The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Unicorn HuntBy John Pyle QuailBellMagazine.com Beck stood, turning toward the window. Over the heath the steppe rose, a sheer wall topped with hard stems, brown and green in the distance, a line against the sky. A dark-winged bird broke from a bare-limbed tree and swept out of sight over its edge. Maybe I’ll find one in time, he thought. Maybe. His eyes drifted back toward the child, unsure again. Only days might be left them--days he should treasure, not climb up to the harsh wilderness, risking his life to bring down the elusive creature. And yet ... to stand by and do nothing, to watch death take his only child, his wife’s last breath, to shrug off his last throw at keeping some trace of her laughing eyes near. Could he bear that? Could he let the chance slip by? No matter, that many fools had gone the hunt, never coming back, or slipping back into life with a whimper, defeated. In his day, Beck had been a skilled huntsman, sharp-eyed with a true aim. The spear came true from his grasp, flying where his mind willed. Many a boar or deer had gone down to rough heather from his hand. Once, even a bear had rued his metal. He knelt by the bed, taking the boy’s hand. “Cale,” he said. “Would that I’d said these words before. Or lifted you in my arms once more at your urging. Would that I’d not lost my temper with you, or spurned your wish. Had I known ... But now ...” Tears streamed down his face; he must not show the depth of his fear, not now. “When I come back, son, I’ll bring your cure. The healers will know how to grind the horn for you. Its virtue is great, they say. Even if you ...” Enough, Beck thought. No longer able to hold back the sorrow pressing at his throat, he let go the boy’s hand and stood. |