Johns Bridge. Thousands of acres, and I have been very careful not to be seen for more than a hundred years. I do not want people seeking me out, ruining my resolve.
I have gotten very good at eavesdropping. About five years ago I listened as a boy called a friend to say he was going to kill himself, and he got his friend to promise to scatter his bones. A fine sense of drama, and it set me wondering.
What kind of friend could consider honoring a request like that? What kind of love would form that kind of bond? A few days later I found myself watching a mother with her baby and staring at couples holding hands.
The day after that I began this search for a third virgin.
Since the odds of finding a pure heart in exquisite need within a strong body are better among young people, I began spending most of my time here, in Washington Park, where it touches the city. There is a high school about half a mile away. The students come here to walk, jog, to do their drugs, kiss, touch, talk, and whatever else they can’t do in their own homes. I am not impatient. In all the endless days of my life, I have never done anything like this before. The uncertainty is wonderful.
I have been hiding in the pines in Washington Park during the hours before and just after dawn, then again in the evening, when I am harder to see. The rest of my days are spent in the deep woods with the creatures I have always envied. While they eat and play and make homes for their families, I daydream. I have been hoping for a woodsy boy—the son of an avid deer hunter. But early yesterday morning I saw a girl.
The Third Virgin:
She is tall and athletic, certainly strong enough, and she radiates both purity and pain. She was running alone, and I felt her careful, sweet heart—and her need— even before she was close enough for me to see her face.
She is covered with scars. Her nose is half gone. The discolored too-thick skin covers her right cheek, veers across her mouth and throat, and then disappears beneath her tank top. One hand is scarred too.
I saw her through the pine branches and was thinking how perfect she was, when she suddenly stopped, then lifted her head to scan the trees alongside the path like she had heard a voice. She had. Mine. I shivered with joy.
I was peeking through an apple-size gap in the pine boughs. I stared at her and tried not to think, but I couldn’t silence my happiness at seeing her, so ugly, so hurt, and so lonely. I saw her blink when I had that thought. Then she pivoted, breaking into a long-striding run, glancing over her shoulder only once. When she was long gone, I galloped away, headed for the deep woods. But late that evening I went back, hoping she had been as drawn to me as I was to her, that she would return, curious. She didn’t.
After that I spent my daydreaming time deciding what to say—what I wanted her to hear first. I rehearsed it a hundred times, changing the words slightly, then changing them back again. Thinking about how to make her listen, how to win her pity, her gratitude, her love, and, eventually, her obedience, made me tremble. It took seven long days for her to come back. The anticipation was wonderful.
Before sunrise on the seventh morning, standing in the same tangle of pine boughs, I was telling myself that if she came back, if I could talk her into it, I would make it an even trade. I wanted it to be fair, in case the impossible happened. And if it did, I would welcome it.
I recognized the rhythm of her steps before I saw her. Her stride, her breathing, everything was already familiar to me. Familiar and precious. All my clever, practiced opening lines dissolved as she came closer. When she was finally near enough, I thought—loudly and clearly—Please? Please. I need your help. She kept going, but her stride was uneven, then she slowed. When she stopped and turned back, I took a deep breath. I need help. Please.
She stared in my general direction, her eyes wide. I knew she couldn’t spot me.
She turned to glance up the trail, and it was then that I saw the knife in her right hand. Not a kitchen knife. Longer and heavier.
Oh, no. Oh, no, I thought. Not yet. Please. Let me explain.
“Where are you?” she whispered.
I was afraid she’d run if she saw me, but more terrified she would end her own misery before I could talk her into loving me. I could feel her anger, her desperate pain, her beautiful need.
“Come out of the trees,” she whispered. “Stand where I can see you.”
Unicorns are fanciful creatures—pretty, even. But she might think she was going mad if I just stepped onto the path. I hesitated. There was another jogger coming.
