The Unicorn

The Unicorn

Midwinter – a frozen landscape. The cold – blinding, bitter, biting. In this bleak northern land, where winter showed no mercy, the world was consumed by a raw, piercing blizzard. Even the animals that inhibit this harsh winter terrain dared not venture out. The fiercest predators – the bears; the badgers; the foxes all slumbered inside their dens. Even the wolf, the king of winter, sought for shelter in their dens. The only sign of life in this unyielding snowstorm were the sturdy evergreens, trees that weather even this cruel season with silent endurance.

A girl struggled along a frozen path. Her hair was light brown; plain and unremarkable. Her skin was almost as pale as the snow, except for her cheeks, which were stung red by the wind.

On the ground she saw a raven's feather, its blackness contrasting sharply against the blinding white snow. It was so dark that it was never-ending, as though it was a shard of a shattered midnight sky. As the girl looked into the glossy darkness, she sighed dreamily. "I wish I had a beau black as a raven."

She continued on. The snowstorm grew steadily harsher. The wind whipped bare branches about in a dance of delirium. The girl toiled wearily to travel through the increasingly thick snowfall. Unable to carry on, she leaned against an unshakable pine giant for support. She panted for a few moments by the tree, its branches a secure fortress that sheltered her from the might of the storm. "I wish I had a beau powerful as a pine tree," She remarked.

She couldn't bring herself to leave the sanctuary of the pine, not when the outside was a blurred white world, merciless and unyielding. The snowstorm knew no boundaries; it obeyed no rules. To the spirit of the storm, she was no different from a tattered leaf: ineffectual; insignificant. Venturing now into the heart of the blizzard was no different from suicide.

In her safe harbour, the girl looked up at the branches of the tree, her guardian from the cold. Two cherries were hanging from the branches, oddly out of place in the middle of this unforgiving storm. They were the most delicate of fruits, their skin ripe and flushed, where the lightest prick would break open the barrier and unleash the flow of juice like a rush of blood. Despite their fragility, they were undamaged by the frost. "I wish I had a beau as red as blood," The girl mused.

The storm showed no signs of ceasing, and, with no alternative, the girl could only trudge on, battered by the strong winds. No sooner had she continued on her way than a youth appeared before her, with hair black as a raven's plumage, a quiet strength akin to the pine, and a ruby brooch as red as the rose in his hand.

The girl gasped, for this was the beau in her daydreams! His hair and the ink-black cape he wore whipped around in the gale, yet he seemed to be unaffected by the fierce winds as he made his way across the snow to her side. The youth took the girl's hand in his pale, slender palm. His fingers, long and graceful as those of a pianist, enveloped her hand. As the youth held her hand, the biting wind around the couple seemed to soften. The girl felt safe with him; this handsome young man she had never seen before in her life, with looks that could rival the immortal beauty of the angels.

The youth held her close to him. His clothes, all black, were thick; his body heat failed to seep through them and warm her numbed body. He sought her other hand; she gladly let him take it. His eyes were so dark, just like the raven's feather, that she wanted to drown in their unending depths. They captivated her. Without breaking her gaze, he presented her with the rose. The moment she took it, a thorn, sharp as Cupid's arrow, pierced her finger. She screamed; died in the snow.

Expressionless, the youth transformed into a unicorn. A magnificent beast, with a coat black as sweetest sin, a horn that glowed scarlet as fresh-fallen blood, ruby-like eyes that glittered with malevolence, and a breathtaking power that made the bitter wind cease before his hooves.