almost to a man – also switched their allegiance to my uncle. Only two of my father's men had remained loyal, I'd heard, and these have supposedly died from infected wounds they received earlier on the battlefield.

Undetectable poison, rather than the more obvious dagger, would be the natural choice of my uncle. Knowing this, Mother insists that everything we eat and drink must not only be tried first by our food tasters, but as an extra precaution it must also be served from plates and goblets fashioned from sections of ridiculously expensive unicorn horn.

As unicorn horn can purify poisoned foods – just as the creature itself dips its horn into water to purify it – it costs ten times its weight in gold; the kingdom's coffers are empty enough as it is, without having to bear this expense.

But what choice do we have when we can no longer trust anyone, not even in court, not even amongst our once most trusted courtiers?

It's well known that my uncle will stop at nothing to gain the throne. And it is now too late for Mother to have him arrested for, having command of the army, he's already gained too much power.

Seeing where the future inevitably lies, increasing numbers of those around us are seeking to ensure their own safety by allying with the king-in-waiting; and so Mother's power ebbs daily, such that now even those who have previously resolutely stood by us are regretfully transferring their allegiance, either ashamedly avoiding our eyes or even being in our presence.

And yet the one suffering the most shame for their betrayal of my mother has to be me.

If only I had taken more notice of those appointed to prepare me for leadership, if only I had read and studied the set books. Then I would have known I should never have let my uncle leave to take control of the army.

Any queen-in-waiting would have instantly asserted her own authority, taking him in to custody long before he had the opportunity to begin accumulating his power and building on his previously weak and ineffective base.

If that had also necessitated the rounding up of his supporters, then so be it.

Now it is far, far too late for that.

That opportunity is _long_ gone.

*

It is quite a sublime necklace; it would take quite a lot of willpower to willingly give up such a treasure.

It is resplendent with rubies or garnets, along with large pearls.

Perhaps, as some claim, she isn't placing it in the box at all, but taking it out. Maybe it symbolises love, I have heard people unsurely whisper amongst themselves, as they have stood before this magnificent tapestry.

Or, I have overheard them suggest in even quieter whispers, it is an emblem of virginity, which the lady is protecting by placing it in a secure place.

As with all such aids to our understanding of the most important things in life, there are clues to the meaning behind the lady's actions in the animals surrounding the tent; the dove, the crane, the goat, and various dogs and rabbits.

If we are aware of their natures, then there are our pointers to the symbolism behind the necklace.

Unfortunately, I am only aware of the significance of the dove, and its association with the descent of the Holy Spirit, or the cleansing of baptism, of John the Baptist.

Perhaps, then, as with so many illustrative expectations of our behaviour, it relies upon a biblical interpretation. Proverbs is a favourite source, and I've heard this regularly proposed amongst those who cluster about it, attempting to unveil the meaning.

'Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies...She maketh herself coverings of tapestry; her clothing is silk and purple...She openeth her mouth with wisdom; and in her tongue is the law of kindness.'

And isn't this a tapestry? Isn't the tent – representing her body, I've been told – in purple silk?

The passage ends:

'Many _daughters_ have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all.'

So, at last, the intent of this scene is made quite clear to me.

I have not fulfilled my potential; I have been a dreadful daughter.

*

In the corridor outside the room, there's an abrupt, noisy commotion.

People running; people wailing.

Turning away from the tapestry, I rush toward the door and throw it open.

'What's happened? ' I demand, adding with a rapidly increasing sense of dread, 'Have we been invaded?'

Anyone who sees or hears me looks back in wide-eyed pity, even as they continue on their panicked rush. Thankfully, a tearful lady-in-waiting throws herself at my feet.

'It's the queen, my lady!' she says, weeping. 'She's been _poisoned_.'

*

# Chapter 4

So much for the magical powers of the unicorn horn.

Then again, at least my mother isn't dead; although she lies so close to death, there's hardly any difference.

She's struck down, lying in her bed virtually motionless.

She can't talk.

She can hardly breathe.

Her eyelids have to remain closed, otherwise her pupils begin to dry up.

Maybe, then, she _would_ have died if the poisoned drink had been served in anything but unicorn horn.

Maybe, however, the people who sold the unicorn horn to us were charlatans. Maybe it isn't even unicorn horn at all.

At least, the physicians clustering about Mother's bed have managed to retain their belief in the miraculous powers of the unicorn.

'A unicorn's heart; that would cure her, as it can cure a host of diseases.'

'No, no,' another vehemently disagrees, 'it's the precious stone, the gem, that grows _beneath_ the unicorn's horn that we need; for that cures _all_ wounds!'

There is no part of a unicorn that could help those accused – wrongly, I believe, and deliberately so – of poisoning mother. Four of my mother's guardians have been taken and tortured into confessing their guilt and the guilt of others, everyone a loyal follower of the queen.

Their executions are assured; and I can do nothing to help them. Who will take orders from or risk being loyal to me when everyone is aware that I have no skills to protect even myself, let alone them?

It is too late to learn the lessons set out in the book.

It is a large and heavy load that weighs on my heart.

*

My uncle has taken me by surprise once more.

He has sent out an extremely large number of knights on a quest, tasking them with bringing back a unicorn so that my mother might be cured. Each is accompanied too by a virgin daughter or maiden, for it is well know that only the most innocent of girls can tame and entrap such a magnificent beast.

I also have a letter from Uncle promising that he will arrange a fortuitous marriage for me, as it is more essential than ever that we forge an alliance with a powerful kingdom.

At last, it seems he is playing into my hands.

All I have to do is bide my time, to appear to subserviently go along with his plans; and once I am a queen, then I can implore my husband to take back the lands that are rightfully mine.

*

# Chapter 5

It is the last day of harvesting the corn in the fields, and villagers everywhere are preparing to celebrate.

Far from locking me away in the palace, as I'd feared, Uncle has surprised me yet again by happily consenting to my appearance at the festivities being held in a nearby village.

It would be good for the morale of the people, he assures me, if it were seen that their primitive customs were given recognition by the royal presence.

I have use of the royal carriage, as gold as the sun, as well as an escort of Mother's two remaining guards, resplendent in cloaks designed to drape over them like white-lily petals.

I must admit, I had hoped to arrive in the midst of the shorn field to a fanfare of excited cheers. Unfortunately, the carriage is far too large and heavy to safely cross a soft earth we could easily sink into and so, instead, we wheel off the track, coming to a halt amongst a number of farm wagons.

As the driver helps me daintily step down from the carriage, an old woman seated by the edge of the field glances up at me with a sad smile.

She's working hard and quickly, weaving the last stalks of corn to be harvested into a life-size figure; the Corn Maiden, or Corn Mother, as others call her. I've heard tell how the peasants take this painstakingly created figure into their homes over winter, sheltering and preserving the spirit of the fields and the crops, then plough it back into the first furrow of the new season.

Already dismounted, and having secured their mounts, my guardians take up positions either side of me as we wend our unhurried way through the wagons. I had expected there to be more people here, checking the last of the loads perhaps, or preparing to draw the filled carts away; yet it is quite silent here, all the sound of merrymaking coming purely from the midst of the fields lying some way ahead of me.

Was no one told to expect me? To greet me? To lay on some way of helping me across the heavily stubbled field without it being either too painful or arduous for me?

It would seem not, in all instances.

Rather than the expected reception, I come across something even stranger still; two knights, and wearing peacock robes too.

At one time, such a sight would have been reassuring. Since the Peacock Guard pledged its allegiance to my uncle however, I dread being in their presence.

If it were to come to a fight between these two and the remnants of the Guardians of the Lilly, who would prevail?

Fortunately, they are not to be put to the test it seems, for they greet each other cordially. I suppose my guards simply recognise the pragmatism of their fellow soldiers now that Father, the king, is dead; what choice do they have but to be loyal to the man who may well be king?

'Ah, here you are at last, my dear!'

It seems I will never ceased to be surprised by my uncle.

He's here, stepping out from the back of a nearby carriage.

*

'Uncle! I wasn't expectin–'

'Naturally you weren't, my child,' he interrupts, his voice silkily smooth and reassuring.

'Will you also be attending th–'

'How could I miss this?' he replies with the grandest of smiles, offering his hand and elegantly raising it high as, spinning on his heels, he escorts me on my way.

But my way has obviously changed.

He is directing me off down one of the other makeshift lanes leading between the carriages.

'Where are we going?' I ask suspiciously, glancing nervously back at the four guardians who have fallen in behind us. 'I thought it was our intention to visit the people out in the field?'

At least we seem to be heading for nothing more worrying than a large, covered carriage, one that's incredibly well made and maintained if not particularly ostentatious

'I have pleasant surprise for you,' Uncle replies, pleasantly enough.

He must see the worry in my eyes.

He smiles.

'It's your _marriage_ , child,' he says joyfully. 'Your marriage to your lord!'

*

# Chapter 6

'Marriage?'

I know of no arrangements for my marriage!

There has been no talk of suitors, of dowries – of anything.

Of course, many of these matters would be arranged without my input or knowledge – but surely I should be given notice of who I am to be betrothed to and be given time to prepare myself accordingly!

As we near the back of the carriage, its rear doors are opened from inside.

It appears dark inside, but probably only to me, not its occupants, for my eyes have grown accustomed to the sunlight.

The figures only slowly appear from the darkness for, I realise, as they approach the steps leading down from the carriage's rear, they are dressed almost entirely in black. Yet their caps, like large white butterflies wrapped about their heads, make them instantly recognisable.

Nuns.

It is to my _Lord_ indeed that I am about to be married!

*

With a gracious smile, Uncle lowers his hand, lets my hand go.

I glance back over my shoulder towards my guardians, hoping to plead with nothing but my eyes alone that they must stop this.

They ashamedly lower their eyes, avoiding mine; they have accepted then, like those who went before them, the peacock cloak.

Directly before me, the nuns are smiling in warm welcome, having taken up their positions to either side of the carriage's broad steps, as if forming a guard of honour. Inside the dark interior, another nun patiently waits, bearing my 'wedding dress'; the black gown and pure-white butterfly cap that will be my only garb from now on.

I turn to my uncle, realising that he is now my only chance of avoiding this.

'Uncle, surely it would make more sense for me to marry someone who can be an ally to us?'

'Alas,' he replies, his demeanour downcast, 'your father's war has turned so _many_ against us. Besides, there is the matter of the dowry; something we can ill afford, when we spend so much seeking a cure for your mother's illness.'

His intent is plain; could I really be so selfish that I would put my dowry before my mother's wellbeing?

With another slick smile, he turns and walks away.

*

# Chapter 7

Unclasping my necklace, I carefully place it within the box held open before me.

It joins my rings, my delicate crown.

When the lid drops into place, I know that that is the last time I shall see them. They are now the property of the nunnery, to do with as they will.

My rich, pearl-embossed clothes are next. I'm helped to undress, just as, only earlier this morning, my ladies-in-waiting helped me prepare for what I believed would be a day of celebration.

These clothes, too, are boxed away; no longer mine.

Instead I am garbed in the roughened wool of a nun's gown, the heavily starched crown of white linen.

À Mon Seul Désir?

No, this is not my desire at all.

*

In truth, of course, I am not even a nun.

I am a mere novice.

My garment is even coarser and cruder than those worn by those gathered about me, women cajoling me to pray, to celebrate this most happy union.

It takes all my willpower to hold back my tears.

What happens to Mother now?

She has no one to protect her. The last of her guardians have transferred their loyalty to Uncle and taken the rites of assimilation into his Peacock Guard.

When we reach the convent, there will be a more formal ceremony for me, I'm told.

This brief investiture over, I am presented with a Book of Instruction I'm told I must read as we make our way 'home'. A lantern is lit for me above a lectern I must kneel before, praying as I fully absorb and taken on the mantle of the words of the Lord.

'It will be a rocky, unstable road we travel on,' the Mother Superior warns me. 'A symbolic preparation for your new life as a Bride of Christ.'

*

Before the carriage doors are closed upon me, leaving me to my solitary devotions, I have time at least to see that a number of other carts are preparing to leave, perhaps five in all.

The two Peacock Guards appear to be waiting around to form our escort, an honour indeed for a relatively lowly procession from a convent; I flatter myself that their task is not to protect us from any outlaw bands so much as preventing my escape.

The carriage windows are small and set high above me. They let in a few rays of light that play about the interior as we violently jolt into motion, that swing around as we turn onto the road, that jump as we slowly make our way along the uneven track.

As we pass the fields where the harvest celebrations are being held, I hear the cheers, the laughing; then soon even this is left behind, the only sound now the grinding of heavy, metaled wheels regularly catching upon the harder rocks of the road.

*

# Chapter 8

As the light fades outside, the darkness inside my cell-like carriage intensifies.

At last, I feel the carriage momentarily lurch crazily to one side, a sign that we're pulling off the road and making camp for the night.

Where am I expected to sleep? Not in here, like a prisoner, surely?

Thankfully, the doors are opened almost as soon as we draw to a halt. Unfortunately, a grim faced nun is waiting for me as I descend the steps, thrusting some kind of large knife into my hand and brusquely informing me that our party is tasked with cutting down the tree shoots that will be used to weave together a large if crude shelter.

I don't suppose there's any point asking for gloves, is there?

*

When I bring my hands together to pray, my palms sting, my fingers throb.

The skin is red, almost rubbed raw, and blisters are already forming where the palm is raised.

I couldn't concentrate on the Lord if I tried.

Our tasks over, the body of nuns has been brought together to conduct a prayer meeting within the edifice we've created, a rough shelter of woven walls and a roof of cloth sheets tied to a frame of bent stalks. It will also serve as the sleeping quarters for the lower orders, while the higher ranking nuns take the carriages.

I've been told we will eat soon, as food is being prepared as we pray. It seems a novice is not the lowest rank amongst the sisters, although I wouldn't have realised that going by the cutting of the wood and the weaving of the walls I had been forced to undertake.

I am so hungry, but also so tired.

I don't think I have the energy to eat, but know that if I don't, I will wake later anyway, wracked with hunger pains.