We heard him at the same time. She put the knife behind her back and stepped aside and waited until he had passed, was out of hearing distance. Then she turned to the dense scaffolds of pine boughs that hid me. “Why are you hiding?”
Such a good question. One I couldn’t answer. She did not have a gentle whisper.
More like a snake hissing a warning. She was not afraid. My heart rose. She was perfect. Perfect. This would be a very difficult conquest.
“Show yourself or I will … ,” she began, then stopped when I heard a burst of music. She reached into her pocket for her phone.
Please don’t answer that … and please don’t leave. I really need help.
She looked at her phone, then put it back in her pocket and stared into the branches again. I did what I had done a thousand times with people who feared me.
I took one step forward with my head lowered—just enough so that she could see the branches move, would know that I was too big to be a person, and the wrong shape. I heard her take in a long breath.
There is no reason to be afraid. I don’t mean to startle you.
I took one more step and lifted my head slowly, arching my neck like a parade horse. It’s a ridiculous pose, but I discovered a long time ago that humans love it. I heard her gasp.
Looking into her eyes, I pushed through the last of the pine boughs, slowly, slowly, until she could have reached out and touched my horn. Will you take just a few steps this way? So I can stay hidden. If anyone else sees me, I will end up in the zoo.
“And if I try to tell anyone, we might end up roommates?”
She smiled for an instant. Then she slid the knife into her back pocket and pulled her shirt over it. I pretended not to notice that she was watching me to see if I noticed. She took a single step toward me. I backed up one step, and waited for her. Then we did it again, like a beginner’s dance class, until we were both swallowed by the tangle of boughs.
I looked at her steadily, holding the pose, trying to look noble and interesting and amazing and magical. She came closer, one thumb hooked in her jacket pocket.
Her scars were truly awful. She was fortunate to be alive. I saw her stiffen, and I took control of my thoughts. What do you know about unicorns? I asked her.
She shrugged. “Only that they aren’t real?” She smiled again, another quick one, and she was close enough that this time I understood why. The scar tissue was taut, thick—it probably hurt to smile. One eyelid was higher than the other. Both were crinkled, mismatched, odd shades of beige and pink. She had no eyelashes.
“A fire,” she said, before I could frame another thought. “The whole house burned down. My cousin lived in our basement and he was cooking meth. I knew, but I just didn’t say anything. So my parents and my sister were killed along with him. I hate myself for that. I live in a group home, and I hate it, too.” She paused, her chin high, staring at me. “Did I leave anything out?”
Her voice was brittle. How long had it taken her to work up that short, angry résumé, ready to throw at anyone who stared. I was framing a thought about being sorry for her misfortune, when she added this: “It was five years ago. Dr.
Shrinkydink said I would begin to come to grips with things in about three years, but it turns out she was full of shit.”
She sounded so weary, so defeated, that I knew I had been right about the knife.
She hadn’t brought it to cut mushrooms or to protect herself. Why had she stopped to talk to me? Had she been hoping someone would come out of the trees and kill her? I was thinking very quietly, but she heard the last part.
“It crossed my mind,” she said. “It’s nice to meet you, though, instead of Jack the Ripper. Or even just a white deer. But this must mean I am crazy now. On top of everything else.”
You aren’t insane, I told her. I am real. I want what you want. If you will help me, I will help you.
“You want …”
… to die. Yes. More than anything else.
“Why?”
She said it with such a gush of breath, her voice going girlishly high, that for an instant I could see the child she had been, pretty, happy, full of faith in herself and her life. And I knew, because she could hear me, that the childish purity was still within her.
Tomorrow morning, I began, before it’s light out, I want you to come with me into the woods, farther from the city. I will explain everything and— “Said the spider to the fly,” she cut me off.
I had never heard the expression, but the meaning was clear. I just want to help you and for you to help me— “No,” she interrupted again. “You don’t need help. Not if you’re serious. Not if you really want to die. The ones who try to commit suicide make sure it doesn’t work, make sure that someone finds them. With luck, the finder feels like a hero and sticks around for a while. I started there. I’ve been found twice—but this time I’m serious. I just want to be … finished. And I won’t need help, thank you.”
