User:Michael Bard/Unicorn Dreams

{{#ifeq: User |User| Unicorn Dreams | Unicorn Dreams}}[[Title::{{#ifeq: User |User| Unicorn Dreams | Unicorn Dreams}}| ]]
{{#ifeq: | |

 {{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}} | | 
   {{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}}} | || 
     Author: [[User:{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}}}|{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}}}]] [[Author::{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}}}| ]]
   }} | 
   {{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}}} | |
     Author: {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}} |
     Author: [[User:{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}}}|{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}]] [[Author::{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}| ]]
   }}
 }} |
 {{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}} | |
   {{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}}} | | Authors: ' | 
     Authors: [[User:{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}}}|{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}}}]] 
   }} | 
   {{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}}} | |
     Authors: {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}} |
     Author: [[User:{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}}}|{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}]] 
   }}
 }}

}} {{#if:| — see [[:Category:{{{category}}}|other works by this author]]}}

---

There was a Christmas tree on the kitchen table.

How? It hadn't been there five minutes ago when he'd staggered awake, and staggered through the kitchen to the washroom. He hadn't bought one for years -- ever since Xanadu had killed his dreams.

It had been so easy a decade ago. He could dream of magic, secure in the knowledge that there was no such thing. He could write about it. He'd even sold a novel, and there was talk of a sequel. He wasn't rich, but it had been enough, and with the promise of more.

And then Xanadu had happened. And magic was real and alive in the world.

And it had left Edward behind.

He hadn't had enough when he was well off to afford any of the actual mages who'd sprung up. And, with magic real the so-called fantasy market collapsed. And with it his dreams. And his writing.

He hadn't written a word in years. He hadn't dreamed--

Dreams hurt too much.

So what was that Christmas tree doing on the table? It hadn't been there last night. He knew that. Had it been there when he'd woken up -- he honestly couldn't say. But now--

It wasn't a big tree, just a tiny one that would have done Charlie Brown proud. Yet, unlike the comic character's the needles were rich and green, the tree alive and growing. It was even in a small clay pot, one more than large enough to support it to an eventual replanting. Its scent was rich, sweet pine rich with the promise of future life.

And, beneath the tree, was a present.

He blinked.

It was a dream, it had to be. He knew he didn't have a tree! Was he going mad?

And yet-- the tree was real.

With shaking had he reached out and touch a bough of soft needles. They hissed against each other as the branch moved slightly at his touch. The scent was richer.

He let go and the branched wiggled back, and he reached down and touched the present. It was solid, the paper warm and slick under his finger, the ribbon a bright cheery white that tickled his touch. And there was card.

Almost shaking he pulled the box out. It was heavy, something sloshed inside. The card let go of its host at his touch and he lifted it, opening it to read what was inside. A simple inscription in a swirling scrolling hand he knew he'd never seen before. But it was easy to read:

FOR THE MAGIC

He threw it down and fled, leaving the tree behind, leaving the magic he'd once held in his mind, put on the page, behind. He threw himself onto the bed sobbing. It creaked underneath.

After a while he shoved the pain, the agony, the dreams he'd lost, the whisper of his soul that had abandoned him years before, aside and went and showered. He ignored the tree, ignored the present. Then he got dressed and went to his minimum wage job like all the other mind-dead drones. Lost in banality.

---

For three days his life continued. Studiously, carefully, he ignored the tree and the present. As he always did he sat at the computer and stared at the blank screen. From long memory he rewrote the last paragraph he'd ever written, hoping it would break the dam. As always, it didn't. He typed in a dry meaningless account of his day. An account with nothing but empty plain words that had no meaning, no dreams. Even yesterday when one of the superheros Xanadu had spawned had halted a police chase in front of him by lifting the chased care into the air and off towards the station-- All he could write about it was short simple sentences. A chase. A car. A superhero. A resolution.