Not that the food looks in anyway nourishing, let alone delicious. It's mainly oats and a few seeds, mixed with water and slight topping of milk. What's supposed to be wine smelled little better than vinegar when I walked past the fire where everything was being prepared.

This morning, I woke a princess.

By nightfall, I will be sleeping with the rumbling stomach of a pauper.

*

# Chapter 9

Placed at the heart of our rough abode, the last lantern left alight will soon be doused, I've been told; its sole purpose is to allow us to prepare for sleep.

Like blood flowing from that heart, its bloody glow spreads and runs along the weaving threads of wood, bringing a semblance of life to the veins of a yellow skin.

Up close to this tender skin, lying on my bed of rough blanket and straw, I can clearly see through it, as if studying too closely the tapestries that had graced the walls of my home.

Although the light outside is rapidly fading, I can make out a shorn field lying almost directly opposite me.

Once everyone's asleep, and the light is doused, could I run across that field, seeking out a farmhouse, pleading for shelter?

But if the powerful lords and ladies of court failed to offer me protection, then what hope have I of obtaining refuge in the humble house of a poor family?

And out there in the darkness; why, how could I possibly know where to run?

I would soon be caught, and no doubt punished for attempting to escape. The security placed around me would only be strengthened, my already limited freedoms curtailed all the more.

Amongst the stubble of the field, as if serving as a warning, a dead fox lies motionless and on its back.

Suddenly, the bloody redness of the surrounding tapestry of wood dies away, the lantern doused.

It's so silent in the darkness I can only presume that everyone, barring myself and the one who snuffed out the flickering light, are asleep at last.

I can still make out the still form of the fox out amongst the stubble. Now, however, there is a sense of movement, a smaller creature – a rabbit – browsing for food, nibbling at what is left of the tenderest shoots.

If the rabbit had ever had any fear of foxes, it no longer fears this one. Its focus, rather, is on the deliciousness of the shoots, some of the tenderest of which lie close about the fox's corpse.

It is enjoying the most succulent of all when the fox unexpectedly rises up, snapping its jaws around its own long-awaited meal.

*

As the fox leaps up, I instinctively jump up out of my own bed, foolishly clutching my throat as if I'm the one caught in his jaws.

Peering back through the woven slats, hoping to see that the rabbit has somehow sprung clear after all, I'm disappointed to see that the fox is triumphantly slinking off into the darkness, his catch still firmly held between his teeth.

I need air. It suddenly seems stifling in here, amongst so many people crowded into such a small area.

Without even thinking of the consequences – that I could well wake everyone up, that they would naturally assume I was attempting to flee – I rush out into the clearer air.

Even as I gratefully suck in great lungful's of air, I stare intently out into the darkness once more, praying that I'll catch a sight of the fox vainly pursuing the miraculously freed rabbit.

Everywhere about me, there lies a pure silence.

Mercifully, no one has sprung awake, even as I clumsily made my way towards the rough structure's exit. Exhausted by their earlier labours – and no doubt used to sleeping deeply in the ridiculous short periods lying between the day's series of prayers – they seem dead to the world.

More surprisingly still is that there is no movement or even stirring from where the two guards have set out their beds. I would have expected that at least one of them had remained awake and on guard, but it seems they have agreed between them that no one is going to bother attacking a convoy of nuns.

There's movement out amongst the stubble of the field once more.

Maybe the fox has dropped the rabbit.

Maybe it's still alive, but barely so.

If that's the case, maybe I can nurture it back to health.

Caring for it would help me cope with this new way of life forced upon me.

How could anyone object to me helping the poor creature?

Isn't that what a nun's supposed to do after all?

And if it's so close to death that it needs putting out of its misery?

Well, I'll have to wake one of the guards, won't I?

*

# Chapter 10

As I head out into the stubble-strewn field, the rustling becomes louder, more urgent.

If the injured rabbit has seen me approaching, it will obviously be panicked, believing it faces even greater danger.

In what little light comes from a splintered and cloud-veiled moon, I can see the corn stalks moving, jerking as if they themselves are alive. Odder still, they writhe, serpent-like, entwining and, it seems, elongating as if still growing and sprouting into new life.

I stop dead in my tracks.

There is _something_ alive out there, but it _isn't_ a dying rabbit!

Never taking my eyes off the squirming shoots, I begin to slowly back away, wondering when my steady retreat should become a turn and a run.

The now furious whisking of the corn stalks becomes a frenzied whirling of noise, like so many disturbed insects, becomes a voice:

'Sometimes, it is most prudent to _risk_ our lives; not to flee and lose an opportunity for _improvement_ in our circumstances.'

*

The growing stalks are now feverishly weaving in and out of each other.

I am transfixed, held between an instinct to flee, and a perhaps unreasonable curiosity to discover the source and purpose of the magic taking place before me.

The entwining corn is taking on form, as baskets are swiftly made by peasants, as tapestries are painstakingly brought together by the most refined of ladies.

In this case, however, it is the maiden herself who is coming together before me; the Corn Maiden I had seen the old crone fashioning earlier.

'You have made the right decision in staying to listen to me,' she says, her voice abruptly less like the humming of angry bees and now more formulated, more refined and gracious. 'There _is_ hope for you after all.'

As she speaks, her form takes on more features, more grace and ease in its movement. Already she has gained the semblance of a mouth, a nose and eyes.

'Who _are_ you?' I ask. 'How _dare_ you address me in this way?'

'I dare because certain problems _need_ to be addressed,' she replies sagely, her answer once again creating an improvement in the way she looks and stands.

Her body is rapidly becoming increasingly realistic in its detailing, its way of moving. As she elegantly waves a hand out to her right, I can see the beginnings of fingers, of a thumb.

On her prompting, it seems, the stalks to her side shrug listlessly, such that I fear another maiden of corn is about to erupt into life before me. But this time the abrupt spurting of the corn remains plant like, the shoots thickening into a trunk, branching out and burgeoning into the far more reassuring form of a young, leafy oak tree.

'Dare you,' the corn lady asks, 'remove a small limb of this tree?'

A test, then, but an easy one.

I step forward; then hesitate.

Isn't this a _magical_ tree? One I saw _unnaturally_ erupting from the ground only a moment ago?

'There's a fine line between over-cautiousness and cowardice.'

Now I'm being teased.

This time, I more resolutely step forward, grasping a branch hard in readiness to wrench it clear.

'Then again, 'the lady says, causing me to hold back a moment from completing my action, 'bravery is merely recklessness if we presume everything adheres to our own idea of reason.'

In an instant, the oak transforms into a lion; and I am tightly griping its raised foreleg.

*

# Chapter 11

Naturally, my instinct to flee is stronger than ever.

But I'm surely being tested here; and so although all normal reason would tell me I'm in danger, I steadfastly refuse to humiliate myself in front of this construct of straw.

She smiles, her face now so well formed that I can tell she's impressed.

'Maybe you are ready,' she says, 'to see within your mirror other things than the surface.'

In her hand, she now holds a favourite mirror of mine; one of polished silver within a golden frame.

How did she come by it?

It is a ridiculously unimportant question when so many other things about her require an answer.

She waves the mirror towards the face of the lion; yet it seems it is a command to him to look away, as well as bodily withdraw his foreleg from my grip.

Within the same movement, the lady waves her other hand, instructing the stalks of corn on this side to bourgeon into fresh growth, this time into a holly bush.

'You must turn the mirror of your conscious upon yourself,' she adds, holding its silvered surface up to my face, 'to look into your soul.'

It is not my face I see reflected there, but hers through a pane of clearest glass.

And alongside her, the holly tree has become a splendidly white unicorn.

*

My mother may well live after all!

This unicorn is so regal, it wears a crown of thorny holly leaves. It couldn't be a more apt sign that my mother's recovery is assured.

It can only be divine intervention, for how else would I have chanced upon the long sought for unicorn so effortlessly?

Awestruck, I duck to one side of the glass held up before me to take in the full wonder of this glorious sight; and immediately I'm dumbstruck, for the holly bush stands there completely untransformed.

The unicorn has either vanished, or it was nothing more than a cruel trick all along.

And yet the lion still stands in the flesh on the other side of the lady.

'The unicorn; was it really here?' I demand desperately, swinging back my head to peer through the glass once more.

But it is no longer a glassy transparency, as it seemed to be only seconds ago, but a silvery mirrored surface, revealing noting but my own face.

'If it was really here,' I plead now, 'then how can it be persuaded to return? It could cure my mother, who's been poisoned!'

'If you passionately believe that such a thing must exist,' the lady says, 'then I'm sure you must discover it one day.'

With a whirl of her hands, with what seems to be a rapid extension and sudden severing of the woven strands of her fingers, she deftly constructs a small wickerwork horse, at the last moment adding a horn to its forehead.

'But it's just a doll,' I point out disappointedly as she prepared to hand it to me.

'As I am?' she replies in a tone implying that it was missing the extra words 'you mean?'

As I take the unicorndoll in my hands, I somehow fumble the move gracelessly, the straw untwining, slipping through my clumsy fingers as if it had all turned to a mercurial sand I was unable to constrain or control.

It runs down towards the ground, reforming as it falls, taking on the life of its flowing movement, taking on a whole new shape.

At my feet, it becomes a panther, the most lithe of creatures; and without the slightest hesitation, it bounds away, loping silently across the dark fields.

*

# Chapter 12

I stare, aghast, at the Corn Maiden.

Had she tricked me in some way?

She smiles consolingly.

'How can you hope to hold on to something so precious when you have no real knowledge of it?' she asks, turning to watch the panther rush across the ground, heading towards the covering of the thickly entangled hedgerows.

'I don't understand even what _it_ is!' I wailingly admit. 'So how can I _hope_ to understand it?'

'You have let slip the virtues and graces of a lady,' she sternly admonishes me, watching anxiously as the panther leaps in amongst the bramble's blackberries and thorns, 'losing them to amorous thoughts and the subsequent cruel attacks of slander: for how can you govern and discipline your body when your spirit is so lax?'

Her rage is like a wind whirling about her, ripping at the threads of her being, pulling them free, whipping them up and around in the air as a storm sets the branches of great trees into rippling life.

Then, abruptly, she is no more, the last of the streaming stalks carried off high by a wind that itself now drops away to nothing.

*

The lion has vanished too, along with the holly bush.

Looking over my shoulder, I see that the encampment of nuns is still there.

Should I head back there?

It is the safest, easiest thing to do, after all. If not the most appealing.

Whereas to head out into the darkness of the woodland and tangled undergrowth – well, that is even less appealing, isn't it?

There are wild creatures out there. Wild men, too – outlaws, thieves who wouldn't think twice about robbing me of what little I now possess and leaving me dead.

There is one striking difference between the two options, however.

My mother.

If I return to the camp, then I have given up all hope of helping her recover.

If, on the other hand, I head out into the brambles, then I might yet still hope to find the unicorn that could restore her to health.

There, my mind is made up.

I stride out across the field, heading towards the hedge of brambles.

*

# Chapter 13

Has anyone _ever_ come up with a more frustratingly formidable wall that one naturally made of entangled brambles?

Why do we build castles when all you have to do is throw a handful of blackberries on the floor to grow a barrier that would keep out the devil himself?

As soon as you carefully move one heavily thorned stalk out of the way, another whips into place behind you, snagging your clothes, even your skin, with its teeth-like barbs. Then there's the lower branches that lasso about your legs, tripping you up, or holding you fast.

Maybe if I had a sword I could simply hack my way through.

Maybe if I was wearing a suit of armour I'd just be able to stride straight through it all without a care in the world.

Maybe if I'd had the good sense to head back towards the encampment in the first place, I'd be fast asleep now, rather than being caught up in this real-life nightmare.

*

I've reached a point where I'd really, really like to turn back and forget the whole thing.

But the thorned brambles are so wildly entwined about me that I don't think I could even manage to turn around.

Besides, I've travelled so far now through this chaos of branches that I can only assume I've traversed the worst of it. Surely the way ahead has to be shorter now than it would be to try and retrace my steps?

I seem to have been struggling to find my way through all this throughout most of the night; certainly, it is growing lighter, the birds waking and striking up a chorus as delightfully entrancing as my situation is horribly infuriating.

And when the nuns and the Peacock Guards wake for early morning prayers?

They'll find my bed empty, put out a search; and find me imprisoned amongst all this wickerwork of thorny stems.

My habit, my skin, is all of a mottled red, a combination of blood from multiple scratches and the berries I've unintentionally squashed against me as I've fought my way through this wilderness. I'm hungry too now, so I might as well help myself to a bunch of the best of the berries, some of which are enticingly full and glistening a rich black.

I reach up to pluck the choicest ones lying high above my head, taking the juiciest between finger and thumb. I try to pull my hand back down, find it is exasperatingly hooked on a thickly barbed stalk and – my whole limb wrenching unexpectedly and ungainly – squeeze the berry too tightly, splattering my face with its redness.

With my arm so firmly caught, I pull hard back on it once more, hoping to tear it clear, even at the expense of shredding my habit all the more. Unsuccessful, I pull hard again, and again, setting off a violent shaking of a number of other connected branches.

Suddenly a small creature I've disturbed is angrily swooping down towards me. My sleeve at last ripping and jerking free of the thorns, I instinctively shield my face with my arms; only to be surprised that the creature's strike against me is so light and ineffective.

Bouncing off my arms, it continues to fall through the massed brambles until it is finally caught just a few feet from the floor.

It's not a creature as such after all.

It's the unicorndoll.

*

# Chapter 14

My shaking must have dislodged the unicorndoll from somewhere higher up amongst the branches.

How long had it been there?

Had the panther turned back into the unicorndoll as soon as it had leapt into and landed amongst the maze of entangled stems?

If that is indeed the case, then I must have come so close to finding it when I had first started searching for it.

Worse still, it means I have spent all night wandering around in circles.

And, after all my wandering, I am no farther away from the nun's encampment than when I first set off on my search.

