By Michael Dolan

According to legend, the last herd of unicorns had retreated to a fantastic haven as their numbers dwindled. They had braved the dark interiors of the sunless forests, forded perilous lava rivers, and crossed desolate deserts to reach a majestic mountain range where they could continue living in peace.

Nathan was starting to think the legends were full of it.

He had searched Mt. Weryuat all day, with no evidence of unicorns to show for it. By the pale moonlight, he found a cave to camp in before leaving the next morning. As he ducked inside, the light shimmered. He glimpsed strange shadows ahead before an unseen force struck him square in the chest, knocking him out.

Another strike woke him up. This time it was just daylight, so it only made him blink instead of pass out for a few more hours. He was still in the cave—but not as alone as he hoped.

An old woman stood deeper inside, leaning on an enormous war hammer almost her height. She looked strong and healthy despite her age, with shock-white hair braided over one shoulder and a face that said, The only thing that still brings me joy in life is swinging this hammer, so please give me an excuse to do it again. What her face literally spoke was “You’re awake. Good. Now get out.”

Nathan groaned. “Are you the one who hit me?” He rubbed his chest. “An apology would be nice.”

The woman rolled her eyes. “For taking it easy on you? You should be thanking me.”

“Smacking me with a hundred-pound hammer is taking it easy?”

“A stabbing can be arranged, too.” The woman’s eyes flicked to her side and Nathan’s followed. A shadow formed behind her, bowing low in the recesses of the cavern. It stepped beside the woman and straightened, revealing an equine form topped by a glimmering, pearl-white horn.

“Is that…”

“This is Betsy,” the woman said, interrupting Nathan. “She’ll be your stabber today.”

Nathan tried to hoist himself up but collapsed, his body still recovering from the smackdown. “No, please, I just… That’s why I came all this way.”

“For a stabbing?”

“No! For the unicorns.”

“Ah, so I was right.” The woman hefted her hammer with an excited gleam in her eye.

“Wait, no.” Nathan’s mind scrambled. “My name’s Nathan.”

The woman blinked. “Okay.”

“Okay…” Nathan figured more talking meant less pummeling. “Um, you told me the unicorn’s—Betsy’s—name, but I still don’t know yours.” Wincing, he pushed himself up. “I don’t want to keep thinking of you as ‘Woman with the Hammer.’”

She sighed. “Courtneigh.”

“Court…neigh? Like Courtney or…?”

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is you’re here to steal the unicorns, and I’m here to protect them.” Courtneigh’s eyes narrowed in that hammer-swinging way again.

“Not steal.” Nathan’s chest ached with each breath. “Plead.”

Courtneigh’s eyes softened to more of a maybe-I-won’t-use-this-hammer-maybe-I-will look.

Nathan pushed through the pain to tell his story. “My family… my village. Something is infecting everyone. I’ve heard the legends about unicorns healing sickness and injuries. So, I thought… they might be able to help us.” He let out a long wheeze that degenerated into a coughing spell before holding Courtneigh’s gaze. “Pretty please?”

Courtneigh opened her mouth but stopped as Betsy clopped toward Nathan. As she approached him, Nathan wondered if Courtneigh had whacked his head for good measure: The unicorn’s horn grew at an angle, and her back legs were slightly shorter than the front ones.

“What’s she doing?” Nathan asked.

“I think she might be healing you.”

“Really?” As the unicorn lowered her head, Nathan reached toward the horn.

Courtneigh smacked Nathan’s hand away so hard it felt like his arm would pop out. Nathan screamed. Courtneigh bellowed. The unicorn sort of yodeled. The cacophony echoed off the walls.

Courtneigh’s eyes flashed. “Never touch a unicorn’s horn!”

“I thought that’s how it healed!” Nathan cried.

“The stabby part? That’s literally the opposite of healing.”

After a few awkward moments and shifty glances from all parties, the unicorn again leaned over Nathan, now cradling his hand as well as his chest.

“Is she going to heal me?” whimpered Nathan.

“Yes, but you may not like it.”

Before Nathan could ask what she meant, Betsy tilted her head. Nathan glimpsed a silvery drop descend, catching the sunlight in a rainbow of colors that fell to his shirt and instantly cured his pain. It would have been beautiful if it had been a teardrop instead of milky drool.

Despite the remedy’s source, Nathan couldn’t deny its effectiveness: He could breathe again, and his hand resumed its non-squashed state. He stood up and wiped away the drippings that remained.

“Is there something… wrong with her?” Nathan asked.

“Wow.” Courtneigh shook her head. “No ‘thank you’ or anything?”

“Sorry, yes! Thank you, Betsy!”

Betsy inclined her head gracefully and smiled, revealing off-center buck teeth.

“But, yes,” Courtneigh continued. “The last unicorn herd means a lot of inbreeding, unfortunately. She’s the only one left, and the drool’s healing properties don’t work on her.”

“What does that mean?”

“One day, no more unicorns. And I’ll be out of a job.” Courtneigh sighed. “The pay’s not great, but the health benefits have been spectacular.”

Nathan had been so concerned with his own quest that he hadn’t thought about the state of the unicorns. “Believe me, I know the world’s scary these days, but you can still do good.” He held out his formerly squashed hand as an example. “And it’s easier to fight fear when you’re not doing it alone.”

“What do you mean?”

“I need to bring a bunch of this drool back home, and I didn’t pack any buckets.” He shrugged. “Who knows, maybe all she needs is some fresh air.”

“We have been getting pretty pale in here,” Courtneigh mused. She and Betsy exchanged a glance. “We accept.”

“Great,” said Nathan. “I guess we have a few legends to rewrite.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Michael Dolan’s short stories have appeared in Splickety, Havok, and The Norwegian American. When he’s not writing marketing materials, he can be found hiking, reading, gaming, or writing some more. He and his family live in the Pacific Northwest.

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