And then he saw the tree again. Not in any magic inspiring way. Just he became aware of its existence. It's needles drying out. It's life dying drop by drop. He filled a glass with water and carefully poured it into the little pot, pushing the present aside so he wouldn't spill any.

The present.

What could it hurt?

In small neat motions he untied the ribbon and folded it neatly. He slit the neat pieces of tape with a knife and unfolded the paper to get it off, and then folded it back neatly. There was a box, plain white cardboard. And inside was dry straw, faintly smelling of spice and dirt. And, cradled on it was a little bottle full of liquid. Afraid, he picked it up. A bubble oozed along the glass as he twisted it side to side. The top would screw off, but was sealed in wax. And there was only a plain white label, with only a handful of words in that same beautiful script that had been on the card:

UNICORN DREAMS

He stared. Stared. And then he screamed, screamed out his anguish, and threw the bottle onto the floor where it clattered and rolled, the liquid gurgling inside. And then he fled to clean, to dust, to write meaningless words. Eventually to sleep and dream forgotten dreams and then wake up and go to work.

---

Days passed. Weeks, months. Each day he gave the tree a little water. Each day it grew a little greener, a little bigger. The box was tossed in the recycle bin along with its pretty wrapping. And his banal life continued day by day. A week later, maybe two -- he wasn't sure -- the kicked the bottle early one morning, stubbing his toe against the cold glass. Somehow his throwing it away hadn't broken it. The same way his kicking it so that it rumbled across the floor and clinktinked against the wall hadn't cracked the glass. He picked it up, pain stabbing from his toe. The label was as white as it had been, and the writing just as mocking.

Only to avoid more pain did he put it on the counter out of the way.

---

After a long cold winter spring finally burst forth. The last of the snow melted, and the plants became green.

He had no garden, just a strip of gravel strewn dirt along the sidewalk. He'd always thought about doing something with it, but never had. Early on one of his days off he picked up a small garden shovel at a garage sale, and some good dirt from the grocery store. He'd dug the gravel and garbage and bits of glass from a little spot by his front door and poured in some of the rich dirt he'd bought. As though it was made of glass, he pried the little tree out of its pot, and put its little ball of soil in the hole, and then filled in said hole with the rest of what he'd bought.

The tree looked so small and defenseless. Given its proximity to the sidewalk and the road, he gave it a day. And yet-- and yet it seemed right. And-- and the tree couldn't stay in the pot forever. He watered it and left it.

Day by day it survived and grew. Bottle were tossed into the little strip of dirt that was all he had, but never around the tree. Garbage was kicked against the house wall, and people stomped on the little strip of stone-strewn dirt.

But, the little tree was never touched.

Every day he watered it, and every day it grew a little more.

In a sense it was a miracle. Maybe it was magic.

But his soul was still empty.

---

It was a hot July day. Not hot, blistering. He'd just watered the tree. Had it actually thanked him? Nah. Impossible. He went inside, and checked the fridge for something cold to drink. Nothing. Nothing--

--except a little glass bottle.

He didn't even recognize it until he'd opened it and unscrewed the top. The water-- if it was water-- smelled of lilacs and pine and crystal clear water and salt and-- and everything not man made. That was when he recognized the bottle. Recognized, and remembered. He hadn't put it in the fridge! And yet--

His throat was dry. And it was open.

He took a sip, rolled it against his tongue. It was water. The purest most perfect water he had ever tasted.

He downed the bottle in five swallows.

After tossing it into the recycle bin, he sat back at his compute. A hot muggy afternoon. And empty screen--

But it didn't remain empty!

The words poured out of him, flooded onto the screen. The story of a Xanadu victim became unicorn. Of his despair at what the world had become and his sacrifice to bring dreams and magic back. Writing it, it was like it shoved its way out of his soul and burned its way onto the screen. It was like he was watching an unfolding movie, but more. He could smell the foulness that was humanity. His heart burned and tore with the emotions of the unicorn, the creature that Xanadu had brought into existence destroying the man who had gone before like a blast furnace would destroy a leaf.