*

Reaching for and retrieving the caught unicorndoll is relatively easy after everything I suffered last night.

The innumerable thorns catch and slash at my skin, drawing blood. They rip at and shred the sleeves of my habit.

But they're just a few more tears amongst so many.

And after all that, when I finally curl my fingers about the unicorndoll, I realise that holding it is a complete and absolute disappointment.

I had hoped, I have to admit, that it would somehow magically reveal its purpose, its intent, to me.

Yet I feel nothing; no sudden sense of understanding, no whirl of enlightenment.

It's just a doll constructed of corn; that's all.

'As I am?' the lady had said when I'd sceptically pointed this out earlier.

But at least she could talk, move.

Whereas this doll; well, it does nothing at all that _I_ can see,

Have I just wasted a whole night trying to find nothing but a simple corn doll?

At least, this time it doesn't simply slip through my fingers as I hold on to it.

I recognise that, despite its obvious simplicity, it cannot be _wholly_ taken for granted; it did briefly transform into a panther after all.

So, yes – it does possess _some_ magical qualities.

Unless...well, maybe the transformation had been set in motion by the lady, rather than it being all down to some inherent characteristic of the unicorndoll itself.

She had seemed most intent on interpreting the change as a symbol of my lost virtues, hadn't she?

In which case, what hope of I of ever finding the unicorn Mother requires to recover from the effects of the poison?

Haven't we sent out a whole host of experienced and _virtuous_ knights on a quest to bring back this fabulous creature?

Who am I to believe myself superior in any way to them?

Looking about me now at the chaotically interwoven brambles that completely envelop me, I realise it looks more impenetrable in the light of the dawn that it ever did in the night, when I blissfully remained unaware of the impossibility of the task facing me.

My skin could do with a thorough washing of its countless wounds before I catch some infection. My clothes require repairing or, more likely, throwing away and replacing.

How could I hope to stay warm wearing such poor, shredded clothing?

Besides, despite the preponderance of blackberries lying everywhere about me, I'm hungry for some real, substantial food.

I was a fool to leave the encampment.

I have no hope of surviving out here on my own.

*

# Chapter 15

Although I firmly believed I couldn't be far from where the panther had first leapt in amongst the blackberries and thorns, I can't see any signs of the field I had found myself in last night.

Thankfully, however, I can see the tops of the arched and now bared stalks we'd draped with cloth to form the roof of our temporary shelter.

Looking over towards the encampment, it strikes me that this way back is certainly far less arduous than any other route I might take; I can see now that in this direction the brambles extend before me for little more than a few feet before petering out to become a more generalised tangle of regular woodland stems and branches.

It has to be sign, surely, that I am expected to return to the nuns.

I must accept and embrace my new life as a religious in the convent. Perhaps I must atone for my past, selfish behaviour by pray constantly for forgiveness and my mother's wellbeing.

As for the unicorndoll; it has been nothing but a silly distraction.

I might as well throw it away and have done with the whole sorry adventure.

*

The dwelling we'd woven together is empty.

It no longer looks as if anybody as even slept here, let alone indulged in prayers and eating. The small fire that had lain at its heart is thoroughly cold, as if it was doused long ago rather than just a little before we retired for bed.

Everyone and every carriage has moved on. Whenever they discovered I was missing, they can't have spent long searching for me, if they bothered at all. And no one has been left behind in the hope I might show up on my own accord.

Perhaps they thought that anyone heading off into the darkness around here would quite naturally be devoured by some fearsome beast. Yet I don't see why they should assume that would be so inevitable when we obviously lie reasonably close to farmed land.

From the door of the roughly constructed shelter, I look over to where I remember the field being when I wandered off towards it the previous night.

There's no farmed field there. There's no form of any type of field.

Anywhere.

It's all thick, virtually impenetrable woodland.

Even the road we arrived on is hardly more than a meandering dirt track.

No wonder the nuns wanted to leave here as soon as possible.

In a place as wild as this, there really is a good chance that you could end up as the meal for some hungry creature.

*

# Chapter 16

It's impossible to work out just how large this forest might be.

Impossible, too, to figure out which direction I should take on the road; one could be incredibly short, the other ridiculously long.

Then again, there could be absolutely no difference between them at all.

They might be equally as ridiculously long.

I do know, though, that I won't be welcome back in the lands lying closest to where my uncle has set up his own court. My only chance of being warmly received as a guest is to head for the areas of the kingdom lying farthest from his power base, where some of the lords or ladies might remain loyal to my mother.

So, I set off walking in the tracks of the convent's caravan.

I might even catch up with them, if I'm lucky.

*

I never realised how exhausting it is just walking along a dusty road.

I'm hot, sweaty, what's left of my clothes sticking everywhere to my skin, making it uncomfortable and hard to make even the slightest movement.

The skin itself itches, not only because I've been lacerated absolutely everywhere by those thorns, but because I seem to have become the main attraction for a whole host of the most annoying insects that crawl all over me, painfully bite, and seem to love hovering right in front of my eyes or wandering over my mouth.

And the inside of my mouth is agonisingly dry. I'm so dry I could drink a whole river, if only I could find one. But I can't even find the most pathetic of streams.

Was I really a pampered princess only yesterday?

It was only yesterday too, of course, that the fox I'd seen had led me into all this trouble. And here he is again, circling nearby once more, keeping his distance but apparently following me nevertheless.

As before, he's managed to snap his jaws around a tasty titbit. Maybe, though, he believes I'll be a more filling dish as soon as I collapse of exhaustion.

Looking closer at his catch, I see it's not such a wonderful meal he's grabbed for himself after all. It's the unicorndoll; he'll find that remarkably tasteless and unsatisfying.

Despite the doll being such a lifeless old thing, the fox seems to be having every bit as much trouble holding on to it as I did. The corn stems aren't turning to sand, but they appear to be causing problems for the fox as he struggles to keep everything together; caught in the wind, the broken, looser stands are fluttering, almost bird-like in their urgency.

No; not bird _like_.

It _is_ a bird the fox has clamped between his jaws. Its feathers are flying everywhere as, panicked, the bird is prepared to shed what it has to to save itself.

Naturally, whereas I'd felt nothing for the plight of the corn doll, the suffering of the poor bird affects me deep to my soul.

Suddenly, I'm silently urging the poor creature to escape the fox's clutches. It doesn't deserve to die, not when it's putting up such an incredible struggle to live; it deserves the chance of a new life.

I pick up a pebble from the track, hurling as hard as I'm able towards the fox. My aim is terrible, the pebble easily missing the fox and landing far too short to cause it any real trouble; but the disturbance the hurled pebble causes amongst the branches is enough to make the fox stop and attempt a warning snarl at me.

The opening of the creature's jaws is only slight, but the writhing bird has the good sense to take advantage of it. It makes another determined effort, another sharp twisting of its body, an irate flap of its powerful wings; and abruptly, it breaks free of the sharp teeth with a last relinquishing of its old feathers.

In a flurry of movement, the bird soars completely clear of the fox's snapping maw.

As it rushes upwards, its wings strong and powerful, I realise it can only be a hawk, or falcon, for it hurtles upwards higher and higher, higher than I ever seen any other bird attain.

The fox sees this too, forlornly realising that his prey is now completely out of his reach.

He looks back at me, with neither malice nor distress.

He might wonder why I became involved, yet he seems to hold me no ill will.

Such is the way of God's creatures.

*

I feel a lightness in my soul now that I've helped a bird escape the clutches of the fox.

But I'm no less thirsty.

No less hungry.

No less exhausted.

I don't even feel a little lighter in my tread, even though I am _marginally_ happier.

What does cheer me greatly, however, is when I at last hear the sounds of civilised life; the most beautiful organ music, harmonious and clear.

My feet _do_ feel so much lighter now!

I break into a happy run, I'm so eager to find myself in the safety of others.

To quench my thirst.

To eat my fill.

Although...I don't have any money to purchase anything, do I?

*

# Chapter 17

The fox is still with me.

Or, rather, it is as entranced by the music as I am.

He seems to be heading in the same direction as I am anyway as I step off the track and head towards where the music seems to be coming from.

I don't think he'll receive a warm welcome, from what I've seen of the way farmers chase these creatures off. I've heard that too many lambs, geese and hens have been lost to foxes for them to be trusted.

And yet...I can see a lamb too, also heading towards the delightfully playing music. And the fox seems to have absolutely no interest in chasing her.

What sort of music is this that it can charm even the worst of the beasts?

*

The woodland we're passing through isn't particularly overgrown, yet I'm still relieved when, finally, it gives way to a small clearing.

Here there are only four trees, two of them of oak and holly, similar to the ones I had come across the previous night. The third is an 'apple of China', an orange tree, which many believe grew in Eden itself as theTree of Knowledge. The fourth is a stonepine, which I've also heard described as being the Tree of Life, of enlightenment, a symbol of birth and the feminine purity of Artemis.

They are both trees of love, of fertility, and certainly everywhere about me creatures lie peacefully and contentedly upon the ground, entranced by the wonderfully exact harmonies of the music. As they enter the clearing with me, even the fox and the lamb lie down together, for no animals are chasing each other or feel in anyway threatened here.

There are no people here, however.

And yet the delightful music continues to play; it has to be coming from here somewhere, I'm sure of it!

Yes: it's coming from a small pond lying between the bodily oak and the spritely holly. It's the wind, rushing over the hollow reeds, making them ring and whistle: making them sing!

But how can it play such perfectly ordered rhythms, music so inherently divine?

Because, of course, the reeds are of different sizes, ranging from the earthy to the more spirited. It remind me of the positive organ at home, with its pipes rendered from higher to lower following Pythagoras's divine proportions.

The pond's water, thankfully, is crystal clear. At last, I can clear my dried throat!

Turning about, once my thirst is satisfied, I remember that I had been hungry too, and here there are the most delicious oranges for the taking.

What harm could there be in helping myself to one when food is naturally in abundance here? The creatures have no need to hunt each other, I see, because everything they require is freely provided for them. Given their own justly allotted proportions, they live harmoniously together, with no requirements for threats or violence.

The juice of the orange I pluck from the tree is the sweetest, most perfect thing I have ever tasted!

This garden could be a new paradise!

A paradise with its own temptation, as a thieving partridge takes advantage of the trusting atmosphere to steal the eggs of other birds. I'm tempted myself to shoo it away, and reach for a pinecone on the nearby tree to cast at it in the same way I scared off the fox earlier. But the hawk has returned and, swooping down, he thankfully chases the overfed bird away rather than bringing it down, as he could so easily do.

Seeing the hawk once more, recalling how I had briefly mistaken it for the unicorndoll, reminds me that I cannot stay here, no matter how pleasant it would be to remain in such peaceful surroundings.

I am now a nun, or at least a novice.

Pleasure can only be a distraction for me.

My mother's life depends upon the sacrifice of my privileges and wayward behaviour.

Realising I'm still holding the cone I'd picked up to fling at the partridge, I decide to throw it aside as I make my way back towards the woodland track.

But the pine stone won't leave my hand; I can't stop my fingers from firmly clutching on to it!

*

# Chapter 18

What sort of ridiculous magic is this?

The fingers of my right hand won't obey me anymore!

They clutch onto the pine stone as if it were the world's most precious jewel!

Peering intently through my clawed fingers, I try to work out why they seem stuck to it.

Is it the way a pine stone opens up perhaps, my fingers caught upon the roughened edges of its many opened petals?

The pine stone, in fact, remains tightly closed, such that it appears perfectly smooth, as perfectly well-formed as a riverbed pebble. As I should expect, I suppose, of such a harmoniously proportioned garden.

Has it been coated, perhaps, with some form of glue?

Yet every one of my fingers can move freely across the pine stone; they just won't let it go!

For a moment, I fear that the stone is some means of entrapping me here in this miraculous paradise: if I can't let the stone go, then perhaps the garden won't let me leave with it either, as justice demands.

But nothing bars my way or prevents me from ducking back into the surrounding woodland. Neither a forest creature nor a woodland sprite leaps before me as I walk back through the interweaving branches, heading towards the meandering pathway.The only creatures are wild moor-cock, running as freely as anyone might wish.

It seems, then, that I too am perfectly free to leave the garden.

I just have to carry a piece of it with me.

*

On the track once again, I feel refreshed after my visit to the garden.

My pace is quicker now, my mind made up that I must become a nun after all!

I have many faults, faults that have sorely let my father and mother down; and now I must confess to them all, and address my sins and wilful misbehaviour.

But...how do I explain this stone I can't release no matter how hard I try to unclasp my hand?

Will they show me understanding when I describe the garden and how I came to be holding this strangest of stones?

If their caravan had also passed this way – which they surely must – then wouldn't they have also heard the delightfully entrancing music? Wouldn't they have also been curious regarding its source?

Had they, like me, had the pleasure of visiting the garden?

If so, then they would have every reason to believe my tale.

It might even be the case that some amongst them, like me, had similarly had to walk away with some form of reminder of their visit.

They might have stayed in the garden longer than I had, too, which would mean they are nowhere near as far ahead of me as I'd feared. They might even have left only moments before me, and could therefore be only a short sprint ahead.

Just as I'm tempted to put my theory to the test and break into a quick run, it dawns on me that I can hear the heavy clop of horse hooves upon a hard compressed track. It's a sound growing increasingly louder too; increasing far quicker than I would expect too, giving the pace I'm walking at.

The clopping of the horses is coming from behind me. And it's horses travelling at a hard gallop too.

It's not the nuns' caravan then, but a group of other travellers. Travellers moving fast, as if they fear the forest or have urgent business.

Fearing I might be spotted too late and trampled under the pounding hooves, I leap off to one side of the track, waiting here in the hope that I can wave them down and ask for a ride.

Then I think; just how naive is that?

What if the riders I can hear swiftly approaching are bandits?

That would explain their rush; they might mean to overhaul and rob the caravan.

I glance back up the road worriedly, trying to work out a way of warning the nuns. But it's impossible, of course; I still have no idea where the carts might be.

I still have no idea, in fact, that I'm right about these riders being outlaws.

