The Virgin and the Unicorn

When they entered the clearing, Melanie stopped. Dick thought she looked as though she might cry. Her hands were balled into fists. "I read," she said softly, looking not at him but the clearing. "I read more." She asked, still not looking at him: "Do you believe in it?"

"I guess you mean—the unicorn?"

She nodded.

"Well, I photographed it, I mean... Right here."

"If there isn't a unicorn, then what spoke to me? That terrible voice?"

"Well, aren't you..."

"Never say that!" He had not heard emotion in her voice before. It was fury. And a threat. "Never," she repeated."

"Okay," said Dick. He shut his eyes. "Okay."

This time, Dick noticed, she was not wearing a brassiere. When she turned to him, the tips of her nipples were standing stiffly. He had never seen that. She was folding the dress. She kicked off her shoes and walked toward the tree; from behind, she looked as though she were entirely nude. He followed her.

When he had tied her, as before, he saw her staring into the woods, as though at something far off. There was no expression on her face, only terror in her eyes. "Last time," she said, almost whispering, "last time, it said you must whip me."

"What? Are you..."

"Don't say that! Don't!" She was shouting. Dick glanced around as though reassuring himself that they were along. Melanie added, more quietly: "For things I've done."

Dick didn't move or speak. He couldn't take his eyes off her body, so he closed them. He heard her say, "Cut some branches."

By the time he had finished, he was trembling. His arms were slack at his sides, as though exhausted. They had proceeded, she ordering, threatening, he protesting, yielding. Now, there were bright pink lines and here and there darker spots of red across her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. She had no panties. She had insisted; he had complied. Her face was drawn, her chest sighing in long, heaving breaths; but she was silent, and there was a calm, a poise, in the way she stood. Dick stared at the stratus clouds of red against the pale sky of her body. He knew what he himself looked like. Why try to cover it with the canvas bag? It didn't matter, now.

Melanie took a last, long breath. "All right, Richard. Now, you have to blindfold me. Then, you can go."

He didn't move.

"Richard," she said.

He stepped forward. His shirt was half pulled from his trousers. He tore off one of the shirt tails. Melanie seemed impressed. "Okay," she said, "good."

When he had blindfolded her, he turned toward the woods. He moved listlessly, as though beyond choosing his actions, and beyond hope.

"Richard," Melanie called. "Are you there?"

"Yes."

"Don't you understand? It heals. The unicorn's horn, just a touch of it, can heal. It can purify a whole river. Did you know that?" It was the longest speech she had ever made to him. "Do you understand, it can heal!" She sounded plaintive. When he didn't speak, she called: "Richard?"

"I'm here," he said. "I won't be far."

"He may come, now, because I can't see him. And I've done what he told me-some of it." She added, "To begin to purify..."

Dick lay with his face pressed into the leaves. This time, it was easy to lie still. Any action would carry him into the future, and make things worse. So he lay, not looking up; but his hips ground slowly, ceaselessly, against the bed of leaves. He couldn't help it.

He didn't know how much time had passed. Suddenly, he jerked up his head. He heard a soft, enchanting song. You had to concentrate, strain to hear it. It was as soft as a lullaby just before a baby drops off to sleep.

Melanie heard only a stirring of the leaves, just enough to tell her it was coming. So, when it touched her there, with its horn, just brushing her, she didn't startle. It went on touching her, delicious tickling, and she felt its breath on her face, her nipples. She was glad it did not speak. So very glad not to hear that terrible, drumming voice that rattled her soul.

She raised her knees. It was difficult; she needed her hands to hold up her legs. But then a weight leaned against her, something supported her thighs, some strength. Then, she felt the horn, the tender horn, so solid, powerful. For just a moment, it hurt her, then she experienced the most beautiful sensation of her life.

She knew it was much later because the air had cooled. The sun felt different. That's when she heard Richard's voice as though in a dream, a dream that had begun with that miraculous horn.

"Melanie, we have to go." She had never heard this tenderness in his voice. After a moment, he asked: "Did the unicorn come?"

"No... Yes... I'm not sure, Richard. Did you hear me singing?"

It was a long time before he answered. "No."

"I thought the unicorn had come, but I wasn't sure."

"All right, Melanie, but we have to go."

