Further Arctic Adventures...now with less Arctic!

...this whole thing makes me think. Maybe I'll try for a different story tomorrow?

---
Eventually, the unicorn was placed in a laboratory, where an international group of scientists puzzled over it. They marveled over its perfect preservation and were shocked to find that, despite its being frozen for untold eons, no cellular decay had occurred: its cells were neither blemished by time nor burst from the freezing temperatures. And so they took the unicorn off the mortuary table and lowered it into a vat of restorative liquid. They hooked it up to a ventilator and a machine that mimicked the function of its heart. The scientists studied it.

The scientists took scrapings of its horn and hooves. They took hairs from the tail and mane, swabbed the mouth for remnants of saliva. They drew blood samples and, with a very fine hypodermic needle, took a portion of the contents of its tear ducts.

The tests on all these materials were contradictory and inconclusive. Depending on who looked under the microscope, they were either something unlike any other earthly result, or they pointed to an exceptionally average horse. The blood samples were poison one day and an effective cure for every disease the scientists had on hand the next. The hoof scrapings were pure silver and lighter than air; they were heavier and duller than lead, giving off no reflection at all. The horn…well, four scientists in a row quit after handling it. Of those four, one became a monk and devoted his life to God. Another was soon arrested for a series of brutal murders. The other two were never heard from again, though it was rumored that they had both ended up in asylums. Shortly after, the scientists were forbidden direct contact with the samples. But the experiments continued.

After the fourth scientist had quit, Stephen St. Gradie started having strange dreams. He dreamed of the arctic, of the glacier where he’d found the unicorn. Even in his dream he knew, logically, that the entire area had been excavated and nothing else had been found. But, whenever he closed his eyes, he saw it as it had been. But everything was wrong and twisted, as was the wont of dreams. The sun shone hot, hotter, blistering until the ice melted into strange shapes. The ice fields, as far as he could see, bloomed with strange flowers and plants made of ice. His tent transformed into a pile of stones and the unicorn came bursting out of it, its steps shattering the rocks into spalls of ice. St Gradie was afraid, and he ran, he always ran from it. He ran until he tripped and fell, and, just as the unicorn bore down on him and would have crushed him with its hooves, he forced himself awake.

Stephen St. Gradie dreamt the same sort of dream over and over. Always the unicorn pursued him, and always he ran, waking just before it could harm him. His sleep became so poor that he visited a physician. The doctor prescribed a mild sedative to help him sleep, and for a time it worked. But then, it happened.

He was sprinting across the strange, glittering fields of flowers, and the sun was hot on him, and he could feel the unicorn’s breath on his back. A vine reared up in front of him, too fast, and he tripped and fell. St Gradie scrabbled on the ground, trying to get up, to get away, to get out, to wake from this nightmare. The unicorn stood over him, pawed at his legs with its shining hooves. It lowered its horn, snorted, and pressed forward. Stephen was trapped against a wall of ice. He couldn’t move; the ice-vines held him fast. He gasped for breath, sweat rolling down his face. The unicorn’s horn was directly in front of his face, and the hot breath from its nostrils washed over him. The tip of the horn pressed against St Gradie’s eye, and he did not move for fear of losing the eye.

And then, a voice.

“I’m sorry.”

And the strange logic of the dream told him it was the unicorn speaking.

“Sorry?” said Stephen. “For what?”

“For this,” said the unicorn. And it pressed forward with its horn and St Gradie was blinded in the blink of an excruciatingly slow eye.

He woke screaming and clawing at his face. The maid came running and, when she saw the state he was in, sent for the doctor. The doctor sedated St Gradie and had the maid lay him back into bed. The doctor bandaged the furrows Stephen had dug into his flesh.

St Gradie dropped back into the field of ice, pierced by that horn and seared by the pain. But, though it hurt terribly and he could not see, he came to a realization. The unicorn was feeding itself through its horn and his eye into somewhere beyond. But it didn’t make any sense, even in the dream. Why would the unicorn need to go somewhere? Why him? Where was it going? And then it was gone.

He opened his eyes and the field of icy flowers was gone. The unicorn was nowhere to be seen and his eye was once again whole. The tent was just as it had been, the ice with its slightly pocked surface stretching for miles in front of him. St Gradie peered into the tent. His two assistants were asleep, and the kerosene stove glowed with warmth. His bedroll waited for him, laid out in the heat cast by the stove, and he was suddenly unbearably sleepy. So he lay down, parka, boots, and all, and slept.

When Stephen St. Gradie woke from his sleep, the maid leapt out of her chair and ran from the room. He yawned. He felt remarkably refreshed, like he’d slept for years. Then a knock came on his bedroom door.

“Yes?” he said. “Come in.”

It was the doctor. He came in and sat in the chair at the side of the bed.

“How are you feeling?” said the doctor. “You gave us a nasty scare last night.”

“Ah yes, well,” said St Gradie. “Had a terrible nightmare you know. Just awful.”

The doctor hmmed into his beard.

“Well, anyway, I’ve fixed up your face where it got scratched,” said the doctor. “I recommend you get some more rest. We’ll talk more in a few days, how’s that sound?”

He stood again.

“All right,” said St. Gradie. “Sorry to be such a bother. I’m afraid my maid can be a bit flighty.”

“Nothing to worry about,” said the doctor. “Better safe than sorry, after all.”

“Yes,” he said. “Better safe than sorry.”

The doctor left the room. Stephen St. Gradie laid his head back against the pillows. Later. He’d rest and think about the dreams later. For now, though, he was ready to tackle the bathtub. He rang for the maid. It was going to be a good day. He could feel it.

----

Can you tell I don't approve of testing on animals?

More seriously, I tried my best to tone down the 'science is evil' mood that kept cropping up when I was thinking it over. I'm also considering the possibility of zombie unicorns. As to the weirdness of the samples' test results, I suppose I did a bad job of conveying the thought that maybe, just maybe, something can be all encompassing and nothing at the same time. (No, the unicorn isn't God. I'm not pulling an Aslan, I promise. I just think this unicorn is an extraordinary sort of creature.)

In other news, I'm in the process of selecting a book for the book review. I'm kind of busy with holiday preparations right now, so I haven't felt together enough to do a lot of reading beyond fluffy "romance" novels. I do love me some purple prose! But...is it worthy of reviewing?

~Later