I slip back into the veiling undergrowth, recognising that I shouldn't risk revealing myself until I know who these mounted men are.

*

# Chapter 19

Through the wickerwork of lacy stems, I intently peer along the track leading away from my hiding place.

The riders are almost as well hidden as I am, although in their case unintentionally, the cloud of dust thrown up about them by the hooves creating a thick cloud. So it's not until they're almost upon me that I at last begin to make out the bright greens and reds of peacock cloaks.

My uncle's guard!

*

_That's_ why the nuns had gone out without me, without bothering to search for me.

They must have sent at least one of the Peacock Guards back to the palace, informing my uncle that I had absconded.

And so here was his answer; a search party, sent to hunt me down.

I could reveal myself, turn myself in; plead forgiveness, and say I'd simply woken in the dark and got lost.

Would they believe me?

Probably not.

As if to make up my mind for me, I see another, particularly recognisable figure riding in the midst of the guards.

He wears expensive red armour.

The colour of the fox.

Of the Devil.

It's my uncle.

*

# Chapter 20

It's not until the dust cloud they've left in their wake has fully cleared that I dare step back out into the road.

Should I keep to the undergrowth?

No; it's just about impassable in many places, hard going everywhere else.

Should I turn back then, and head towards the palace?

If Uncle knows I've left the convent convoy, then he's probably put everyone in the army on high alert that I have to be arrested.

Besides, as I make my way back, it could well be that this same returning band chances upon me.

I don't have many options open to me, do I?

I suppose I _could_ return to the garden – but no; I've spent far too much of my life wallowing in having my every whim pandered to. I can't continue being so helpless, expecting others to sort out my problems for me.

I have to learn how to sort out problems for others. Only in this way can I ensure that the peace and contentment I encountered in the garden can be more justly available to all.

I left the divine music far behind me, unfortunately, and yet I can still hear noises coming from the woodland; and it's not just the voice of the forest's creatures either. I can hear the gentle clink of horse trappings, the fluttering of pennants.

Yet why would men be riding in such dense woodland when there is a perfectly accessible track available?

Curious, yet also worried that these riders might be yet more of my uncle's guards, I cautiously peer once again into the thickly weaving branches.

The pennants, like the gaily painted shields the riders carry, glitter colourfully amongst the undergrowth.

Yet if these two riders are men, then they are ridiculously small.

And rather than using horses for mounts, they are each riding a magnificent panther.

*

I must clumsily make a noise. Or, maybe, the riders merely sense my presence.

Whatever the reason, they both suddenly turn their heads to stare my way.

I try, foolishly, to duck back, hoping they haven't seen me. But of course it's all too late.

Naturally, they've seen me.

I wondering if I should break into a run, fearing they might chase me. I also wonder if I might have unexpectedly disturbed them, causing them to urge their strange mounts into flight.

They don't move. They don't seem to be in anyway scared of me, or regard me as a threat who has to be pursued.

I also remain where I am.

It's said that the panther's sweet breath can cure many ills; maybe it can breathe upon this stone I'm welded to and help me relinquish my overly tight grasp upon it.

I know what must be done.

Despite my reservations of the wisdom of my actions, I resolutely step into the thick undergrowth once more.

*

# Chapter 21

Thankfully, neither rider readies himself to strike out at me by lowering his lance.

Rather, they both seem to be patiently waiting for me to draw close, as they're studying me with great interest, perhaps even expectation.

Once I enter the darkness of the woodland, my eyes begin to become accustomed to its veiling effects. As I approach the riders I realise that their mounts are of completely different colours; one with the regular earthy yet gloriously spangled flesh, the other a gleaming white worthy of the unicorn itself.

I see, too, that what I had presumed to be fur cloaks and helmets being worn by the 'men' are in fact their own skins; they are monkeys, which at least explains their small stature, if not the way they so completely emulate men in taming other beasts to their own advantage.

'I'm sorry, you looked so much like men th–'

I bring what I'm saying to a sudden halt.

How stupid must I look, trying to talk to monkeys?

To my surprise, both monkeys beam back at me, perhaps understanding my expression of wonder if not my words.

Sensing that we do not share a common language, they show a certain level of intelligence in the way they attempt to converse with me through actions alone, the one mounted upon the more earthy mount pointing at my dark, shredded clothes and overexcitedly waving his arms as if they were the wings of a bird.

I sense his actions might have been all the more exaggerated if it hadn't been for the restraining chain, fixed like a glittering necklace about his neck, just as I've seen organ-grinders control their animal counterparts.

The other monkey, riding the more wraith-like creature, is more reasoned and reserved in his moves. With a nod to my damaged wimple and a curling away from his nose with a hand, he lets me know that he had mistaken it for a long beak.

They had taken me to be some great bird, then; and glancing down at my bared and exposed legs, I realise I must have indeed appeared to them like some dark crane approaching them.

At least, I can only assume they had mistaken me for a crane, for the approach of any other great bird must have surely caused them great consternation, whereas the crane, of course, is well known as a protector against the Devil's incursions into this world.

Now; how do I explain my own purpose for approaching them? Will they even be aware of the panther's remarkable qualities and capabilities?

Probably not.

But before I can work out a solution to my problem, there's a thunderous crash far away in the wood that makes us all whirl our heads about in an attempt to work out what might have caused it.

Rather than fading, the crashing, the cracking of wood, rapidly gets louder and louder.

I recognise that sound of course,

I've heard it when taking part in so many hunts.

It's the shredding, the tearing apart, of any plants or small bushes lying in the path of a large group of mounted hunters determined to chase down their prey no matter how much damage they cause to their surroundings.

I can also tell from the hard crack of splintering branches, the shattering even of young trees, that this is headlong rush of fully grown riders, not miniature ones like I find before me.

It's my uncle's soldiers; I just _know_ it.

They've turned back after coming across the convent caravan on the road; and now they've taken to the woods, making absolutely sure I don't slip past them this time.

*

My horror is obvious even to the monkeys. Maybe, too, even to their mounts.

Resolutely lifting their small shields into place, and with an urgent prodding of their knees, the monkeys urge the panthers to circle about me, placing themselves between the swiftly oncoming riders and me.

I've never seen such an amazing combination of courage and spirit, such fortitude!

They will die; they stand no chance against the Peacock Guard.

They must know this, for the sound of the galloping horsemen is unmistakable. It's obvious to everyone who hears such a chaotic uproar that it has to be a large force violently bearing down upon us. Yet they are prepared to bravely sacrifice themselves for me!

'No, no!' I insist, suddenly rushing forward and whiling around to kneel before the two monkeys and their mounts. 'You'll die, and they'll take me anyway!'

Obviously, I know they can't understand what I'm saying, but I'm hoping they can fathom my meaning by discerning the concern in my eyes. In desperation, I even place a hand upon the forehead of each panther, as if there were some way I might be able to convey my intentions through touch if not words.

Strangely – and despite, it seems, the presence of the stone I can't help but hold onto in my right hand – I sense the purpose of these mounts, even if they remain unaware of mine.

The earthy panther is an awakening to our true purpose; for he sacrificed himself so he could give humankind the gift of spiritual awakening, as starbursts adorn his flesh.

The other panther is the purity of his spirit, found and rescued by the god of love himself, even though he had originally been hidden in a valley surrounded by a hedge of blackberries and thorns.

Yet all this persuades me that I must be more resolute than ever; I cannot let them go sacrificing themselves when _I_ am the hunters' intended target.

'You cannot seek danger for danger's sake,' I tell them forcibly, praying that they somehow recognise the wisdom of the thought behind words they cannot otherwise understand.

The monkeys swap enquiring glances.

Turning back to me, they bow their heads, lowering their lances in submission to my will.

Somehow, thankfully, they have understood what I mean to do; what I must do.

Wheeling their mounts about, the two small riders ride off into the dark and shading undergrowth.

Rising to my feet, I wheel about too; but in my case, it is to face my pursuers.

And possibly, too, my death.

*

# Chapter 22

I'm determined not to show any fear.

To remain steady upon my feet, and unconcerned within my demeanour.

And yet, when the first of the riders come storming through the undergrowth, shattering everything in their path as carelessly and callously as a whirlwind, I can't prevent myself from flinching, I'm so close to leaping aside in fear.

They could so easily run me down, as much by accident if not purpose.

Seeing me standing there at last, the riders who'd almost pounded me to death beneath their hooves whirl about, crying out to the others that I'm here, that I'm caught.

That I'm their prisoner.

*

'I am your _true_ princess!'

I seek to remind them just who I am.

I'm no foolish peasant girl!

And yet...aren't I, though, just a foolish _princess_?

What right have I to call myself their sovereign when I'd made no attempt to learn the qualities necessary to fulfil my destiny?

Certainly, when I make this proud announcement, the soldiers triumphantly circling me merely laugh rather than display any signs of obedience.

Even the horses snort irritability, as if mocking my presumptuousness.

I'm about to declare that my uncle is a false leader, a usurper of my mother's powers, when I catch a flash of red amongst the many interlocking dark shadows of the surrounding woodland.

The flow of bloody scarlet languidly nearing me is the oncoming of the fox towards an immobile, petrified rabbit, the approach of the Devil when he knows his victim has already signed the soul away.

He breaks through the undergrowth, his mount trampling underfoot all the ferns and grasses. Already, he is reaching beneath his red cloak, preparing to withdraw his sword from the sheath at his side.

'Uncle,' I say as assuredly as I can manage, 'if I must forfeit my life, then–'

'Oh, all that nunnery thing was a mistake,' he says dismissively with a shockingly pleasant grin, 'I realise that _now_!'

And from beneath his cloak, he withdraws not a sword but a small travelling basket.

A woven basket containing the most wonderfully adorable lapdog I could have ever wished for.

*

# Chapter 23

Didn't I say my uncle can always be guaranteed to surprise me?

Ever since I was incredibly small, I have always begged my father and mother to let me have a lapdog.

They always refused, saying it would only serve as yet another distraction preventing me from attending to my lessons.

But I can teach my dog how to behave; and _I_ can learn from that, surely?

She's such a remarkably intelligent little thing too!

She gives me such a perfectly irresistible doe-eyed expression whenever I produce a bowl of sweetmeats that I can't help but risk overfeeding her.

Uncle is determined to 'make amends' for presuming I would have relished the opportunity to attend a convent to 'improve my education'. He has returned everything the nuns had taken from me, including my silk dress and jewellery.

He has even borrowed one of the convent's more luxuriant carriages, so I may arrive back at the palace in a manner befitting my exalted position. As such, I now not only travel in the utmost comfort, but I have been allowed time to wash, feed, sleep, and completely refresh myself.

As Uncle says, we are family, after all.

It has all been a foolish misunderstanding on his part, he has graciously admitted. As soon as he had received information that I'd absconded from the caravan, he had realised his mistake and set about setting things right.

After all, his own education as an important member of the royal family had constantly stressed the importance of humility when it comes to confessing to our failings. He had also been instructed in displaying the necessary levels of contrition that would be required to ensure a peaceful and just solution to all matters pertaining to the problem.

It was a shame, Uncle had opined, that his brother, my father, had not seen the advantages of instilling within me the virtues that had become second nature to him, thanks to the expensive tuition he had received.

I'm truly relieved to hear that my uncle realises I wasn't granted the high levels of guidance he benefited from. He has promised me that I can receive whatever teaching I desire, enabling me to eventually take the reins of the kingdom should Mother unfortunately fully succumb to the illness that besets her.

For yes, it seems, Mother is ill, not poisoned.

As Uncle points out, wasn't our food constantly and consistently tasted for us?

Wasn't it invariably served from the purest unicorn horn, which nullifies the effects of any poison?

The doctors and physicians still regularly tend to mother, fluttering concernedly about her bed and painstakingly seeking cures in every book available on the matter, he assures me.

And the knights still undertake the quest to discover the whereabouts of the living unicorn that will cure her of any ill.

How could I have so badly misconstrued my uncle's actions, when it is so plain to me now that he had only taken control of the army to secure our borders and ensure my mother's rule could continue? Why else would he shower me with other gifts to appease my irritation with him, including a fledging hunting hound and a truly exotic parakeet?

This particular creature is especially dear to me, for I am quickly teaching it how to talk just like me, rewarding its endeavours with the choicest sweetmeats.

Even more remarkably, I've at last managed to break my clutching fingers free of that irritating pine stone that has been restraining me in everything I did!

Of course, wishing to more closely study it and understand its apparently magical powers at some point, I haven't thrown it away as I had been tempted to do, but have stored it away in a pouch on my girdle.

To think, just this morning I greeted the dawn fearing for my life.

Now, my life couldn't be more perfectly wonderful!

*

# Chapter 24

'Ruby...rue...bee.'

As I pronounce the word with slow deliberation, the parakeet cocks his head, listening intently.

This marvellous bird can now parrot the words for most of the precious stones set in my necklace. The only one he's having any real problems with is 'ruby', but only because it's coming out as 'rue...nee'.

My darling little lapdog sleeps in the folds of the train of my dress, preferring the softness of the silk to the rough ground. Only the young hunting dog seems tired of our inactivity, obviously preferring the wildness of the woods to luxuriating in the comforts of the carriage.

Obviously, being so young, she hasn't yet discovered how exhausting it can be to walk rather than being carried everywhere in a sumptuously decorated carriage.

'Rue...me, rude me, ruin...'

The words don't come from my parakeet, even though they sound a touch bird-like in their cackling tones.

They are being spoken outside my moving carriage, as if someone has been walking alongside, listening through the windows and now mocking my attempts to teach my pet how to speak.

Rising from my seat, I peer out of the window, expecting to see some impertinently chuckling guard. But none of the guards are riding anywhere near my rocking carriage, fearing no doubt that some of the wilder jerks and rolls of the high wooden sides might strike them hard, maybe even unseating them.

'Pearl, per...hell, poor me!'

