Jason Stenham & the Tuesday Unicorn

Finally, finally wrote something. I might...at some point... write up a thing about the crushing depression I suffered last year and how that made me just drag myself around the house in Despair and Angst and Nothing Good came of it. But! It's a new year and a new season and new things have happened and
I.
Wrote.
Something.

My God, it's not even an analysis of the works of late American authors. It's honest to God fic.

Yay!!

Click the link below for the story.

It is early on a Tuesday morning when Jason Stenham stumbles through the door of The Highlander’s Ear. He is muttering apologies to himself, to the bartender, to anyone who will listen and concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. The shift in weight required for walking is a lot harder than he remembers it being. He makes it to the bottom of the steps that lead into the pub and feels himself toppling. He sits quickly, a hard motion that vibrates through him. In the doorway, the bartender stands with a look of concern occupying his face. He wipes his hands on the apron tied around his hips and reaches a hand toward the man slumped on his bottom step. 

“Jason,” the bartender says, “do you want me to call you a cab? It’s late, man.” 

Jason Stenham raises a hand he barely recognizes as his own and waves it over his shoulder. It takes a measure of concentration to speak, but he is no longer focused on standing so it is slightly easier. 

“I’m okay,” he says, only a slight slur in his words. “I live a few blocks down the road. I can walk.” The bartender is not convinced of this plan and takes a step toward the inebriated man. But Jason Stenham has hoisted himself to his feet with the aid of the railing and is looking once more at his feet as he convinces them to work as they should. 

“Be careful!” the bartender shouts at Jason Stenham’s retreating back. 

It would take an extraordinary amount of concentration to lift his arm in a goodbye, so Jason Stenham moves his shoulder in what he hopes is an approximation of a jaunty parting wave. The bartender shakes his head, mutters something about pride, and goes inside, shutting the door against the chill.

It is 1:53 in the morning as Jason Stenham works his way down the sidewalk, bits of song making their way unbidden from his lips. One of Mahler’s madrigals floats in the night air, followed by the refrain from Korsakov’s Scheherazade suite. The scotch keeps him warm as he walks and the music keeps him occupied. 

“You’d think a man who works in the morning would know better than to drink so much,” says a voice in Jason Stenham’s ear. It is a motherly voice, with an air about it that seems to insist that it only has his best interests at heart.

“A smart man would’ve,” says another voice in answer, “But Mr. Stenham here’s never been much in the way of smart, has he?” The second voice is nasally with the hints of a Southern twang hiding deep in its timbre. 

“Oh man,” Jason says, putting his hands to his ears and staggering until his shoulder touches the reassuring bricks of the wall. “Not you guys. I thought I got rid of you guys!” 

“You can’t get rid of us, Jason Dear,” says the first voice. “We’re a part of you.”

“Please tell me you’re joking,” Jason moans, his muscles protesting as he attempts to keep from sliding down the wall. 

“We’re joking,” says the second voice. There is a beat where Jason can feel the bitterness of the cold against his face and then the voice says, “Kidding!” in a high bright tone that seems to come with a laugh pre-attached. 

Jason’s legs cannot take the strain and he wobbles before sliding to sit with his back against the bricks.

“I don’t want to be crazy,” he whispers to his knees. 

“You’re not crazy!” says the first voice, affronted. “We would tell you if you were crazy, and you, my Dear, are most certainly not.”

“You do some stuff’s a little suspect,” the second voice says, “but who don’t.”

“Talking to myself is a little suspect,” Jason says to his booted feet. “Why are you guys even here?”

“We’re here to make sure you make it home, Dear,” says the first voice. “You’re very intoxicated and we want to make sure you get there in one piece.”

“And this time of night’s no time for mortals,” says the second voice. “You meatbags never know when you’re ‘bout to be in trouble.”

“Don’t call me a meatbag,” says Jason Stenham as he uses the wall to slide himself back to a standing position.

“It’s what you are,” says the second voice, just as the first voice says, “There you go, Dear; just like that.”

