Peter S. Beagle - The Last Unicorn

v1.1: Fully spellchecked by reb, 2003-12-30
- corrected a few spelling mistakes; in particular, have fully proofread all poems
- file seems completely error-free and perfectly formatted - congrats to original proofreader

v1.2: All italics verified by reb, 2004-12-19
(...Yes, it's that time of the year again - the time when The Last Unicorn reads best. :) Merry Christmas, friends; and may there be joy ang gentleness in your hearts throughout the coming year.)

A Fine and Private Place, Peter Beagle's first book, was written before he was twenty. "A most unusual novel," Virgilia Peterson said in her review, "by a young man who seems to be a genuine nonconformist... armed already with the wryness of experience but brave enough still to venture where many of his elders might well fear to tread." In his second novel this inventive, original writer still under thirty ventures still further, into the literally fantastic, literally fabulous world of fairy tale, myth, dream, nightmare.

True to tradition, The Last Unicorn is the story of a quest, the search by the unicorn immortal, infinitely beautiful for her lost fellows. Early on, she is joined by Schmendrick the Magician a name pointing to the low comedy that surprisingly (though also traditionally) coexists here with terror, pathos, tenderness, paradox, and wit, and frequent passages where the prose bursts into song and into poetry itself. A kind of upside-down Merlin, Schmendrick is looking for something for himself too, his life perhaps. Molly Grue, the third of the travelers, seems simply to embody every womanly trait. After a richly entertaining variety of adventures with splendid, quirky characters the search reaches its climax at the castle of evil King Haggard, where the terrifying Red Bull is encountered and where the handsome Prince Lr plays his predestined role.

Like Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings, this odd, evocative, and brilliant book utilizes an imaginary world to connect profoundly with the real questions and aspirations of thoughtful and sensitive readers. The Last Unicorn may well join that widely read masterpiece as a book that speaks with a mysterious but tangible resonance to a receptive audience.

Copyright 1968 by Peter S. Beagle. All rights reserved.
First published in 1968 by The Viking Press, Inc. 625 Madison Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10022
Published simultaneously in Canada by The Macmillan Company of Canada Limited
Library of Congress catalog card number: 68-16075

To the memory of Dr. Olfert Dapper, who saw a
wild unicorn in the Maine woods in 1673,
and for Robert Nathan, who has seen
one or two in Los Angeles

The unicorn lived in a lilac wood, and she lived all alone. She was very old, though she did not know it, and she was no longer the careless color of sea foam, but rather the color of snow falling on a moonlit night. But her eyes were still clear and unwearied, and she still moved like a shadow on the sea.

She did not look anything like a horned horse, as unicorns are often pictured, being smaller and cloven-hoofed, and possessing that oldest, wildest grace that horses have never had, that deer have only in a shy, thin imitation and goats in dancing mockery. Her neck was long and slender, making her head seem smaller than it was, and the mane that fell almost to the middle of her back was as soft as dandelion fluff and as fine as cirrus. She had pointed ears and thin legs, with feathers of white hair at the ankles; and the long horn above her eyes shone and shivered with its own seashell light even in the deepest midnight. She had killed dragons with it, and healed a king whose poisoned wound would not close, and knocked down ripe chestnuts for bear cubs.

Unicorns are immortal. It is their nature to live alone in one place: usually a forest where there is a pool clear enough for them to see themselves for they are a little vain, knowing themselves to be the most beautiful creatures in all the world, and magic besides. They mate very rarely, and no place is more enchanted than one where a unicorn has been born. The last time she had seen another unicorn the young virgins who still came seeking her now and then had called to her in a different tongue; but then, she had no idea of months and years and centuries, or even of seasons. It was always spring in her forest, because she lived there, and she wandered all day among the great beech trees, keeping watch over the animals that lived in the ground and under bushes, in nests and caves, earths and treetops. Generation after generation, wolves and rabbits alike, they hunted and loved and had children and died, and as the unicorn did none of these things, she never grew tired of watching them.

One day it happened that two men with long bows rode through her forest, hunting for deer. The unicorn followed them, moving so warily that not even the horses knew she was near. The sight of men filled her with an old, slow, strange mixture of tenderness and terror. She never let one see her if she could help it, but she liked to watch them ride by and hear them talking.

"I mislike the feel of this forest," the elder of the two hunters grumbled. "Creatures that live in a unicorn's wood learn a little magic of their own in time, mainly concerned with disappearing. We'll find no game here."

"Unicorns are long gone," the second man said. "If, indeed, they ever were. This is a forest like any other."

"Then why do the leaves never fall here, or the snow? I tell you, there is one unicorn left in the world good luck to the lonely old thing, I say and as long as it lives in this forest, there won't be a hunter takes so much as a titmouse home at his saddle. Ride on, ride on, you'll see. I know their ways, unicorns."

"From books," answered the other. "Only from books and tales and songs. Not in the reign of three kings has there been even a whisper of a unicorn seen in this country or any other. You know no more about unicorns than I do, for I've read the same books and heard the same stories, and I've never seen one either."

The first hunter was silent for a time, and the second whistled sourly to himself. Then the first said, "My great-grandmother saw a unicorn once. She used to tell me about it when I was little."

"Oh, indeed? And did she capture it with a golden bridle?"

"No. She didn't have one. You don't have to have a golden bridle to catch a unicorn; that part's the fairy tale. You need only to be pure of heart."

"Yes, yes." The younger man chuckled. "Did she ride her unicorn, then? Bareback, under the trees, like a nymph in the early days of the world?"

"My great-grandmother was afraid of large animals," said the first hunter. "She didn't ride it, but she sat very still, and the unicorn put its head in her lap and fell asleep. My great-grandmother never moved till it woke."

"What did it look like? Pliny describes the unicorn as being very ferocious, similar in the rest of its body to a horse, with the head of a deer, the feet of an elephant, the tail of a bear; a deep, bellowing voice, and a single black horn, two cubits in length. And the Chinese "

"My great-grandmother said only that the unicorn had a good smell. She never could abide the smell of any beast, even a cat or a cow, let alone a wild thing. But she loved the smell of the unicorn. She began to cry once, telling me about it. Of course, she was a very old woman then, and cried at anything that reminded her of her youth."

"Let's turn around and hunt somewhere else," the second hunter said abruptly. The unicorn stepped softly into a thicket as they turned their horses, and took up the trail only when they were well ahead of her once more. The men rode in silence until they were nearing the edge of the forest, when the second hunter asked quietly, "Why did they go away, do you think? If there ever were such things."