The scornful chatter continues, coming now, I realise, from just above me. Leaning a little out of the window, and cocking my head to listen more intently, I see a magpie has landed upon the carriage's roof. And he's amusedly looking down at me with his black-pearl eyes, his contempt for me almost human in its obviousness.

'Go away!' I snap irately. 'We don't need your idle chatter!'

My angry waving doesn't scare him in the least. He stays there on my roof, chattering as if he'll never, ever shut up!

'Necklace, neck...lay...sir, nay...place.'

A hawk has also spotted my unwanted guest. He swoops down, landing alongside the startled bird.

Yet the hawk doesn't attack the magpie. He merely eyes the other bird warily, warningly.

More surprising still, perhaps, the magpie still refuses to fly off.

Rather, he only briefly takes to the air; and only so that he can immediately whirl about and expertly land on the sill of my window, causing me to jump back inside my carriage in surprise.

More surprising still, however, is that this magpie can suddenly talk with far more eloquence than I could have ever given him credit for.

'Have you only silly things to speak off?' he asks. 'How can you expect your pupil to progress if you yourself insist on being so empty headed?'

'Empty headed?' I gasp, astonished at his insolence. 'And what, do you think, should I be teaching a bird to speak? Poetry, maybe?'

'Well, when it suits me, I recite poetry–'

'You certainly have all the all the irreverence and mischievous of a court poet!'

He nods his head, as if taking my insult as a complement.

'Yet these poets you speak off, I believe, temper their language, do they not?'

'You presume to speak like us; like men, even though you are an animal?'

'Just as the lion must roar, man is also at base an animal. And you will succumb to those animal instincts for pleasure if you do not temper them wisely, keeping them under the watchful eye of your better nature.'

I am sure that, as he says this, he warily glances up towards where I had seen the hawk land.

I can neither be sure nor check upon the accuracy of my assumption, however, for the carriage abruptly rocks particularly widely, a sure sign that we are turning off the road once more for another restful meal.

It seems Uncle is in no rush to return to the palace. He is intent on making our journey back as pleasurable as possible, with frequent halts and a plentiful supply of delicious food.

The sudden violent rolling of the wagon at last persuades the magpie and his watchful hawk to fly off in a nervous flurry of feathers.

I can only hope the magpie hasn't suffered any injury from the brutal rocking.

Then again, it was his choice to so rudely admonish me for simply enjoying a few indulgences.

Behind me, to my delight, my wonderfully intelligent parakeet at last exactly parrots my words.

'Rue...bee!'

*

We've halted by a stream.

I never passed a stream once I'd left the convent's caravan. Which can only mean I passed by it when I was locked away in the convent's carriage.

I'm no longer locked away.

I'm free to move about as much as I want.

The presence of the stream means another thing, of course; we're now closer to the palace than I was on the night I'd gone off wandering about the woods.

On the one hand, I can't wait to return to the many comforts and delights of the palace.

On the other hand, like Uncle, I appreciate the more leisurely pace we are taking, as compared to the rush of the convent's caravan.

Such an uncalled for urgency gave me no time to relax and reflect upon our journey, whereas this way I can take advantage of the many breaks in our travelling to refresh myself and ensure I can fully take in the many pleasures offered by such a trip through the safer areas of the woodland.

I have been warned not go wandering off into the thicker parts of the wood, for my own safety of course.

Thankfully, of course, I'm no longer so foolish that I would flatter myself I can survive unaided in the forest.

As I found to my cost, the many warped branches tear at the weft of your clothing, reducing it back to little more than shreds in no time. You hunger for food, too, despite there being so much game freely running about you, for you have no means to hunt or cook it.

Here, I can smell the meat roasting as a succulent if not perhaps elaborate meal is prepared for us.

And as for my dress; well, naturally, it is absolutely _divine_.

*

Peering through the dense latticework of branches, I can only see the darkness that lies far beyond the carefully cultivated pathway.

The creatures who feel at home within that darkness emit the most piercing shrieks, the most disturbing growls.

Whatever was I thinking, the night I wandered off into such an evil domain?

As if fearing I might once again be so incredibly foolish, my lapdog (I really _must_ name her, but so far I've been unable to decide upon anything suitable) has taken to making herself comfortable amongst the silks of my dress's train at all times now, even at the risk of becoming a cumbersome nuisance. Naturally, I forgive this little fault of hers, for who can blame her for seeking comfort and being so attentive to me?

Similarly, my parakeet is determined to keep me occupied, chattering away so much now that anyone only faintly overhearing us talking to each other could so easily mistake it for the most delightful and informed conversation.

Of my pets, it is just the hunting hound who appears disgruntled with life. Indeed, I suspect she looks on with disdain at the playful antics of the others. She, I believe, would quite willingly leap off into the woods in pursuit of some creature she's seen there, but fortunately she's restrained with a tight collar. No one would waste time seeking her out, I fear, if she were to disappear into the undergrowth.

She spends her time staring longingly into the surrounding woods, as if blissfully unaware of the far more pleasing and pleasant delights on offer; the delectable sweetmeats, the padded silks to lie upon, the warmth of the carriage, shielding you from the wind and any drenching if it should rain.

She growls a little now, her stare intent and stilled; she's seen something of interest amongst the darkness of the woods.

I follow her gaze, wondering what she might have seen there that could cause her to be so anxious.

Then I see them too.

Eyes.

Eyes staring back at us from the darkness.

Staring, in particular, at me.

*

# Chapter 25

Strangely, I recognise those eyes.

I detect in them an almost human curiosity.

They are _ridiculously_ small.

The monkeys.

They had promised to keep an eye on me, after all.

I need to allay their concerns. Of course, they must presume that I have been captured, rather than that I'm here under my own free will.

The last time they saw me – or at least, the last time we were _together_ – they had prepared to defend me, to sacrifice themselves so that I wouldn't be taken.

And now, to all intents and purposes, it would naturally appear to them I am being held captive.

I must call them over and explain – no, _not_ call them over!

If the soldiers see the monkeys, they're sure to attempt to capture them, so they might present them as prizes and gifts to loved ones.

Indeed, if the monkeys continue to hang around close to our convoy, some of the men may well be tempted to briefly stray of the track with the intent on hunting them down.

So; I _must_ warn them to stay clear.

I shall step into the wood only briefly, and only so far too; and then I shall return to the comforts of my carriage.

*

The little hound is straining at her leash; it becomes increasingly hard to hold her back as we near the edges of the woodland.

I'm also having difficulties walking, for my lapdog refuses to leave me and insists on remaining nestled amongst the folds my dress, forcing me to strenuously drag her along behind be.

The parakeet is potentially even more problematic. He's flying just above my head, his excitable chattering threatening to either scare off the doubtlessly bewildered monkeys or draw the soldiers' attention to the fact I've wandered away a little from the carriage.

As I duck into the darkness lying beneath the heavily interwoven branches, the parakeet thankfully decides he will stay on the woodland's edges, at last quitting his irresponsible chatter as he alights on a nearby branch.

A bump in the ground suddenly jolts my other little companion out of her warm nest of silk. As she's too lazy to chase after me, ploughing her way through tall grasses, this persuades her to at last forego her comforts and sulkily wait for me in the shorter grass nearer the road.

Drawing closer towards the patiently waiting monkeys, I sense that they are not wholly at ease with my approach. They swap apprehensive glances, seemingly worried that I might mean them harm; then it suddenly dawns on me that they have every reason to be wary, for I must look nothing like the bedraggled crane that had met up with them earlier.

Once again, I'm wearing the finery I am far more accustomed to. How the rich silks, embroidered with gold and silver, must glow brightly, even here amongst the deep shades of the trees.

They could hardly be expected to recognise me, unless they had earlier witnessed me exchanging my rags for courtly garb.

Just beyond the monkeys, I see one of their mounts – the mottled panther – waiting every bit as patiently as they wait for me. The other panther is no longer there, I realise; then I see that the earthy panther cannot stray too far as he remains chained to the more excitable monkey.

To reassure them all that I mean them no harm, that I mean them well, I bend towards the restrained monkey, studying the chain necklace to see if I might find some way of releasing him.

Sensing my good intentions, both monkeys look up at me, beaming warmly.

The monkey I'm trying to help, however, also has his eyes on other things; the pouch about my girdle, in which I've placed the sweetmeats I use to reward my pets.

With a nimble twitch of his fingers, the curious monkey easily unclasps the pouch lid and helps himself to a tasty titbit.

Well, he does deserve it; it was a clever trick, unlocking it so deftly.

As the chain slips free, the glistening links falling to the floor like a broken string of pearls, he cheekily takes another sweetmeat, and another.

His more naturally restrained and responsible companion spiritedly leans over towards my pouch. However, instead of also taking a tasty sweetmeat, he slaps the lid back into place, clasping it shut as expertly as his now frustrated friend had opened it.

'I think you're going to have to keep an eye on our little friend,' I chuckle, noting the stern glares the monkeys are now exchanging.

Realising that I was probably a touch impetuous freeing the little monkey, now that I've seen what he's capable of, I'm trying to think of ways to make amends when I'm distracted by a flash of white flowing through the darkness of the forest.

Even though it lies far away from the previously chained mount, I instantly presume this glorious burst of white can only be the other panther. It's moving swiftly through the undergrowth, and of a similar size to the white panther I had seen the calmer monkey riding earlier.

It's a glorious burst of white, sparkling amongst the darkness as if permanently illuminated by the moon and stars. It moves with all the speed and elegance of swiftly flowing waters, streaming effortlessly through the thick tapestry of woodland as if the countless interlocking branches present no problem at all to the beast's purpose or intent.

At last, it slows in its movement, comes to a halt and, as if aware of my presence, proudly stares my way.

No, it _isn't_ the panther.

This is a beast even closer to divinity in its rapturous gorgeousness and grace.

Even so, despite its undeniable beauty, despite my wishful thinking, it isn't big enough to be the unicorn I'd seen previously.

But it's certainly large enough to be the _foal_ of a unicorn.

*

# Chapter 26

She doesn't have a horn.

So if she doesn't have a horn, how could I possibly know that she's a unicorn rather than just a particularly beautiful horse?

I know in the same way that I know she's a 'she'.

It's a sense of connection, of being at one with her.

Of sharing in her undoubted grace and unblemished purity.

Without even thinking of the consequences, I blunder farther into the woods.

In an instant, my precious dress is transformed into shreds.

*

As the branches and twigs angrily snatch at my dress, warp is tugged free of woof, stitches pulled free of seams.

Embedded pearls are sent scattering across the ground, embroidered scenes torn and made unintelligible, silk returned to the individual stands that emanated from so many overfed worms.

The loosened threads trail and loop behind me, entangling me all the more and increasingly slowing me down.

So far, however, the foal has refused to flee.

She waits; waits for me, I'm sure.

Seeing me rush off into the impenetrable darkness like this, the parakeet squawks in dismay, my lapdog yaps in distress. Fearing to come in after me, they instead whirl about, darting back towards the safety of the pathway, their shrill calls sure to alert everyone there of my misdemeanour.

The young hunting hound stays with me, however, though I once again have to hold her back; if I were to let her free, she would surely scare off the patiently waiting unicorn. The more disreputable monkey excitedly stays with us too. Thankfully, his more reasoned companion has had the good sense to stay and still the panthers, for they would surely unintentionally put the glorious creature to flight.

I cannot risk it fleeing now I am so close.

My mother's _life_ depends upon me being able to reach the unicorn!

I look out towards the unicorn, locking my gaze on hers, imploring her to stay

Then I see what I quite clearly saw before, yet failed to recognise as being important.

She has _no_ horn.

Where it should be, the flesh is simply a bloody, ruby red against the pearl-white flesh.

It's the horn I _need_.

Only the stone at the base of the horn can cure Mother.

Then...we shall simply have to wait for the unicorn to _grow_ her horn.

And _then_ Mother can be cured!

*

# Chapter 27

Will Mother live long enough for the unicorn to grow her horn?

How long does it take a unicorn to grow, to become an adult?

No one knows that I know of.

What choice do I have in the matter?

What other unicorn do I have any hope of coming across?

Still she waits.

Still she refuses to flee, despite my blundering, chaotic approach, despite the excitable and threatening yapping of my hound.

She _knows_ I need her; need her horn.

She stays still – and yet I'm not drawing any closer to her.

It feels, frustratingly, as if she is somehow moving away from me.

For the harder I try and reach her, the faster I try to run, the slower I and heavier my every move becomes. I no longer feel in control of my limbs. They refuse to obey me.

I cannot drag my legs up, as if they are caught in the cloying mud of a deep marsh.

I cannot swing my arms, such that I could be attempting to swim in the thickest of honey.

Even so, I am _almost_ there; almost to the point where I could reach out, stretching an arm to – and suddenly, it's immovable. Frozen in position.

My entire body is completely entangled within a colourful tapestry of loosened, curling threads, of forking, warping branches.

I can't move any farther.

And the foal lies only an exasperated breath ahead of me.

*

Gasping for air, close to weeping, I look about me, glancing back over my shoulder.

It's a bewildering, remarkable sight.

A trail of colourful threads flows away from me, the tail of a fiery meteor, carving its way back through the woodland, right back to where it thins to a nothingness, to the point where I had first seen the unicorn.

About me, the threads are caught in an even more chaotic pattern, weaving in and out of the stems and stalks, as if I am now the Corn Maiden, albeit constructed of the gayest strands. I am formed of cotton, of wool, of silk, of yew too, and elder and oak.

With a sigh and an anxious gulp, I look towards the foal, pleading with my eyes that she stays where she is.

She stares back at me as if wondering what ever I might mean.

She waits; and yet I do not approach.

She blinks, the eye contact and therefore the spell broken.

Silently, she turns about on her hind legs.

Then, with a powerful stretching of those selfsame legs, she leaps away from me; and runs back into the wood's darkness.

*

# Chapter 28

_Now_ I weep.

Deeply and unashamedly.

And with the most intense sense of frustration too.

I was _so_ close!

If only I'd been wearing my nun's _simple_ habit!

_That_ wouldn't have entangled me so amongst the wickerwork of branches.