And in two hours the story was done.

Following Heinlein's Rules, he proofed it once, looked up an online ezine he knew of that paid a few pennies for Xanadu fiction, and submitted it.

An hour later they offered to buy it.

It was only for $5, but--

It was the first thing, the only thing, in years.

For the first time in ages he went to bed happy. Actually looking forward to the next day.

---

The next day he started on an actual novel. Another Xanadu victim, but this time he became a Celtic myth, a white stag. He researched the old Celtic and Gaelic and welsh stories, and got into the three-part rhythm as he told a tale of a life, and who it touched, and how it ended. If there was one thing the agent he'd had, and he guess he still had, had hammered into him after his one novel, was that publishers like sequels. This time he made sure that any of the lives touched by the stag could be made into a novel -- if the publisher wanted.

t took him almost a year of poking at it in his time off, letting the words flow out in what time he had. He'd polished the first three chapters and tossed them to his agent -- he was still on file -- and said agent had been enthusiastic -- after he'd read it. The agent had said he was worried it was plagiarism, given the long dry spell, but the style was recognizable. By the time he had the thing done, a British publisher was interested and wanted to see the whole thing. There were advantages to having had a novel published -- you were a known property that could make money. He still had the file cabinet full of rejection slips from before Xanadu--

After its completion, there was his usual period of bored depression, but not as long as he remembered. The little tree was still doing fine, though it wasn't as little. Rich and green, growing in rich black soil admired, but left untouched, by those who passed by it. When he came in from work on Christmas day with the novel half done, he would have sworn there was a little star on top twinkling away, but when he'd looked carefully it was gone.

As he always had, his mind got better, and he began working on the outline for one of the characters the stag had touched -- a rabbit.

In late October he got word that the publisher was willing to buy. An advance of $20,000, to be deducted from his royalties as was standard. Or, he got at least TWENTY GRAND, more once his royalties exceeded that amount.

That night he went out to party. Well, if going to a local bar and getting stinking drunk alone with endless chicken wings and some football game on the television, could be called drunk. He'd made arrangements with the bar keep to send him home, and he managed to make it to his bed.

The next morning he woke up with a pounding headache and a dry scratchy throat. He clopped across the floor to the kitchen, grabbed a cold bottled water from the fridge, and gulped it down. Then he'd fumbled and started poking at the button on the coffeemaker. It wasn't until he was almost done his morning cup that he wondered what the loud tapping sound coming from the floor was. It stopped when he stopped tapping with his toes -- a habit of his. Pushing the chair out, he stood up and looked down.

At his hooves.

He almost fell-- almost-- Instead he managed to collapsed into the wooden chair that creaked alarmingly under his plummeting weight. His leg bent easily as he pulled his right leg up over his left leg, the soft white fur of his lower, lower leg rubbing softly against his thigh. The hoof was ivory in colour, and in two parts like a deer hoof. The white fur started between the two hoof halves and moved up his leg, fading and thinning until vanishing just below his knee. The hoof wasn't tiny or dainty, it was thick and wide and heavy. He could smell the faintest of lilac from the fur, and nothing at all from the hoof. Almost afraid he ran one hand down his leg. The fur was soft, not wiry or bristly. Soft as the finest satin he'd ever felt. Even as it thickened, its softness, if anything, grew. The hoof was almost a jarring hardness. His fingers could feel the smooth surface, though he couldn't feel his fingers. He pushed at it, could feel the pressure of the hoof against his fingertip, and could feel something tugging at one of his toes. At least that's what he felt like. Running his small finger between the two halves, he felt the fine hair, and couldn't help but giggle. Apparently he was ticklish there. As a last test he pinched the flesh between the two halves as hard as he could--

"Ow!"

It seemed real.

He let if all to the floor where it landed with a loud click.

How the hell had he gotten hooves? And why had he only gotten hooves?

