Unicorn Blue

I had upset my mother. She was suddenly aware she wasn't getting
any
younger and wanted to sell her house and move in with me. I told
her
point blank, it wasn't on. I didn't tell her I didn't want her or
anything unkind
like that, but I certainly wasn't prepared to give up my job to look
after her
if she became unable to care for herself, which was exactly the reason
why
she thought it such a good idea. She wept; I felt guilty - as she
intended - and
I left in a huff.
My cottage is small, thatched, inconvenient and just far enough
away
from civilization to be appealing to anyone not in their dotage.
Situated at
the end of two miles of unmade lane I can be absolutely confident that
people
who call really do want to see me.
`You wouldn't like to be out there all day on your own while I'm
at
work,' I said. Your friends wouldn't drop in for coffee like they do
here,
and you'd hate not having central heating.'
`Well, sell your cottage and come and live with me then,' she
said,
`You'll never find a more convenient house than this.' It's on the
bus
route, close to the shops, doctor within easy reach...' She went on to
list many
more conveniences.
`But I like my cottage,' I protested.
`And you don't like my house, is that it?'
Whatever I said I couldn't win, so I left with anger surging up inside
me.
That night I lay hot and uneasy in my bed turning over the events
of
the day, asking myself one question after another, trying to see
my
mother's point of view; coming to the same conclusion each time I
thought
things through. She couldn't expect me to stop my life, for her, it
wouldn't be
fair. I was born when she and my father had almost given up trying for
a
baby. There was a big age difference and I had a lot of living ahead of
me.
Her life was coming to an end, mine was far from over. I had a
career I enjoyed, with good prospects and though I would make sure she
was
looked after properly when she needed help I would not give up my job,
my
cottage or my freedom on her account, no matter how she whinged.
I tried to sleep. The moon shining through the casement was as bright
as
day, night noises inside and out were louder than I'd ever heard them
and my
brain was so active I couldn't concentrate when I attempted to read
myself
to sleep. I gave up and got out of bed.
I went to the little window under the eaves, rested my hands on
the
broad sill and looked out on the garden, the orchard and the wood
beyond.
The fragrance of bluebells wafted through the half-open window on
the
warm night air, it was intoxicating.
A pony walked into the clearing at the edge of the wood. I
recognised
him as one of the ponies who regularly came there but strangely he was
blue,
every bit as blue as the bluebells all around where he trod.
I had marvelled at the haze of blue hovering about a foot above
the
ground, when I took my customary evening stroll through the wood
and
was moved by its beauty. Bluebells fringed the edge of the wood
and
simulated an embroidered pattern all along under the hawthorn hedge.
It
really was no wonder the silver-grey pony was absorbing blue from
his
surroundings.
As I watched I sensed his agitation. He was unable to settle and
moved backward and forward in the clearing tossing his handsome, blue
head
uneasily. His coat was burnished, his mane formed an intense blue crest
on
his fine muscular neck.
Silver spangled in the moonlight he was incredibly beautiful and
I
wanted to call out, to share this extraordinary vision with someone
before
it disappeared.
The pony came forward to the orchard gate, head held high,ears
pricked, eyes flashing white. He was alert, looking for something
or
someone, - waiting. Impatiently he swished his vibrant blue tail
and
pawed the ground, - with a blue - cloven hoof?
I looked again. I was not mistaken, the hoof was cloven. This was
no
pony. Was it a deer? There were deer in the wood.
One of next door's heifers perhaps? No, this animal had a
horse's
head, of that I was certain; blue, but unmistakably equine.
It wasn't wearing antlers like the fallow deer, or little stubby
horns
like some of the heifers. But wait! It did have horns... No, not
horns;
horn! I was looking at a horse, cloven hooved and with a single horn on
its
brow. `A unicorn!' I breathed. `I thought they were obsolete...
extinct.'
My camera, I must get my camera. I stopped and hurried back to
the
window. I couldn't leave this wonder. It could be the last unicorn
anyone
would ever see; perhaps the first and last.
At that moment something else caught my eye, and I heard a low