My dress, my beautiful, luxuriant dress, has cost me so so dear!

I _hate_ it! Hate it with a passion for being the ultimate cause of my mother's death!

There is only one hand that my tangled clothing has left me free to move. And now, furiously, frenziedly, I wrench and tear at the threads binding me, as much to completely destroy my dress as free myself.

Yet not all the threads are easily snapped or broken. Those of gold, of silver, are like wire, and it seems entirely unbreakable.

After a great deal of exhausting and frustrating tugging and ripping, all I've really managed to free is my outstretched arm. The rest of me remains firmly bound, if a little looser than before.

I'm trapped here amongst the woodland; unless my lapdog and parakeet have made everyone in the camp aware of my disappearance.

Could they lead anyone here, however?

Do they have the necessary skills?

Only the hound could have ensured I was found, but she's here with me, her leash every bit as entangled amongst the bushes as my dress.

Her entanglement had thankfully prevented her from chasing off the unicorn earlier, but now it means she's trapped here with me. She doesn't deserve to suffer for my selfish mistakes.

Squirming about in my loosened confinement, I find I can at least slightly turnabout, at least bend down a little towards where the leash attaches to her collar. Painfully stretching out, I can even take hold of the clasp, deftly loosening it.

This might be of benefit to me, now I come to think of it.

She can run back to the camp and bring help. Then again, once she catches scent of the unicorn, she's far more likely to continue the chase, excitedly yapping after our supposed prey.

Maybe it doesn't matter anymore anyway.

Maybe I'll be found once someone discovers the area where I began barging through the undergrowth, a track leading to the beginnings of the colourful trail of threads running through the labyrinthine wood.

The hound hasn't moved from her spot.

She's glancing everywhere about her curiously, as if a touch bewildered, and unsure where to go, what to do.

She's puzzled too, I realise, for she's searching around for a scent, yet can't find one.

'You're _free_ to go! You don't _have_ to hunt!' I tell her with a bitter chuckle, wishing I had the same choice to make.

She turns to look over her shoulder, suddenly highly attentive. She's obviously sensed something of interest behind us.

She snarls, more worriedly than warningly.

Turning to follow her intent gaze, I catch a flash of light in the darkness of the woodland; a flash of _red_.

A flash of red furiously and nosily blundering its way through the woodland.

My uncle.

*

Uncle is frenziedly hacking away at everything in his path with his sword.

Even so, the barbs of the branches are catching and tearing at the threads of his brightly glistening silk gown.

The subsequent entangling of thread and woodland stems is slowing him down, holding up his advance, but nowhere near as much as it had restrained me.

His face is almost as red as his gown. He's furious, of course, believing no doubt that I've once again made an attempt to run away, betraying his trust in me.

'Let me explain–'

My cry goes unheard. His vicious slashing of the branches drowns it out. Besides, he's in such a rage, I suspect the rush of blood to his brain would prevent him from hearing my pleas for mercy and understanding.

The snagging of the branches at his expensive and favourite gown, the way it tears everything into shreds, the way it frustrates his every move, is making him ever more furious and unreasonable.

He would now rather cleave me cleanly in two rather than listen to me.

And I have no way of running away from him.

*

# Chapter 29

It seems that, unlike me, Uncle is unstoppable.

Naturally, the grasping, snatching branches are slowly his approach far more than he would like. Yet the slashing of his sword makes sure that he will eventually reach me.

Far sooner than I would like too, of course.

I'm squirming as much as I can amongst the tightly binding threads, hoping even now that I might miraculously break free before he draws close enough to hack me in two with far more ease than it takes him to cleave the springy branches. But, deep down, I know its hopeless.

It's just an animal instinct, to prolong the chance of survival as long as I may.

A thread loosens.

And then another.

Not through my own efforts, admittedly.

As Uncle rushes as fast as he's able towards me, his irate hacking at the latticework of branches is also thankfully splitting the trail of threads, including the previously impervious gold and silver. This severing of the innumerable threads has surprisingly little effect on my confinement, however, for most of the binding is tangled up in the branches close by me.

At most, his slashing of the threads is simply freeing me up only a little, briefly granting the false hope that I might be able to save myself after all.

The truth is, it's not anywhere near enough to save me.

I momentarily consider twisting off a branch, using it to strike out at Uncle as soon as he prepares to strike me down. Maybe I could take him by surprise, perhaps somehow holding him back long enough to make him see reason.

Perhaps.

The only thing I have on me bearing any resemblance to a weapon is the pine stone I carry in my girdle's pouch.

Now if I had a sling...

If I could use it as adeptly as David...

Despite the utter uselessness of it all, I swiftly unclasp the catch on the pouch, reach in and grasp and pull out the stone, sending sweetmeats scattering everywhere.

Then with my arm outstretched, I whirl around as sharply and as violently as I'm able, releasing the stone from my grasp only as I reach the point where I feel sure it must be aimed directly at my uncle's forehead...

*

The sword whirls through the air, heading directly towards me.

I try to duck to one side; but the binding threads are still too tight, too restraining to allow such ease of movement.

*

# Chapter 30

There's a clunk, a snap, as the whirling sword's hilt catches on an overhanging branch.

It's not enough of a blow to prevent the spinning blade's swift approach. Yet it knocks the sword slightly off target.

Instead of splitting my forehead open, the blade carves its way into the tangled branches and threads off to my side. The branches bend, absorbing most of the impact, bringing the sword's rapid revolving to a halt. It falls for a while under its own weight before it too is caught up in the tangled wickerwork.

Why did uncle throw it at me? Had he really been so frustrated by his slow advance that he'd irately flung it at me in the hope he'd strike me dead from afar?

Glancing up from observing the sword's fall, I'm expecting to see Uncle still fighting his way towards me, perhaps now using his dagger to force his way through the branches.

Instead, he stands limply before me, his head back as if asleep, his body supported by a weave of interlocking branches and the red threads of his gown, the latter spilling about him like so many veins.

The pine stone must have struck his forehead, knocking him out.

Is that why his sword had whirled towards me so unexpectedly?

As he had violently slashed at a branch, had the sword flown from his grasp when the stone had rendered him unconscious?

But...how?

How had such a small, relatively light pine stone brought him down so easily?

Was it because he was already in such a blood-surging rage, already exhausted by his exertions to reach me despite the fierce resistance of the protecting branches, that the stone was little more than the last straw?

But then, how had I managed to strike him so precisely in the right spot, when I had thrown the stone wildly, almost blindly?

By chance alone; that can be the sole answer.

Now, too, thanks to Uncle's sword, I have a chance to cut myself clear of these irritating threads.

*

With my dress already nothing more than rags, I easily make my way back towards the slumped figure of my uncle.

Just as easily as I hack through any branches barring my way, I could now easily rid myself of my uncle.

It is such a profound temptation...

The stone?

What happened to the pine stone?

Glancing down around Uncle's feet, I see that it has fallen to the ground, slipping through the gaps in the branches.

Instead of using the sharpened blade to cut Uncle's throat, then, I slash at the branches until I can reach down and retrieve the stone. I slip it back into my girdle's pouch even as I rise to stand up straight once more.

It is only then that I see them.

Uncle's men.

And they have completely surrounded me.

*

# Chapter 31

Not one of the Peacock Guard makes any attempt to approach me.

Maybe they think that, if they do, I could take Uncle's life in an instant.

Maybe, though, that is what they want me to do; it would free them of their oath of allegiance to him.

It would be a sure and brutal way of declaring myself their new queen.

How long have they been here, watching me?

Watching _us_?

Were they watching when they saw me fight the temptation to end his life?

I have shown him mercy; I cannot go back on that stance now.

I toss the sword aside, so that it slips once more into the dark embrace of the undergrowth.

Turning about, I begin to follow the direction I had been taking earlier in pursuit of the unicorn. This time, my tattered dress isn't elaborate enough to hold me back or constrain me in any way.

My hound proudly follows at my heels as, without hesitation, I draw up close to and confront the section of the circling men who might yet make a grab for me and hold me.

Rather, they stand aside.

They let me through.

They even deferentially bow their heads.

I think, then, that they must respect my decision to grant my uncle mercy.

*

A little farther into the forest, I once again come across the monkey, who must have gone on ahead while I was trapped amongst the branches.

Did he see where the unicorn went?

I try to ask him this question through a series of actions and expressions, but it's all of no use; I either can't make him understand or he doesn't know the answer.

We've picked up another familiar creature too, for the magpie watches over us at a distance, flitting from tree to tree high above us. As he moves from light to dark, he seems to change shape, briefly becoming an entirely different creature as first one section of his form seamlessly blends with his background, then another.

There's another bird, too, this time a heron rather than the hawk.

And I swear upon the presence of the heron, a bird wise above all others, that I _shall_ find the unicorn.

*

The hound is diligently seeking out useful scents, yet even she remains directionless, unable to detect the fragrances of our prey.

Maybe the unicorn has a scent unlike any other animal; for who's to say if it is indeed an animal as we know them? It could be as sweet smelling as any flower, any rose.

As if imitating the hound rather than humans, as they more usually do, the monkey also begins to exaggeratedly sniff at the air. I chuckle at his presumption until, suddenly, he darts off excitedly, as if he's caught a scent too faint for my hound to catch.

It's only as the monkey elatedly buries himself amongst a sweet smelling clump of carnations that it dawns upon me that his purpose is far more frivolous than that of my dear hound. Despite the flowers' wild nature, as the monkey plays amongst them they release clouds of the most entrancing fragrances.

I wasn't aware that carnations could grow wild like this.

Then again, it's said they grew where the Virgin's tears fell as the flesh, the _carnis_ , of the lamb was sacrificed.

In this way, they are the faith, hope, and _caritas_ of Mary.

The unicorn, I recall, had worn a crown of spikey holly. Plucking a number of carnations, I begin to weave them into a chaplet, a new yet equally fitting crown that the unicorn might wear when I find it.

As I weave them together, the picked flowers seem strangely more alive than ever. Resisting my intentions, taking on a life of their own.

They grow, they elongate, they intertwine again and again without my help.

In my hands now, I hold a unicorndoll; but this time, it's one made of the sweetest smelling carnations.

*

# Chapter 32

'Well well; what _do_ we have here?'

My uncle.

He's behind me, but I recognise his voice. The sneering tone.

When I turn about to face him, I see that he's mounted upon his horse, as are the handful of men with him.

Obviously, unlike his soldiers earlier, _he_ wasn't prepared to let me go.

He probably interpreted my mercy as a weakness; a sure sign that I wasn't fit to rule. And that he should rule in my stead.

Maybe I should have killed him.

He wouldn't be fit to rule then, would he?

'Hah; you have _another_ toy I see,' he adds mockingly, drawing everyone's attention to the corn doll I'm holding.

His men laugh.

I suppose it does make me look so incredibly childish; standing here in the woods wearing nothing but a tattered dress, and playing with a toy unicorn.

Uncle likes to hear his men laugh at his witticisms.

'I don't think _this_ is the unicorn we've been seeking, my dear,' he says scathingly. 'Unless I'm mistaken, of course, and there's some magical stone lying beneath your _captured_ unicorn's horn.'

The guards laugh again, even though Uncle's comment can hardly be regarded as humorous in any way.

No doubt they feel they have to laugh.

His own referral to the stone must remind him of the way I had brought him low. He consciously rubs the reddened mark in the centre of his forehead, where my own stone had thankfully stuck him.

Ironically, it reminds me so much of the rubied flesh of the unicorn, at the point where her horn had yet to grow.

'Just what kind of stone was it that you threw at me?' Uncle asks with a puzzled, curious frown. 'It hardly struck me – a blow as light as a feather – and yet it completely stole away my consciousness!'

'I'm sorry,' I say truthfully. 'I had nothing else to hand, and I simply hoped I could stop you, calm you down, so I could explain–'

_'Explain_?' Uncle snaps irately. 'You try and kill me, as David so ridiculously killed Goliath; and you see that as a means to _explain_?'

'If I had wanted to kill you, I could have done so easily when I held your sword while you lay helpless before me,' I sternly point out.

I'm managing to sound far more confident than I actually feel.

Like my uncle, I can't explain how the pine stone had come to knock him out.

I'd thought, maybe, that it had been far harder and heavier than I'd realised.

And yet Uncle claims it struck him no harder than a bird's feather would have!

So how _could_ it have rendered him unconscious?

It doesn't make any sense at all.

Unless...unless the stone has somehow retained powers gained from the fabulously peaceful garden.

But...what _kind_ of powers?

As I try to make sense of all this all this, I realise I've instinctively reached into my girdle's pouch, grasping the stone still lying there. Its feathered facets still remain tightly closed, its weight – as Uncle claimed – quite negligible.

A stone...a _magical_ stone.

The most _precious_ stone.

For what could be more precious than a stone capable of magic?

As I think this out, I'm not really conscious of my actions; and yet I see now that I've withdrawn the stone, that I'm holding it close to the unicorndoll.

Close to the base of the horn, where – we're told – the most precious stone of the unicorn lies.

Uncle and his men are only taking marginal interest in me; they're far more engrossed in making jokes at my expense, about my 'dolly' and it surely being 'time for bed'.

With a deft twisting and twirl of my fingers, I part the strands forming the unicorn's forehead, making enough space there to slip in the tightly closed pine stone.

Yet even as I ensure it is safely nestled there, the feathered scales are at last opening like a blossoming flower, releasing fertilised seeds that quickly spread throughout the many interwoven layers forming the doll.

The corn doll feels suddenly, unaccountably, heavier, prompting me to grasp it now in both hands.

More shockingly, the strands of its body shiver, as if somehow set in motion by the light, internal shower of seeds. They throb now, somehow quickened by the potential life lying in the seeds, a pulse running through them as blood courses through veins.

There's also a beat; the beat of a heart.

*

# Chapter 33

_Impossible_.

A pine stone cannot simply grant a _doll_ life!

And yet like blood flowing from that beating heart, it is now a bright glow that spreads and runs along the weaving threads of wood, bringing a semblance of life to the veins of a yellowed skin.