Things like this weren't impossible, not after Xanadu. And, they still cropped up. The result of curses, or purchased magic, or fallout from superhero battles.

Not that any of that could have happened to him.

Unless--

He remembered the tree appearing. And the present. He'd been blocked dead until he'd consumed it. And then--

And then magic had come back into his life in full bloom.

Magic--

And it nearly destroyed him.

His mind swirled and made connections. The tree comes. The drink. He drinks it -- and then he can write.

His writing, his sales, they were all a sham! Damn it! Damn it all to hell and back! Damn that tree--

He was on his fee-- hooves and half way to the front door, his hooves clicking on the floor, beside he skidded to a stop, almost falling. Only a frantic grab for the door frame saved him. Hooves are not known for their traction on linoleum floors.

What would ripping a tree out by its roots achieve?

And, did it really matter?

The romance, the dreamer, in his soul said it did.

But-- hadn't he wanted magic in his life? And now that he had it he was complaining? About the cost?

But the cost! The cost that was his soul, his dreams!

And yet-- The writing had been his. His agent had commented that it was definitely in Edward's style

At least part of him was in it.

With great caution he walked over and sat back in front of his computer and started the boot cycle.

Given that at least some of it was his, Edward felt a lot better. And yet--

The bottle was long gone. The wrapping paper had no markings, nothing than the card, and that had had no address. There had been no clue. And yet--

He looked down at his hooves. Lifted one and wiggled the two halves.

He remembered the first story he'd written after the water. The unicorn, and its sacrifice. The unicorn with its ivory cloven hooves. Hooves like his.

Which told him what?

He remembered writing the story. It had been like a dream. Was it a dream, or was it real? At the ending the unicorn had been somewhere high and rocky, overlooking a rainforest. The Amazon? The computer finished and he went onto Google Maps and started searching. Not by map, but by satellite photo. It took him all day, but late in the evening he found it -- a tiny touch of blue along a steep slope, and a white mist that vanished into the valley. He wasn't sure -- the resolution wasn't there to be sure -- but it looked right. No, more than that, it felt right.

He copied the image to his drive and looked at it.

Assume it was all true. The story. What had been on the card? Think! Something-- Dreams?

Unicorn Dreams.

He looked down at his hooves.

In his heart he knew he was right, but he had to know for sure. He had to. But how?

Go and see it. See it. Drink the water. Bow in respect at the grave.

Believe that there had been unicorns.

He had a location. He just had to get there. And, by 3AM, he had a way.

There were charter tours of the Amazon that would get him there. And visits to ruins in the mountains. Some that went within fifty miles of the spot. Too close for coincidence? No way to be sure. It wouldn't be cheap, he couldn't afford to just charter a plane or anything, but he could easily do it for ten grand. And, even if he lost his job, he could live on the other forty for a couple years.

He hadn't been on a vacation in years--

---

It hadn't been much more expensive than planned, but had taken longer to set up. He had to get a passport, and get vacation off, and get everything ready. He had to get a laptop as the sequel was pushing its way out. It wasn't until early December that he was able to go. The itinerary was for a tour of a number of sites. Research. Maybe he could even write it off as a business expense. Most of it wasn't where he wanted to go, but the package was the only one that got him to the closest place. And, part of it was on a small charter plane. A few days were spent near where he wanted to go, and there were roads. Or so the internet told him.

Travel out of the US was fairly easy. He didn't have any problems with his laptop. His hooves he'd explained to work, and the appropriate government authorities, as something he'd simply woken up with. No idea how. Things like that weren't common, but neither were they impossible anymore. And the evidence was kind of hard to argue with. He'd even manged to find some rubber oxen shoes that he could wear for traction, though he'd used a two part spray glue to stick them on rather than nails. There was actually a Yahoo! group devoted to hoofwear.

Xanadu fallout was everywhere.