Jason puts one foot in front of the other and makes his way down the sidewalk toward home. The streetlights are on, glowing pools of light that splash onto the sidewalk. Jason’s shadow grows long behind him as he walks through one of the puddles.  

It is 1:59 in the morning.

The world takes a breath.

There is a faint click as across the city clocks hit 2 am, and then their digital faces flicker back an hour.

“Oh no,” says the first voice.

“Crap,” says the second voice. 

Jason Stenham looks up from where he had been studying the puff of breath that hung in front of his face and sees it highlighted in a pool of streetlamp ochre: a unicorn. It is the only thing that it can be. A quiet horse with the form of an Arabian but a white so pure it is nearly blinding. Its hooves are trammeled silver and its eyes are inky pools that seem to swim with stars as they focus on Jason. Curving from its forelock, a horn that appears carved of moonlight extends a full three feet into the night. In the light, the unicorn seems to glow. 

Jason cannot look away.

In the background the voices are muttering, pleading for him to keep moving. But the unicorn is right there, spot lit in the cold air. It is creating little puffs of air when it breathes, its flanks moving almost imperceptibly when it takes a breath. Jason wants nothing more than to pet it, rest his head against its side and lose all of his troubles in its eyes.

“Now’d be a great time for the Lady to show up,” says the second voice as Jason takes one small, careful step toward the creature.

“Jason, Dear!” the first voice says, “Don’t go near that unicorn!”

“I have to touch it,” says Jason Stenham, and the first voice groans.

“Oh great,” says the second voice. “It’s already got its nasty little hooks in him.”

“Jason!” the first voice says again, this time with a strident edge, “You can’t touch the unicorn!”

Jason ignores the voice and the slight tug against his legs and arms as he moves, one foot and then the other, toward the unicorn.

“Help me!” hisses the first voice.

“What d’you want me to do?” snaps the second.

“Get the Lady,” says the first, as if it is the only possible solution for the predicament they find themselves in.

Despite the forces working against him, Jason is moving ever onward, toward the glistening beast in the moonlight.

“Does he know how?” asks the second voice. It sounds strained, as if part of the weight working against Jason is the voice.

“It doesn’t matter if he does,” the first voice snips. “You do.”

“Right,” says the second voice. “Here goes.”

There is a moment of stillness and then there is a pop and the tch of shoes against cement.

“What the hell,” says Cory-Ann, pulling her sweater tighter around herself.

“Lady!” says the second voice, “Help!”

“Oh fracking…of course…” Cory-Ann strides up to Jason Stenham and stands between him and the unicorn. Taking one small, very cold hand out from beneath her arm, she very calmly slaps him across the face.

Jason Stenham staggers backward a step and then is pulled back to the sidewalk and around a corner, out of sight of the unicorn.

“Can you watch him while I deal with the Invisible?” Cory-Ann asks the air.

“Not a problem, Dear,” says the first voice from beside Jason’s shoulder. Cory-Ann nods once, crosses her arms again, and steps out into the light.

Jason is sitting against the wall, his head down by his knees as he receives what feel like shoulder rubs from one of the voices.  

“What just happened?” Jason manages to ask the crease in his jeans. 

The rubs stop for a second then begin again.

“You almost got eaten,” says the second voice angrily from somewhere across from him. “Didn’t we tell you it weren’t no time for mortals to be out?”

“Was that Cory-Ann?” Jason asks, remembering a small hand against his face.

“Yes. That’s the Lady. She’s dealing with the unicorn problem,” says the first voice from near his right ear. 

 “Dear, mortals shouldn’t be out in the invisible hour.”

Nothing makes sense. Not why his neighbor is out on the street in what look like her pajamas, not why there is an invisible hour. The nice drunk he had acquired from most of a bottle of scotch is beginning to dissolve and Jason is sad to see it go; sobriety just makes these situations so much more painful to deal with.

From the direction of the street there is a thump and the sound of hooves against asphalt. A growl follows and Cory-Ann’s voice drifts to him in the cold. 