The rapid changes taking place in the unicorndoll are now so obvious that even Uncle and his men are staring in wonder, perhaps even fear. For it is swiftly increasing in size, as its individual strands merge, soften and blanch, taking on the tones of an angelically glistening white.

For me, it now feels as if I've been given a squirming piglet to hold.

I bend towards the ground with the intention of placing the doll upon the floor; but it is now growing so quickly that its own legs are now long enough to support it. Its expanding body forces my hands apart, such that I have no choice but to let it go.

It is living flesh, it is _carnis_.

Flesh as purely white as the sacrificial lamb.

The carnations curl about its magnificently elongated horn.

And a living unicorn stands before me.

*

# Chapter 34

'Well done, well done!'

My uncle is the only one congratulating me.

Everyone else has slid from the backs of their mounts to kneel upon the ground, looking on in awe at the magnificent, eagerly snorting creature pawing the earth.

'I _always_ knew your remarkable innocence would accomplish what my bravest knights couldn't!'

He stretches out a hand towards me, a clear indication that he wants me to draw close, to bring my prize towards him.

I don't really know, however, if she _is_ my prize. Or if she will obey me in anyway.

I cautiously reach out to touch, to caress, her brightly glistening forehead. She doesn't even flinch, let alone make any attempt to back away from me.

She's so trusting; so _innocent_.

'Come, come!' Uncle says excitedly. 'We will take it back now, and announce throughout the land that your mother is finally to be cured of her illness!'

My mother.

Yes, that's what all this seeking of this fabulous creature was all about, wasn't it?

Naturally, I want her to recover from her 'illness': how could I not want such a thing?

Yet now that I see this truly blameless animal in the flesh, how can I contemplate her sacrifice, even for the benefit of my mother?

There is no guile in her eyes, no malice, not even the merest thought or knowledge of it.

'How can we be sure my mother will be cured?' I ask doubtfully. 'How can we take life when we have no guarantee it serves our purpose?'

'How do we know _anything_ works?' Uncle assuredly replies. 'Because we have it on good authority that it is just so. It has been set down as the truth by those whom we must always trust; otherwise our lives would be full of nothing but doubt and conflict.'

'The effects of the horn _alone_ are miraculous,' I object, staring in wonder at the carnation garlanded horn. 'Maybe if Mother is merely touched by–'

'You _know_ she's far too ill for this!' Uncle says with an air of exasperation, the implication being that I'm being childish once more, perhaps even selfish and uncaring for my mother's wellbeing. 'It _has_ to be the precious stone!'

'But the stone was...'

Why did I place the stone within the doll? Could the stone have worked its magic and cured Mother without any need to bring the unicorn to life?

Yet how ridiculous would it have looked to claim a simple pine stone possessed miraculous powers?

No one would have believed it.

Not even me; it's only now that I realise it's the precious stone, for I've seen it grant the spirit of life to what was nothing more than a corn doll.

How do I retrieve it now from living flesh?

'We must all make our sacrifices, for the greater good,' Uncle says now, doubtlessly having seen the concern and confusion flashing across my face.

'Then you mean to kill–'

'Would you prefer your mother the queen to die?'

Uncle delivers his statement with elements of horror and disgust.

It works well on the attendant guards, who appear every bit as scandalised as Uncle had doubtlessly intended.

Despite the outraged looks, I try to hold my ground.

'But such a wondrous creature surely–'

'Do you know just how many horses have died in your father's campaigns? How many _men_ have died?'

Once again, Uncle's remark plays well with the soldiers, who nod along in agreement that this is an incontestable truth.

'But the only alternative was that our lands were invaded–'

'So you're saying that sacrifices _do_ have to be made?' Uncle rudely interrupts yet again. 'Just not your own precious horse! Even at the expense of your _Mother's_ life!'

I probably never had any real hope of winning over the hearts of the men, but uncle's hard reasoning is destroying even the faintest hopes I might have had. He's systematically destroying any argument I make in my efforts to save the unicorn's life.

Uncle is once more holding out a hand, declaring his intent to take the unicorn.

'It is the _horse's_ life; or your _mother's_!' he adamantly declares.

*

# Chapter 35

'It's not a horse; it's a _unicorn_.'

Uncle dismisses my point with a shrug of his shoulders and an expression that asks, 'what's the difference?'

I'm already heading towards him; I've already conceded that my mother's life is the most important thing to me.

The unicorn innocently accompanies me, calmly walking alongside me even though I'm exerting no more control over her than gently caressing the side of her elegantly bowing neck.

With an abrupt wave of a hand, Uncle orders two men to approach me. As if they've done this many times before – perhaps to bring back a wayward horse, or maybe even a wild one – the men are already fastening a number of belts together to construct a crude bridle.

'There's no need for that,' I insist. 'She seems to follow me wher–'

'But _you_ won't be coming with us,' Uncle declares adamantly, indicating with a more forceful wave of his hand that the men should slip the bridle over the unicorn's muzzle.

'But you asked me to return!' I point out in astonishment.

'That was before we all witnessed your treachery, first to me and then the queen; wishing her _dead_!'

'Why would I wish my own mother dead?' I gasp in horror at his outrageous accusation.

Yet even as I say this, I see on the men's faces that they believe, too, that they witnessed my unconscionable betrayal of my mother the queen.

'It may well be that, at some point,' Uncle says, taking on a conciliatory tone, 'your mother eventually forgives your indiscretions and allows you to return from exile.'

The men have the unicorn under their control now. She strangely makes no attempt to resist. She trusted me, and I have delivered her up to those who would harm her.

'How can I have any faith that you intend to cure my mother?' I demand, prepared if necessary to make a grab for the unicorn's bridle, in the forlorn hope that I might yet swiftly ride away upon her.

'You ask _me_ this?' Uncle snarls, as if appalled at my impertinent suggestion. 'When I, all along, have been the one seeking the unicorn to affect a cure for her? _I_ am not the one speaking disloyally today!'

'Then for the all-embracing love of my mother and the people of her lands, I beg you to pledge on the wisdom of the heron that you will prevent her death!'

The heron stands close by now. Usually, its spirit flies high above the world to avoid earthly disorder.

'I swear on the noble heron,' Uncle declares confidently if a touch disgruntledly, 'that I will do everything within my power to save the life of our glorious queen.'

*

Uncle grins as triumphantly as any fox with its still-hot prey caught between its teeth.

He rides off, the unicorn faithfully trotting bedside him, the men devotedly following on behind

The unicorn doesn't look back.

I thought she might; I'd _hoped_ she might.

Then again, I'm so glad she didn't.

For how could I look into those innocently trusting eyes without feeling the two-edged sharpness of the betrayer's dagger deep down in my soul?

I weep bitterly as I stand amongst the sweetly fragrant carnations.

What _have_ I done?

I feel dead inside.

As I've been hollowed out as expertly as we take the kernel from its shell.

*

# Chapter 36

The light has gone out within me; I sense it as surely as I can see that, left alone in these woods to fend for myself, I will surely die.

I still have my hound with me, of course. The monkey also appears determined to remain as my companion. Neither, however, have been trained to hunt, let alone to safely dismember and prepare any catch.

My dress is now little more than rags, the broken weave of my clothing hanging about me as so many severed threads. To be wearing my nun's habit in its place would be a blessing, for its warm if coarse wool would at least offer some protection from the cold.

My legs hang below the hanging shreds of cloth like whitened, bent stalks, unfit for the purpose of walking through a cold, unforgiving landscape of hollows, hillocks and half buried logs.

To make things worse, the light is rapidly fading.

The cool air will soon be bitterly cold.

The things set to trip me up underfoot will be nigh invisible.

*

Although tempted to take a rest, I trudging on through the swiftly oncoming darkness, hoping any time now to come across a section of the river we'd camped alongside earlier. I'm already thirsty, a thirst that will only grow worse if I settle down to sleep.

Food, I trust, will be available amongst the roots of the plants, or hanging from the overhead boughs; not that I'm sure which is safe to eat, and which might strike me painfully dead in seconds.

After a while of aimless walking, I have to admit that either the river lies far farther behind me than I'd anticipated, or – more likely – at some point it's curled back upon itself, ensuring that our paths are fated to never cross. Then again, it's just as likely that I'm the one at fault, have wandered off in the wrong direction.

It's only as I lose all hope that I will find the river that, to my surprise, I come across cultivated and neatly furrowed land.

Seeking out a farmhouse where I might plead for shelter, I look off to the farthest edges of the field; but, strangely, the house I see is plumped firmly in the very centre of the field's evenly ploughed rows.

The building is a ramshackle affair, with nothing but a roof of tied cloth, rather than thatch or slate. Moreover, what might once have been intended to be walls of wattle and daub remain uncovered, the slats so loosely woven they're in danger of slipping, creating even larger gaps between them.

As I set out across the field towards the house, even the monkey looks at me curiously, perhaps wondering what I could possibly hope to find amongst this ruin.

Well, shelter for a start, I think.

A roof and walls offering protection from the wind and any possible rain.

Drawing closer, I begin to take in more details about the place.

Details that jolt certain memories.

I recognise this place.

It's the crude lodging house I'd help the nuns construct.

But I've no idea how it came to be here, in the very middle of a deserted field.

*

# Chapter 37

Stepping inside the crude shelter, I'm almost expecting the nuns to be laid asleep everywhere about the floor, just as I'd left them the night I'd crept away.

But wait; how long ago was that?

Is it really only around a day or so ago?

There's no bedding left here either. No sign of any ashes or cinders where we'd lit a fire in the dwelling's very centre.

Perhaps, then, this isn't the shelter we'd put together to house us for the night.

It's only as my eyes become accustomed to the darkened interior that I realise I'm not alone after all.

Someone sits, quietly and unmoving, against the almost circular wall.

'I'm sorry,' I say, realising I've blundered unannounced into someone's home, no matter how humble it is, 'I found myself in the most dire circumstances and simply–'

There's no movement or reply from the house's occupant.

Is he dead?

Now I can see him more clearly, his skin appears desiccated, as if he's lain here like this a long time.

His skin is yellow, partially rotted away.

No; it's _not_ skin, thankfully.

It's just woven corn stalks.

It's nothing more than a Corn Mother, resting here to sit out the unproductive seasons.

*

'It's just a doll,' I chuckle in relief, as if to explain my nervousness to the monkey and hound.

'And wasn't the unicorndoll "just a doll"?' the doll says.

*

# Chapter 38

This Corn Mother is far cruder in its looks than the elegant Corn Maiden I came across last night.

Her voice is croakier too; older.

She rises to her feet as if suffering from aged bones, weak muscles.

Her face has no detail at all; she could be the corn doll I'd seen the old woman constructing from the last stands of the straw.

The I remember; the field I just walked across had no stubble.

Rather, it had been freshly ploughed, as if already preparing for the new season.

Why would the farmer do that at this late time in the year?

'Forgive me for my tardiness,' the Corn Mother apologises. 'The flesh is willing, but the spirit is – well, no longer within me, I fear.'

'The spirit of the fields? Surely it can't already have been ploughed back into the land?'

She shakes her head sadly, the looser strands of straw flowing about her head like a poor imitation of hair.

'There shall be no crops this year, I'm afraid; for my spirt has been sold.'

'Sold? Who would sell their spirt? And who would buy it, and why?'

Her woven brow creases into what could be puzzled, perhaps even irate frown.

'You ask _me_ this?' she says forlornly.

*

'Do...do you know whatever happened to the Corn Maiden?' I ask unsurely, reasoning that this woman – so similar in the way she is a corn doll granted life, at the least – might have some inkling as to why I find myself being approached by these weirdest of creatures.

'Ah, then you _do_ not recognise me?' she replies, her sadness even deeper.

'You? _You_ were the Corn Maiden? But how is it possible for you to have aged so quickly? It's only last night that I came across you as a beautiful lady.'

'Last _night_?' she guffaws hoarsely, bitterly. 'Last _season_ more like, my dear!'

'A whole season ago? No; that's _not_ possible! It was only last _night_!'

'In terms of our soul, how long is anything when compared to the times of our flesh?'

'Then...if a whole season has gone – is my mother cured? Can I return to the palace?'

Once again, I receive only a sad shake of her head.

'Your mother is long dead, I'm afraid; there was nothing to save her, the poison your uncle administered being far too strong for her to fight.'

'Dead? But...'

Suddenly, I feel as if all life has abruptly left me, leaving me entirely empty, as hollowed out inside as the Corn Mother.

It feels, too, like _my_ spirt has left _me_.

I'd hoped Mother might recover, especially as I'd managed to find the unicorn.

But _everything_ I did counted for nothing.

'Then the unicorn was sacrificed for nothing?'

The Corn Mother nods in agreement.

'I'm afraid so. You were tricked; by a man who could be the Devil himself!'

I'm distraught by my mother's loss. But the loss of the unicorn is strangely also intensely painful, as if it's yet another part of me that I've lost.

And there was no reason for the unicorn to die.

It died for no real purpose.

Worse still, I was responsible for its death, as I had handed her over to Uncle, knowing he would kill her.

'But wait – why would Uncle do that? Why would he want to keep mother alive if he really was the one who had poisoned her?'

'He'd planned to become king once he had killed her; yet while she lay dying, he realised he wouldn't be allowed his coronation without challenges from equally powerful men. In so far as he already ruled, it was only as regent for a sorely ill queen. And so he hoped he could prolong her life, not cure her. When she died, he knew he would have to keep up the pretence that she still lay ill until he could persuade you to become the authority for his right to remain regent.'

'What? Are you saying my mother was already dead when he came for me?'

She nods again in reply.

'She died as you travelled towards the convent.'

She was already dead even then, and I didn't know it.

Yet...not only did Uncle not tell me this, but he _dismissed_ me, _exiled_ me. So how did he intended to continue his rule if he had planned to use me as a front for his wielding of power?

And why did he need the unicorn when he must have known it was too late to save Mother?

'Why did Uncle take the unicorn?' I ask. 'How can he rule with Mother dead and me exiled?'