She was about to walk away, and I knew she would not come back. I said this: If your scars were gone, would you want to live? And then I held my breath.
She was quiet. Then she shrugged, looking at her feet. “Maybe. Because I wouldn’t have to tell anyone I didn’t want to tell. I could hide it sometimes.” She lifted her head. “Maybe I could make real friends instead of just collecting a revolving cast of junior social workers.”
I can erase the scars.
She stared. “Don’t fuck with me.”
Cut me.
She looked startled. I lifted one foreleg. Not deep. I just want to show you something.
She took the knife out of her pocket and held it loosely across her palm, like someone who has used knives and is comfortable with them. “It’s razor sharp,” she said, and I knew she had heard my thoughts. “It was my father’s.”
Did he ever take you hunting with him? I asked, hoping.
“Usually.” She looked puzzled at the question. “Why do you want me to cut you?”
To prove something.
I set my hoof on a fallen log to make it easier. Just deep enough to bleed. She stared at me, then drew the thin, sharp blade over my skin. The cut was straight, finger length, and it began to seep blood.
She looked up. “What am I supposed to—”
Just watch. I touched my horn to the bloody place, for theatrics and to mislead her. Within a moment the bleeding had stopped. Both ends of the cut rejoined first, the little wound shrinking, my skin zipping itself back together. I can’t begin to explain what I was feeling. I had watched my body mend itself thousands of times. I had never watched it with anyone. She glanced at me over and over, her eyes wide, then looked back at the cut.
I can heal you, just like that. And I will. And then you can help me die. I could tell she wanted to believe me. I turned aside and lowered my head a little. Please.
Meet me here tomorrow? Before sunrise?
She looked down at my leg. There was no trace of the cut. She nodded slowly.
“Maybe.”
Bring that knife, a new pruning saw, and a heavy rope—and put everything in a sturdy bag. You won’t need a shovel. The river will take care of the memorial service.
She took one step back. “Oooo. Creepy. A serial-killer-unicorn-comedian?” Her chin was high, but her voice wasn’t quite steady.
I am not a killer, I lied. I will erase your scars. Then you will help me die. What you do after that is up to you.
She hesitated, her tongue sliding across her lower lip. She was trying to decide.
Or so I thought. But what she asked me was this: “What’s your name?”
I blinked. No one had ever asked me that. I don’t have a name. What’s yours?
“It’s Reeym. Ree-um,” she added, pronouncing it slowly and precisely in a joking hillbilly accent. It was another one of her practiced responses. “It means ‘unicorn.’ Weird, huh? People call me Ree.”
I was stunned.
“It might mean ‘a big bullock,’” she said a little louder. “Depends on which biblical scholar you trust. My parents …” She stopped to look at the sky, then back at me.
“My mother loved unicorns. She would have fainted from fan-joy if she had ever seen you.”
The last three words were squeezed into a whisper. I kept my thoughts still, excited that she was trusting me like this, with her sorrow, with her heart. She squared her shoulders. “Mom thought it was a lucky name, magical, that it would guarantee me a smooth ride. At least she didn’t live to see this.” She gestured at her own face. Then her voice changed, all the pain hidden again. “Knife, rope, saw, in a sturdy bag. Do you need me to bring anything else?”
Courage.
She stepped forward and slapped me. I was so startled that I reared, like a horse. It embarrassed me. She was backing away, talking fast. “Tomorrow, as soon as the sky is gray,” she said. “If you change your mind and don’t come, I’ll just do what I meant to do today.”
I will be here.
She didn’t respond. She whirled and ran away without looking back.
I went deeper into the forest, my heart beating hard. I had never expected things to progress so quickly, for her to trust me so readily. I galloped all the way to the hidden meadow with its swift little creek, about twenty paces from the Willamette River.