“Stop moving you horned freak! How am I supposed to put this on you if you…argh!” There is another thump and then a whinny that sounds too much like a laugh for comfort.

“Is she losing?” Jason asks the interesting bottle-cap by his left boot.

“No, Dear,” says the first voice, significantly calmer now that Jason is out of direct danger. “She’s the Lady, and she knows what she is doing.”

There is another whinny and the clatter of hooves against asphalt again. Cory-Ann is cursing like a sailor, invectives filtering through the other sounds.

The second voice makes a sound like wind hitting the side of a metal pipe and says, “That don’t mean it’s easy, of course.”

A celebratory yell rings out in the cold air followed almost immediately by a thud. The yell quickly turns into one of alarm. 

“Are you sure she’s winning?” Jason asks again, trying to stand and failing.

From the direction of the street, there is a whump of air being displaced and then a low cackle. 

“Gotcha!” says Cory-Ann in a fierce whisper. “You can come back now, Mr. Stenham,” she says, her voice pitched to reach around the corner.

Jason struggles to his feet and moves around the corner, holding fast to the wall just in case his feet decide to stop obeying him again.

“Cory-Ann?” he asks.

“You’re very lucky, Mr. Stenham,” Cory-Ann says. The unicorn is standing placidly at her side, a loop of gold shimmering around its neck and what looks like a pillowcase covering its head. The horn extends through a frayed rip in the side of the pillowcase, giving the unicorn the air of a hooded falcon. When Jason Stenham steps out onto the street, the unicorn lifts its head and snorts in his direction. Cory-Ann pulls down on the cord around its neck and mutters, “No you don’t,” under her breath.

“That’s a unicorn,” Jason says intelligently. 

“Yes it is,” says Cory-Ann. 

“I think,” Jason says, leaning against the bricks again, “I think that unicorn wanted to kill me.”

“It wanted to eat you,” says Cory-Ann. “I’d show you its teeth, but I’ve got it covered up right now. Don’t want you being lured into its eyes again.”

“But…” says Jason Stenham.

“They didn’t get everything exactly right when they handed down the unicorn legends, Dear,” says the first voice from over Jason’s left shoulder.

“Right,” says Cory-Ann, pulling down on the gold cord and digging in the pocket of her sweat pants for something. “They knew there was something to do with virgins, and something to do with golden ropes, but the legends came down a little twisted. Probably something to do with the value placed on virginity and purity and blah, blah, blah…” Cory-Ann trails off and pulls a sugar cube from her pocket. Reaching beneath the hood, she offers it to the unicorn. It sniffs and sidles closer to her. When Cory-Ann removes her hand from the pillow-case it is empty.

“Folks used to send those virgins into the woods to lure the unicorns alright, but those girls was bait,” says the second voice. “Send ‘em out with no real instructions, then when the unicorn comes lookin’ around, throw a gold rope over its head and bring it back to the village to bless the crops.”

“And when that was done, the poor girls were offered back to it, as tribute,” says the first voice sadly.

“But why me?” Jason asks. “Why’d it want to eat me?”

Cory-Ann blushes slightly and gestures toward him. “You know,” she says, and coughs.

“What?” says Jason Stenham.

“It’s ‘cause you’re a virgin, boy,” says the second voice. “Probably the first one this unicorn’s seen in a long while.”

“It was hungry,” says the first voice, soothingly, “I’m sure it was nothing personal.”

Jason feels his face turning bright red.

“But then how…” he says.

There is a pause, a moment when all attention turns to Cory-Ann who is still holding the golden cord wrapped around the unicorn’s neck. She flushes, then clears her throat.

“So!” she says, “Unicorns’ actually have huge, pointy teeth hidden in their horse-y mouths.” She smiles, showing too many teeth. “That’s the trick. You’re not expecting them to be carnivorous and then...” She clicks her teeth together in an approximation of what Jason assumes a unicorn’s bite would look like. It is a disturbing motion that also seems to involve legs.