'Why, he rules now through the auspices _of_ the unicorn, naturally!' the Corn Mother confidently declared. 'Which you _freely_ granted him!'

*

# Chapter 39

Of course.

Why hadn't I realised this earlier?

Because I'm a fool, who's learned nothing.

I'm just like some obedient little pet, wallowing in the lap of luxury, lying on silk pillows and incapable of thinking for myself.

With the regal and fabulous unicorn in his possession, Uncle can claim his authority is supported by the otherworld itself.

'But...I didn't _know_! I didn't _realise_ ...' I protest weakly, feeling more dejected and ridiculous than ever.

'But...' I continue more brightly as something occurs to me. 'You said he rules _through_ the unicorn?'

As the Corn Mother nods yet again, I'm sure I detect the beginnings of a smile, a mouth, amongst the woven stalks of her face.

'The...the unicorn still _lives_?' I stammer excitedly. 'It didn't _die_?'

'Die? How could such a thing possibly die?' the Corn Mother asks curiously, her smile more obvious than ever.

Are eyes beginning to appear within her face?

'Then I can _rescue_ the unicorn!' I assuredly declare. 'I can become queen and...'

My voice drifts away as reality strikes me.

How can I take on a whole kingdom of soldiers and castles? Uncle now claims to be the rightful ruler, and it is all down to my stupidity.

I had been granted a gift to overthrow him with ease; and I let him trick me into turning it all to his advantage.

Could there be a bigger fool than me?

'Don't despair, child.'

The Corn Mother places a comforting arm about my shoulders.

She feels far warmer than I might have expected,

Far softer too.

And her face...yes, yes – there is _definitely_ more definition there.

'Your sacrifice was not for _personal_ gain,' she points out kindly and wisely. 'You sought only to cure your mother, to raise her once again to the throne so she might take care of her people. And you were prepared to do this even though you were to be exiled.'

I chuckle grimly, ashamedly.

'Still, for all the things I did right; I did far more things wrong. Mother is dead; I failed her. If only I'd set out to find the unicorn earlier...'

The Corn Mother smiles warmly; for yes, her face is readable now.

'The unicorn would _never_ have cured your mother,' she confesses.

*

# Chapter 40

'The books of the wise...' I begin to insist, appalled that so much effort had been spent seeking a false cure for Mother. 'They talked of the precious stone...'

The Corn Mother's smile is gracious, the warmth reflected in her glistening eyes.

Deep within the weave of her body, fresh shoots of growth are forming, working their way out from the interior, spiralling out towards and wrapping themselves about her surface.

'We must always unweave the truth from the lies,' she says. 'And the precious stone would indeed have cured your mother; but only if it were _hers_ , not _yours_.'

'The stone was _mine_?' I ask, puzzled, setting my own mind turning and weaving, trying to think what she might mean. 'The garden...the tree...'

I look to her for confirmation that I am sorting out and preparing the right threads of my thoughts.

Her face, her arms and shoulders now have the true form of a woman. The smoothest skin has formed from the blossoming stems of all manner of tree and bush.

She's a young woman too, not an old one.

'We each have a unicorn, unique to us, if we would only take the trouble to discover it.'

All manner of vibrant plant growth twirls and whirls about her, with leaves and berries and fruit of every colour imaginable, of oak, holly berries, and oranges, weaving in and out of each other, coming together as the most amazing dress, the most gloriously flowing hair.

And briefly, amongst that tumbling waterfall, I glimpse in the very centre of her forehead a pine stone; and then it's gone, for it is a part of her as much as my own precious stone was deemed to be a part of me.

*

I clutch at my throat, as if I'm some poor creature caught in the jaws of a fox.

My necklace of rubies and peals suddenly weighs so heavily about me.

Of what use to me are these stupid stones when I've cast away the most precious one of all?

Wrenching on it as hard as I'm able, I snap the necklace free, throwing it aside so that everything spills outside the humble dwelling, the pearls scattering in the furrows like nothing more than dead and therefore useless seeds.

At least, however, someone sees a use for them, his famed sharp eyesight drawing him here in an instant. In a few quick snaps of his maw, the goat hungrily devours this unexpected feast, his hot blood no doubt already dissolving every gem.

Over the goat's head, a crane swoops in low, elegantly winging her way through the doorway. She lands, gracefully too despite strangely using only one leg.

She keeps her other claw from touching the ground.

Because she holds within it the most precious stone.

*

Is it _my_ stone?

But how could that possibly be?

I look towards the Corn Maiden for an explanation.

'Just as it could never have been your mother's, still less could it have ever been your uncle's.'

With a gracious wave of a hand, she indicates that I should draw closer towards the crane, that I should take the stone as mine.

'He could never hope to wholly retain the necessary tight grasp upon such a treasure, taking it for granted that it was his for the asking. Whereas you had merely put it aside, until you were ready to fulfil its potential.'

I step towards the patiently waiting bird.

She lifts up her claw towards me.

I hold out my own hand, claw-like too in its desperation to hold the precious stone; to ensure I never let go of it again.

The precious stone falls into my grasp; and suddenly, I know exactly what I must do.

*

# Chapter 41

My dress of rags has gone.

I'm wearing the Corn Maiden's dress of woven, verdant growth.

She herself has vanished, as totally and as inexplicably as the first time I met her.

The shelter's body of loose slats and flapping sacking is now completely whole, a pavilion of the most gloriously woven cloth worthy of the finest temple.

When I step outside, the furrowed field has gone. It is now high with golden corn, weaving fluidly back and forth in a light breeze.

With my hand still tightly clasping the precious stones, I run it back and forth through the flowing corn, as if gathering the finest sun-drenched threads.

The threads are fully alive, of course. They have a life of their own now.

They curl, they intertwine, so quickly it is impossible to follow the action of even a single thread, let alone them all at once.

Of course, this is a stone that is meant to be grasped solely by the mind.

And yet in this case I only let go of the stone when it is required by another.

For now it lies at the base of the horn of my unicorn.

*

# Chapter 42

The Corn Mother had been right when she claimed the spirit hadn't been returned to the land.

Everywhere I ride, I come across nothing but a wasteland. A countryside desolate and bare of crops, devoid of fruit in its orchards, the berries shrivelled even within the wild hedgerows.

Yet everywhere the hooves of my unicorn treads, life begins to return.

Shoots at last appear within the previously dried furrows of the fields.

Blossom blooms, and in a moment is succulent fruit, juicy berries.

The people who had toiled so hard at the soil to no avail can at last eat, feed their children, their starving herds.

And as we pass these people, everyone stares our way; and they bow their heads, and kneel.

And they take up their hoes and their pitchforks; but it's not to till and tend the land.

It is to fall in behind us, as a simmering army grows, seeing a chance for change in the way they live their lives.

*

I should be pleased.

This, surely, is my only chance to overthrow my uncle.

And yet...what right do I have to demand these people sacrifice themselves for my gain?

Raising a hand to call a halt to our steady advance on the capital, I turn about to address them all as loudly and as calmly as I'm able.

'I thank you from my heart for your display of the most sublime loyalty!' I cry out authoritatively. 'But when we are faced with the heavily armed and armoured men of my uncle's army, I fear that many of you will die; and for no reason or purpose. I cannot countenance this; and so I ask you to return to your homes, for this is my fight and my fight alone. Yet I promise you that in return for your offer of support, I will always endeavour to ensure I rule with prudence, justice, fortitude, and temperance; and faith, hope, and _caritas_ will return to our lands.'

The crowd standing before me remains as silent as they'd fallen when I'd asked them to still their excited chatter so I could address them.

Then, from somewhere amongst them, a woman yells back, her voice loud if coarse and old.

'Sometimes, a sacrifice must be made for the greater good!'

As she finishes, the silence returns, agonising in its completeness, its stillness.

Then there are odd cries of 'Aye!', of 'She's right!'; though by that, I'm not sure if they are referring to me or the old peasant woman.

The cries increase, until there are so many of them all yelling it is impossible to follow the words of even a single thread of their intent, let alone all of them at once.

Yet not one of them leaves or even makes the slightest move to turn about.

'I am humbled by your loyalty,' I confess.

And as I gratefully bow my head to them, the unicorn naturally bows her head too.

*

# Chapter 43

The ramparts of the walled city loom over us, as steep and unassailable as a cliff.

Even if we knew how to lay a siege to such a stronghold, it would cost us dearly in lives to breach any inch of these walls. They've been designed to hold back a far more experienced army wielding scaling ladders, battering rams, siege towers, and mangonels.

In all the time I lived here, I never concerned myself with discovering any weak spots in its construction, or even any secret entrance or tunnels. My father always assured me that we would always be safe within our castle.

And looking at it now, from the vantage point of the leader of a besieging army, I can well understand his confidence. Each tower alone presents a formidable obstruction. The gateway, with its four, interconnected towers, is a castle in miniature.

Despite being confronted by this apparently impregnable edifice, no one deserts me. They fan out behind me, taking up position in lines running parallel to the edges of the moat, while keeping far enough back to remain out of range of any bowmen.

From the castle's uppermost tower, the blood red flag of my uncle snaps angrily in the wind.

*

# Chapter 44

The huge gates swing open, the portcullis rises; the drawbridge lowers into place, bridging the moat.

Behind me, my army of the people cheer, seeing this as a sign that the castle has surrendered.

I'm not so hopeful, remaining wary; I've seen other besieging armies taken unawares by such a ploy, only to suffer the brutal onslaught of a sallying cavalry charge. And even now, listening intently, I can hear coming from deep behind the walls the heavy clink of shields, swords and harnesses.

And in a sudden rush, the heavily armoured men of the Peacock Guard gallop hard and fast across the drawbridge.

*

Despite this – or rather, because they are blissfully unaware that the Peacock Guard long ago pledged its loyalty to my uncle – the people cheer ever louder, believing this is the royal guardians' way of accepting me as their new ruler.

Then I realise that their loud cries are matched by similar yells of celebration coming from within the walled city. Moreover, on the castle's uppermost tower, the red flag of my uncle is being lowered, a white one being hastily hoisted up to take its place.

But it is not a flag of capitulation: it is the White Lilly of my mother, of the queen.

Similarly, the first rows of the approaching column of Peacock Guards give way to further rows of Guardians of the Lilly, each man proudly wearing his Lily Cloak once more. And it is the captain of the queen's guard who approaches me first, bearing a glistening lily-petal cloak he drapes around my shoulders, a symbolic act that shows he recognises me as queen.

More surprisingly, the captain of the Peacock Guards also draws close, his head bowed in shame as he addresses me.

'My Lady, it is well known that the peacock cries out in fear when it awakes, because it has dreamed that it has lost its beauty. In our case, I'm afraid it was no dream; we did indeed lose the good qualities with which God has endowed our souls.'

With his head still bowed, he slips off his golden helmet, with its proud uraeus of a graceful-necked peacock. Pulling his mount closer to my unicorn, he stands up high in his saddle, placing the helmet of kingship about my head.

So, I am now king _and_ queen!

Throughout the streets, throughout the palace, I can already hear the relieved laughter and loud, happy chatter of the townspeople.

*

# Chapter 45

Although the guards rush about the palace, seeking out my uncle, it takes quite a while to find him.

He's eventually found in the crypt. Laid out peacefully upon a plinth.

Apparently, he's taken an incredibly large dose of the poison he'd used to kill my mother.

*

I need air.

It suddenly seems stifling in my bedroom, though I can't understand why.

Knowing there is no one nearby to wake, I rise from my bed, making my way out to breath in the clearer, fresher air out on my balcony.

Everywhere about me, there lies a pure silence.

I stare intently out into the darkness – and there I see why I have been jolted awake.

My uncle; he's out there, slinking off into that rapidly embracing darkness

Like the fox, grinning triumphantly, his catch still firmly held between his teeth.

It wasn't a poison, then, that he'd taken.

Just something to put him into such a deep sleep it was akin to death in its stillness, the slowness of the beating of his heart, his breathing.

I should cry out; sound the alarm.

But I have shown him mercy once before; I prefer not to go back on that stance now.

I must not release my grasp of the stone, for it is far more precious to me than vengeance.

And yet...I fear for those this cunning fox has yet to come across.

So I warn you; beware, for he is not to be trusted.

End

If you enjoyed reading this book, you might also enjoy (or you may know someone else who might enjoy) these other books by Jon Jacks.

The Caught – The Rules – Chapter One – The Changes – Sleeping Ugly

The Barking Detective Agency – The Healing – The Lost Fairy Tale

A Horse for a Kingdom – Charity – The Most Beautiful Things (Now includes The Last Train)

The Dream Swallowers – Nyx; Granddaughter of the Night – Jonah and the Alligator

Glastonbury Sirens – Dr Jekyll's Maid – The 500-Year Circus – The Desire: Class of 666

P – The Endless Game – DoriaN A – Wyrd Girl – The Wicker Slippers – Gorgesque

Heartache High (Vol I) – Heartache High: The Primer (Vol II) – Heartache High: The Wakening (Vol III)

Miss Terry Charm, Merry Kris Mouse & The Silver Egg – The Last Angel – Eve of the Serpent

Seecrets – The Cull – Dragonsapien – The Boy in White Linen – Porcelain Princess – Freaking Freak

Died Blondes – Queen of all the Knowing World – The Truth About Fairies – Lowlife

Elm of False Dreams – God of the 4th Sun – A Guide for Young Wytches – Lady of the Wasteland

The Wendygo House – Americarnie Trash – An Incomparable Pearl – We Three Queens – Cygnet Czarinas

Memesis – April Queen, May Fool – Sick Teen – Thrice Born – Self-Assembled Girl – Love Poison No. 13

Whatever happened to Cinderella's Slipper? – AmeriChristmas – The Vitch's Kat in Hollywoodland

Blood of Angels, Wings of Men – Patchwork Quest – The World Turns on A Card – Palace of Lace

The Wailing Ships – The Bad Samaritan – The 13th Month – The Silvered Mare – SpinDell

Swan Moon