The jet landed in Brasilia and the heat and humidity hit him like a wall, along with the salt and pollution. There had been some issues at customs with his hooves, but there were on his passport and there wasn't anything against them. He even overheard something about him being the second one. Another person with hooves? Well, he wasn't the only one. An overnight stay and then onto the charter plane to move inland. After that there was a week boat cruise further inland, with extensive lectures of the river's wildlife and ecology. Fascinating stuff. The writer in him drank it up, even though that wasn't why he was here. He was already thinking of scenes he could use, if he could figure a way to sneak them into the plot he was working on. He even wrote a few up -- he'd find a story for them one day, or not. The boat ended and he moved to the charter plane and started touring the ruins. More fascinating stuff, though the mosquitoes and heat were oppressive, and he had no boots to wear so the mood oozed and clung around his hooves. The group wasn't large, about twenty people, and he wasn't the only lonely. But, he didn't talk much, just took notes and pictures and typed. There was another quiet one -- she would sit for hours in the late afternoon sketching. At least she had boots.

It was the 24th before they got to the ruins closest to where he wanted to go. The plane hadn't flown anywhere the spring, he hadn't seen it no matter how hard he'd searched with his binoculars. There was a small party in the evening, and a guided tour on the 25th. The plane would leave the afternoon of the 26th -- which didn't leave much time. He ran to the office right after the plane landed, but was somehow beaten by the artist girl. She was just leaving as he got there, and he asked about a vehicle. They had one -- normally there were three but one was down for maintenance, and one was taken. Damn that girl! He thought for a second about asking to go with here, but not to where he wanted to go. He had to talk them into renting him the last vehicle -- they wanted to keep it in case of emergency -- but enough money finally talked him into it. He arranged to get it before dawn, along with maps. He had a GPS, already programmed with him, along with the best printouts of the region he could find and pack.

Soon--

He didn't sleep that night, couldn't sleep. It wasn't the heat and humidity, though it was cooler in the mountains than it had been down in the jungle, but still oppressive. About four he surrendered, showered, got dressed and went and picked up the keys. They warned him not to go before dawn but he could feel something calling him. He just gave them the rest of the traveler's cheques as collateral, along with his credit card number which they already had. Part of him wondered if he'd ever see any of it again. But then, did it matter? The spring was the only reason he was here. If he was broke, he still had his tickets home.

Even though he was so close he could smell it, he didn't drive like a madman. It would be the ultimate irony in a story for Edward to drive off a cliff just miles from his goal, but then this wasn’t a story. This was Edward's life. So he drove slowly and cautiously, all the lights he had shoving their way through the darkness to illuminate the dirt track. It didn't take long for the track to change to gravel, and the overarching trees to fall to brush, and then sheer rock. On his right the rock face rose higher and higher, twisted sheets of limestone shoved up out of their beds eons ago. On his left the ground grew steeper and steeper. Oh, it never became a cliff, just a steep slope that would be just as suicidal to start rolling down. Just not a Hollywood dramatic.

The sun rose on his left and the reddish glare almost blinded him, but he stopped and waited half an hour for the sun to rise high enough that he could see. Then he went on. Five miles. Ten miles. The road became more rugged, scattered with shards of rock as it followed around the slope rising higher and higher. When the sun was rising behind him, he sped up, though still proceeding cautiously. It was getting close to noon; he'd climbed who knew how high from where he started. The road was shambles, but still navigable.

He turned a corner and then saw, arching up over him, a cliff of sheer granite. From far above tumbled water, a mist by the time it fell to his level. And, somewhere up there, was the spring. Except that there was no way he could reach it.

Still--

The road stayed near the edge of the slope, but there was a crack into the face that glistened in the sun. Rich greenery grew throughout, and a small pool collected the dripping water from the cliff face and falling mist. He had to turn the wipers on to keep the windshield clear. The pool spilled over into a jagged crack that passed under the road -- a bunch of metal sheets covered it -- and then bounded and jumped and hopped down the cliff to the jungle below.