“Virgin-ivores,” says the second voice quietly with a snort. The first voice shushes it as Jason blushes again. He is beginning to think the night would have been better if it had ended with him being violently sick in a ditch somewhere.

“But why is it in the city?” Jason asks. Of all of the confusing things he has heard today, that sounds as if it could have the simplest explanation. He hopes it is something like, ‘it wandered in from a country that is very far away.’

“Oh, it’s here because of the invisible hour,” says Cory-Ann as if this, like the carnivorous nature of unicorns, is common knowledge. He must look as confused as he feels because Cory-Ann shifts her weight and begins to tie a loop in the end of the cord she is holding. “Okay,” she says, focusing on the gold in her hands, “you know how it’s daylight savings time?”

“Yes…?” says Jason, eyeing the unicorn with some trepidation.

“Well, what happens when the time changes?”

“The clocks go back?” Jason cannot see where this explanation is going. The unicorn snorts beneath the pillowcase as Cory-Ann’s ministrations shorten the length of gold rope. Jason puts his hands more firmly against the wall.

“The clocks go back,” Cory-Ann says. She is done with whatever she was doing to the rope. It is now shorter and thicker and glowing with a more concentrated light. “And when that happens, there is a repeated hour.” She looks across the street and meets Jason’s eyes. “One to two has already happened, but it happens again – an invisible hour.”

“It’s when all the Invisibles’re free to run,” says the second voice suddenly from Jason’s left.

“The Witching Hour, I think you call it, Dear,” says the first voice from somewhere near the ground on his right.

“Not quite,” says Cory-Ann, “that’s Midnight.” She takes a breath, then puts both hands on the unicorn’s back and hoists herself up, twisting so the cord is now an improvised bridle in her hands. “The witching hour brings its own problems,” she says from astride the unicorn. Her Ugg boots are tucked up against its sides and she guides it forward with the pressure of her legs. 

“Alright,” Cory-Ann says with a sigh, her hands in her hair twisting in a complicated way, “I’m going to get him out of here and round up anyone else I see on my way home.” She bends and looks into the air to Jason’s left. “Can you make sure he gets home?”

“No problemo,” says the second voice.

“If he needs aspirin or something, get it from my cabinet,” she says, finishing the braid with one of the elastics on her wrist. “Chris knows where everything is, just ask him.”

“Of course, Dear,” the first voice says. “We’ll take good care of him.”

“Cool,” Cory-Ann says. 

Jason cannot help but think of warrior women as she tosses the braid over her shoulder and seems to settle more firmly atop the unicorn in the light from the streetlamp. As he watches, she puts her fingers to her mouth and whistles, a long piercing note that echoes in the empty streets. There is a sound like wings, but Jason Stenham cannot see anything. Cory-Ann however looks into the air directly above her head and smiles.

“Yeah,” she says, patting the unicorn on the neck again, “If you’d be so kind as to lead? I’m not sure I can find the door in the dark.”

There is nothing above her and Jason Stenham is beginning to worry again. He looks into the street at the goddess on the unicorn. Cory-Ann looks back at him, her breath a gentle fog in the night.

“I’m going to take the pillowcase off now,” Cory-Ann says after a moment of awkward silence. 

 “You…umm…you shouldn’t be here when that happens.”

“Right!” Jason says, putting his hands in pockets that are too full of small paper stars. He takes them out again and four little stars fall to the pavement. Jason pushes off from the wall and sways for a moment, then takes hesitant steps toward Cory-Ann and offers her his hand. “Thanks for…saving me?” he says.

Cory-Ann laughs and shakes his hand.

“My pleasure, Mr. Stenham,” she says.

Jason walks down the street with the two voices following at his heels, the first asking after the state of his head while the second laughs under its breath every time Jason stumbles.

From the street behind them comes the clatter of hooves then a frustrated groan and Cory-Ann’s plaintive cry fading away, “Oh my God, he’s just my neighbor!”