The Neverfear (Impossible Creatures #3)

The Birth of a Unicorn

It is unwise to ignore the summons of a unicorn. So even though it was early and he had not had breakfast, Christopher Forrester followed the shining white figure at a run, across the great lawn and into the forest of Glimt.

Every few moments the unicorn turned and stamped to hurry him on, until Christopher was sprinting, ducking under trees and pushing through brambles that tore and scratched at his arms.

Christopher knew the forest well. He had lived on the Islet of Glimt for three months, and every day he and Anya Argen came here, to feed the creatures who were too young or too old to feed themselves.

The unicorn – a male with silver hooves – led him at a gallop to a clearing in the trees. A female was lying on her side and heaving for breath. Next to her, lying on the mossy ground, was a foal. It was covered in fluid and blood, but its coat was radiant gold.

For a moment Christopher was too stunned to move. Then the male gave an angry whicker, and he looked closer; the umbilical cord was tangled around the foal’s neck and it was barely breathing. A swollen and purplish tongue was protruding between its teeth.

Christopher dropped to his knees next to the foal, ignoring the blood. He carried at his back the sword the sphinxes had given him.

‘Yes,’ said Christopher to the foal. He tried to keep the panic out of his voice. ‘That’s good, that’s right. You just keep breathing.’ But even as he spoke it convulsed and the mother gave a whinny of dismay.

He took hold of the umbilical cord, thick and bloody in his hand. Very carefully, he fed the sword’s point under the cord. Straining not to cut the baby’s skin, he flicked the sword upwards.

The cord fell away. Nothing happened. The foal had mucus in its nose and mouth; with his little finger Christopher scooped it out and blew into each nostril. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Breathe!’

He was just beginning to despair when the baby took a huge, juddering breath. The mother surged suddenly to her feet and Christopher jerked backwards from that knife-point horn, but she only bent over her foal and began licking it.

The foal coughed. It snorted. And then it wriggled, and clattered its hooves, and it was on its feet.

Its gaze as it looked at him was so clear that it was almost physical, and Christopher felt the force of its brand-new eagerness like an arrow through the chest. Its gold coat shone like a candle in the morning light.

Christopher held out his hand, and the foal licked him. ‘That was brave,’ he said. ‘That was good.’ Its horn was miniature, barely three inches long and soft to the touch. He rubbed its muzzle.

And then he leaped backwards. ‘Ah!’

The feeling came and went so quickly Christopher wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it: a flash that burned through his hand and into his whole body.

‘What was that?’

The foal reared forward and butted its head against him. The flash came again and he felt the world tilt as dizziness ricocheted through his body. But with that feeling came another: a sense of animal joy radiating out from the foal.

‘Can you do that again?’ Christopher laid his hand on the unicorn’s face.

And this time it was not just joy; it was like being swept off his feet by a sea of animal exhilaration as the foal pushed its newborn hunger and thirst and curiosity towards him.

It was speech without language, a burst of wild, glad meaning.

Green-gold light flickered before Christopher’s eyes.

The dizziness intensified and roared in his ears.

Suddenly there was a call behind him – ‘Christopher! Where are you?’ – and Anya Argen came sprinting into the clearing.

The noise broke the connection between Christopher and the foal. The adult unicorns whinnied and Anya froze.

He didn’t have to warn her; Anya knew that unicorns are dangerous. Come too close and they will, with the delicacy and grace of a ballerina, impale you against a handy tree.

‘By the Immortal,’ she breathed.

The parent unicorns stamped the earth. They bent their heads to nudge their foal and then there was a swish of tails and the three cantered away into the wood.

‘Are you all right?’ said Anya. ‘You look strange.’

‘It …’ He wanted to tell her, but what could he say – that the unicorn had spoken to him? Without words, in a spin of new and dizzying meaning? Now that the connection was broken, the nausea was too strong to ignore, and he dropped on to all fours and vomited.

‘You’re green,’ said Anya. She inspected the vomit with interest. ‘Did you eat something?’

There was a cough behind them.

‘Christopher,’ said a harsh little voice.

A tiny green and silver dragon, small enough to fit in a teacup, came to rest on Christopher’s shoulder.

‘I could smell you halfway across the wood. If you have quite finished spewing, there is a great deal to be done today, and you have amniotic fluid in your hair and blood on your trousers. You are no longer fit for polite society.’

‘Cheers, Jacques,’ said Christopher. He wiped his mouth. ‘Good morning to you too.’

‘I would not buy you in a shop. Even if you were on sale. Come, Nighthand and Irian need you! It is time!’ said the tiny dragon. The fluttering of his wings gave away his pleasure. ‘This is not just any day! It is the day of the Midsummer Feast!’