When she spoke, Dick heard the tone of command back in her voice. But not the coldness, now. Only firmness. She said: "Go home, Richard."

"What?"

"Go home. Don't say anything to anyone—ever. Elias won't. And Beeny doesn't know anything. Elias can take care of that. Just go, Richard."

"All right, then. We'll go home separately."

"No, leave me."

"My God! You're..."

"Don't! Don't ever say that!"

"I can't leave you." Dick's voice came slowly, hopeless, breaking with tears. "I can't."

"Richard, it won't come. Not while you're here. It's pure—and it heals. It heals. Go, and stay away. It may come. Don't you see?"

"But if I'm not here..."

"We can't capture it. Not anymore. Do you understand?"

When Dick said nothing, she asked, again: "Do you know why?"

"Yes," he said dully.

"All right, then. You should go, now."

"I'll untie you." He said it abruptly, forcefully, as though suddenly awakening. He stepped toward her.

"Richard!" He stopped. Then she spoke more gently. "Do you know what you did? Do you know what means, doing that? Do you want me to tell about that?"

"Oh, God," he moaned. There were unshed tears of frustration and heartbreak in his voice.

She was relentless. "Go, now. Go."

Police Chief Carleton Bayard Chapman was near retirement. Just a few years ago, that would have meant retirement of the town's entire police department, but the town's selectmen finally had seen fit to hire two deputies. They were part time, though, and when Police Chief Chapman ran-or, at least, hurried-into the clearing deep in the woods, he was alone.

As he told it, later, it was the most disturbing thing he had seen in 25 years of service. The nude body seemed to hang from the trunk of the tree. He couldn't see the face, of course, bent forward and with the blindfold, but the body was of a young woman. Yet, the long hair was pure white. As white as the age-bleached wisps of a 90-year-old woman.

He should have photographed the scene, of course. But he didn't have a camera. He did have his police radio, but it seemed, right then, out of range. No one responded. He should have summoned the deputies to accompany him, but when the parents had called, their panic had been contagious. Two days since the girl had gone missing? And then, an anonymous call telling them where he should look? Was the whole family nuts like Melanie?

He dreaded to touch the body. A woman, naked, tied to a tree. "Scandal" flashed over it in neon lights.

Then the body had raised its head. The voice was hoarse croak through parched lips. Two days and nights! Cold nights-in September! And yet, he had detected no hysteria, no terror. "I'm all right," the whispery small voice had rasped. "My name is Melanie Frost. And I'm all right."

He had yanked off the blindfold. The gaunt, exhausted, dirty face actually had flashed a beautiful smile-a grateful, deep-feeling smile.

"She never told me a thing," Police Chief Chapman would say, later. "Not a thing. I threatened. Oh, I threatened. I also got her minister involved. He talked to her. Honesty, sin, forgiveness-all of that. Still nothing.

"It got me wild. But for the parents—well, it was a miracle. After that she smiled, she talked. She stopped hearing voices... She never went to the hospital, again. Who needed to explain it?

"There was that terrible exposure. It could have killed her. That's must be what turned her hair white. To this day, it's pure white. The psychiatrist said it was what you sometimes see after severe trauma—torture, concentration camps, awful things. That anonymous caller saved her, and I did have a few clues on that. There was a goofy kid around town, back then, called 'Beeny'-trouble is, he was traveling with his folks right up till the day of that call. Girl had already been tied up and abandoned, by then."

The man across the table listened intently, frowning slight, asking an occasionally question.

"Melanie?" said Chapman. "Sure, she's around town. A handsome woman.

"I wonder, was it ever schizophrenia in the first place? Lots of things masquerade as schizophrenia. Even bi-polar illness, her psychiatrist told me. He wondered if she went from a long depression into a manic state, given what happened out there. Today, you would never know anything had been wrong with her.

"Did that stress, instead of killing her, change something in her brain? Did it call on some ultimate reserves, and change her?" He shook his head at his own questions.

"I retired with that case unsolved. No one was mad at me, though. Not Melanie. Certainly not her parents. But I still think about it.

"When I found her that day, there was a perfect red circle right between her breasts. She has it to this day, I understand. Some people tell me it's called a stigmata, that bright red circle-as though the horn pierced her body, but left only that.