whinny as the unicorn greeted her. A pretty girl in a filmy blue,
flowing
dress, - surely not her night attire, - emerged from the wood. Her hair
was
fastened with a band of blue flowers bound with silver. She traversed
a
little ditch, where the vegetation was lush, and raised her pale face
to the
moon. Her arms went round the unicorn's blue, polished neck and she
laid
her face against his.
The unicorn snorted softly and a cloud of blue mist from his
nostrils enveloped them both. The images were no longer clear.
The young woman was apparently in the arms of a blue prince
complete with powdered wig. I peered into the night. He kissed her
lips,
her shoulders, her neck. I was entranced. A fairy tale, and all the
characters
here in my back garden. I breathed in and was more than ever
intoxicated
by the perfume of bluebells.
I glanced at my clock. It was almost four and I hadn't slept. I
thought of my mother again, would I ever be able to make her
understand
that I had to live my own life?
The prince and his lady were holding hands, whispering together
by
the gate, I could see them more clearly now, the cloud was lifting, and
the
unicorn was gone.
Gently the prince turned his lady so she stood with her back to him.
He
was fastening something round her neck, lifting her long hair to
prevent it
becoming entangled. The lady stood on her tippy toes and kissed her
prince
again, they embraced and it was then I realised she wasn't wearing
shoes. She
kissed a finger and pressed it on his lips. As she retraced her steps
she
turned several times to blow kisses and wave.
In the clearing I was surprised to see the mist and the unicorn
had
returned. He was watching the retreating figure of the young
woman.
Suddenly he reared, his forelegs flailing; again I saw the bright horn
on his
brow. Wheeling round he whinnied pitifully, calling out to his love in
the
half light, before he turned and cantered away into the blue mystique
of the
wood.
I returned to my bed, hardly daring to believe what I'd seen. I wanted
to
tell someone, but who would believe me? No one I knew would
accept
my story as anything more than wild imagination; a brain storm
brought
on by concern for my relationship with my mother. Maybe this was
true,
but just the same I had seen the blue pony, the unicorn, the girl and
the
prince, of that I was sure. They had been there by the gate. Was it
magic?
At last I slept. When my alarm woke me an image of the night
before flooded into my mind. I was disturbed by the illusion that I was
no
longer watching from my window, but was there by the gate, as blue as
the
rest of the players in my fantasy.
I drove to work and struggled through the day unable to get the
unicorn
out of my mind. I went home by way of my mother's house knowing
she
was the only person in the world who would listen to my tale and
believe it.
`Have you looked for footprints,' she asked. `Don't you believe
in
magic?'
I didn't hurry to the wood but took my time over my meal,
wondering
what it all meant, almost afraid of what I might find. I considered
the
possibility that my vision had been a dream, after all I wasn't as
tired as I
would expect to be after only two or three hours of shallow
sleep.
As the light was fading I walked out into the garden, across the
orchard
to the gate. I leaned on it and saw only the shape of horse shoes in
the mud.
I climbed over and went further into the clearing where the heavy scent
and
the blue of the bluebells was oppressive. It was a magical place,
bewitched, enchanted, who could say? I stooped and ran my fingers
round
several cloven indentations; too small to have been made by a
wandering
heifer, too large for a deer.
Something glinted among the foliage in the ditch ahead of me. It
was
a little chain. My fingers went to my throat. The gold chain I always
wore
was not there. I had never been parted from it since my father gave it
to
me just before he died. I reached forward and extracted it, from among
the
lush grass and pink ladies' smock in the ditch, muddy but
undamaged.
Two slightly faded, blue roses lay among the bluebell stems; they
were
bound with a single silver thread; and was that a bare footprint there
where
the soil was just moist? It was roughly the same size as mine.
Whether I believe in fairy stories and magic or in living dreams I
am
still not certain; neither am I sure whether I can implicitly trust my
memory?
Just the same I still have two faded flowers tied with a silver
thread;
they are certainly roses and unquestionably blue.

FINIS

1,719 words