With a creak, a rattle, and a wheeze, he pulled the truck to just before the makeshift bridge and let the engine clatter to an eventual stop. He could hear the hot metal popping beneath the drizzle of water, the clinkclink of the water down the slope, and the faint hiss of wind and chatter of birds below. Almost afraid, he got out, and left the door hanging open. The suspension creaked as his weight left it, and he stepped on his hooves across the painful gravel, and onto the cool grass.

This grass felt different than any he'd felt before. More alive. More real. And the stream, and the water-- He looked up and knew that far above was the pool burned into his mind, and whatever was left of that last unicorn.

He stepped over to the pool and leaned down, his jeans getting soaked and stained with water and greenery. Cupping the clean water in his hands, he raised it to his lips and took a sip.

The scent of greenery filled him. Life. Pureness. The release of dreams and the hope of wonder.

And yet-- it wasn't right. So close--

Water dribbling down his chin he looked up and knew that the water that had come with the little tree had come from the original spring way up there. He stepped forward to get a better look, his hooves disappearing beneath the water, sinking into the rich ooze below. It was cool and relaxing, comfortable, refreshing. The water washed away cares and filled him with hope and life.

If he couldn't get up there, did it matter? Did--

The roar of an engine burst around the bend from somewhere further along the road. Who the hell would come up here? And why now? And what was he going to do? And yet, had he done anything wrong?

Another truck grumbled along the road and stopped shortly behind his. The door groaned open and a figure walked out, silhouetted in the sun. Edward didn't know what to do. But, somehow, the water gave him strength. Standing there, he waited. Boots crunched on the ground and stopped at the edge of the road. A cloud slid in front of the sun and the glare fell, and Edward could see.

It was the girl who had been alone.

"Hello?" he asked.

"Umm-- hello." She looked embarrassed.

He'd never done it before -- looking at feet had dropped from his habits once he'd gotten hooves -- but this time he did, his eyes slowly taking all of her in, as they slid along her. She was young. Early twenties he'd guess. Well dressed, but not excessively. She wore a fedora, a white cotton shirt, dirty now and splattered with water-streaked dust. She wore beige canvas pants that went down until they were tucked into her boots. They were finely made, beadwork and Celtic designs worked along their rim. And--

They were wrong.

They weren't human boots. The were more like tubes, with a bend below her knee and ending at-- not a point. Kind of a pair of points. Almost-- almost two hoof halves.

He yanked his eyes away, looking down through the wavering water at his white-furred hooves half buried in the rich mud.

She blushed. "Umm-- these--" Then her eyes widened as she saw what his legs ended in. "Oh."

"Ah-- where'd you get those boots? I looked and--"

"Oh, these? I made them."

"Oh."

"I could make you a pair."

"I'd like that."

There was a long silence, and then both spoke: "Did you get a--" They stopped, looked away. Both started again. "Christmas tree--"

In the silence Edward pointed to her and then put a hand over his mouth. Words just didn't seem right.

Her voice was not the sweet melody of myth and story, but a human voice. Slightly higher than perfect, and with some slurred vowels. "Two years ago I found a little Christmas tree. And under it a bottle of water. After drinking the water-- I got--" Her voice faded to silence and she pointed downward.

He nodded. "I-- well-- the same."

"I hadn't drawn in years."

"I hadn't written I years."

"Then I drew the unicorn facing off against the iron beast--"

"The steam shovel."

"She nodded."

"I'd like a copy."

"I can make you a print."

"Thanks." His legs were starting to get cold, but he didn't want to move. "I wrote a novel--"

"I got a contract. For a cover. A new fantasy novel called The White Stag of Xanadu."

The White Stag-- He stared. And then laughed out loud, shaking his head.

She put her hands to her waist as the cloud revealed the sun, haloing her head in her short hair. "What is so funny?"

"Is it by Edward Derksen?"

"Yes!"

He snickered. "Hi. Edward Derksen, author. Pleased to make your acquaintance. And you are?"

He couldn't see her face other than as a silhouette, but he knew she was blinking, her mouth opening and closing as she tried response after response. "Umm-- hello. Amber Quisselle, artist. I guess we've already kinda met." She paused, and looked up, pointing. "Do you think--?"

"I know that the pool is up there. And whatever is left of him."

"I know. I enjoyed the book."

"Oh. Thank you. I was afraid-- well-- there are horror stories of artists never reading the book they illustrate. I haven't even seen proofs of the cover yet."

"I just sent in my three proposals before taking this vacation. I haven't heard back yet."

"I-- I'm sure I'll like them all."

"I'm sure."

"I-- Oh hell!" he burst out. "Take those boots off and come in. We can watch the sunset. The water--"

"Is it?"

"No." He sighed. "It's up there," he pointed up the cliff. "But this is close. And-- somehow-- it-- well-- it feels right."

She jumped up and sat on the seat of the truck and unlaced the boots pulling them off, revealing the same hooves, the same white fur, the same gift he had. He just watched. She tossed them in the truck and walked over towards him.

"This is nice. Maybe the boots--"

"I'd kill for them at home."

"I'll make you a pair. Promise." She stopped and looked into the water.

"Take a drink. Come in. Rest your-- hooves." After two years he still stumbled over it.

She nodded and crouched down, cupping the water and gulping it down. "This is nice, but--"

"Not the same. That's up--" he pointed.

She nodded and stepped in. "It's cold!"

He nodded.

"But-- we could build a spa here. Sell tickets. This-- it's--"

"No spa."

"Of course not. But--"

"Do you think--?"

"Of course not!"

She stopped and he found himself holding her hand. It was warm, splattered with water that squeezed between them. In any novel he knew that they'd kiss, swear undying love, and live happily ever after. But-- this wasn't a myth, this was life. And--"

"Okay-- I'll bite. I have to. The unicorn, he was real. Xanadu made it happen. And he-- he did what he could. But why the hooves? Why us? Why here?"

He shrugged. "Got me. Real life doesn't work like storybooks. He gave up his life to bring dreams and magic back to the world. Well, Xanadu brought the magic. I guess he, us, are bringing back the dreams."

She pulled his hand out of his. "Fine! But--"

"Why? I don't know! A symbol, a reminder, a thank you, a blessing, a cruse, a mark. He's dead!"

She sighed. "Yea--"

He felt the muse singing in his soul. Or was it the unicorn. Did it even matter? "Two years ago we both got a gift. We both got back what we'd lost. Maybe what he left behind is helping us, or even using us. I don't know how much of what I write is true, and how much I make up. I doubt I'll ever know.

"But, it brings dreams. It brings magic into homes. It whispers to the child in us. As to the hooves-- I don't know. Maybe they're our own gift of magic, though I'd say the dreams he's helped let go are greater. Maybe it's a sign, a reminder of what he was so that we would never forget why. Or-- or maybe he was wiser than us, and they're a symbol to us, to our readers and viewers, that the magic is real. That dreams existed. That they have come back, small, weak, but able to grow given time and help.

"There are probably others. Already, or later. We'll know each other. We can help each other. Keep his legacy alive. You'll need to make more boots."

She giggled.

"But, above all, as us, and they, come here to see the proof, they will find that they don't need it." A warmth filled his soul. All his life he'd quested after magic. He'd been cheated by Xanadu. And yet-- the magic was always here. Inside him. Now part of him. Now a symbol for all to see. "Magic exists, and the world knows it, but doesn't believe it. But," he pulled out a hoof and let it splash back into the water, "We know. We know and we believe. And we will share."

She nodded, and they both looked up through the mist at the spring, at the grave far above. Each knew that they'd go home, go their own ways, share what their gift gave them. They'd stay in contact, but each would grow. Each would share the dreams, the magic.

Each would change the world.

And, each would know, as would all the others who were marked, that once, once, there had been a unicorn--