Into the Land of the Unicorns

  THE UNICORN CHRONICLES: BOOK I

  INTO THE

  LAND

  OF THE

  UNICORNS

  by

  Bruce Coville

  Also by Bruce Coville

  THE UNICORN CHRONICLES

  Book I • Into the Land of the Unicorns

  Book II • Song of the Wanderer

  Book III • Dark Whispers

  Book IV • The Last Hunt

  — For Cara —

  Into the Land of the Unicorns

  THE UNICORN CHRONICLES: BOOK I

  by Bruce Coville

  Copyright © 1994 by Bruce Coville

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For licensing information, write to:

  FCA Press

  101 Clarke St.

  Syracuse, NY 13210

  This book was originally published in hardcover by Scholastic Press in 1994.

  ebook design by Heather Wood

  www.HeatherWoodBooks.com

  1

  THE HUNTER

  “Gramma, is that man following us?”

  Cara’s grandmother glanced over her shoulder, toward the library. When she turned back, her face was twisted in a look that Cara had never seen before. Tightening her grip on the girl’s hand, the old woman began to walk faster.

  Cara felt a sudden knot in her stomach. She had expected Grandmother Morris to say, “Don’t be silly, child!” — as she usually did when Cara expressed some unlikely fear. She certainly hadn’t expected her to act as if she took that fear seriously.

  Stretching her legs to keep up, Cara asked, “Where are we going?” She tried not to whine.

  “I’m not sure,” muttered Grandmother Morris.

  “Are we in danger?”

  “Yes.”

  Cara’s stomach grew even tighter. “How do you know?”

  “Hush, child! I don’t have breath to waste on talking.”

  Clutching her new library books, Cara bumped against bundles and packages as they scurried through the crowds of last-minute shoppers. A light snow had started to fall a little while ago, and it had had just enough time to cover the bright holiday decorations, making everything look crisp and white. Though it was hard to imagine any harm coming to them in this time of good cheer and fellowship, her grandmother’s fear was unmistakable — unmistakable, and catching.

  “In here,” said Grandmother Morris suddenly, pulling Cara’s arm to steer her to the right. They went down a narrow street — little more than an alley, really — and turned in through the side entrance of St. Christopher’s.

  Cara knew the church well. They had come here often with Simon, her grandmother’s gentleman friend.

  The building was dark and quiet inside. Grandmother Morris led the way to a pew near the back of the sanctuary, where they huddled together while the old woman caught her breath.

  “I don’t think he saw us come in,” said Cara softly.

  The statement had more hope than reality in it. She actually had no idea whether their pursuer had seen them enter.

  After a moment, Grandmother Morris removed a chain from around her neck. “Put this on,” she said, handing it to Cara.

  Cara’s eyes widened. “Your special?” she asked.

  This was almost more frightening than the problem of the man who was following them. Grandmother Morris’s “special,” as Cara had always referred to the locket that dangled from the chain, had been off-limits for as long as she could remember. Despite the times she had coveted the gold and crystal amulet, she could barely bring herself to take it from her grandmother’s hand. She felt accepting it would somehow confirm that the world was twisting out of shape.

  “Take it,” said her grandmother sternly. “Put it on. You may need it before this is over.”

  “Before what is over?”

  “No time to talk,” hissed her grandmother. “Take it!”

  Trying not to make a sound, Cara placed her books on the pew. Then, reluctantly, she closed her hand over the bauble. Her fingers began to tingle.

  Beneath the amulet’s crystal lid lay a tightly coiled strand of white hair. “It came from a unicorn’s mane,” her grandmother had told her when she was little, and Cara had believed her until sometime around second grade, when she finally understood that unicorns were imaginary.

  “What will I need it for?” she asked as she slipped the chain over her head.

  Grandmother Morris leaned forward and rubbed her brow with her fingertips. “Do you think I’m crazy?” she whispered.

  Cara felt another twinge of fear. What kind of question is that? she wondered. Before she could decide how to answer, they heard a step in the hall, followed by the creak — ever so slight — of a door swinging open. It was the same door, Cara was sure, that they themselves had come through when they entered the sanctuary.

  Silence.

  Was their hunter standing there, waiting for them?

  To Cara’s astonishment, her grandmother slid to the floor, ducking her head so that it was hidden by the pew in front of her. She tugged at Cara to indicate she should do the same. When Cara had joined her, the old woman began to move toward the center aisle of the church. Cara followed. The pews were too close together for them to drop to their knees and crawl. They moved instead by a sort of scooting method, until they came to the end of the pew. Then her grandmother did drop to her hands and knees.

  No sound yet from the open door where their pursuer stood waiting. And no chance for Cara to question her grandmother as to what was going on.

  When they reached the back of the church, they huddled together behind the last pew. Six or seven feet ahead of them loomed a pair of large wooden doors, impossible to open without drawing the attention of the pursuer. Cara stared at them the way a traveler in the desert might stare at an unclimbable glass wall behind which lay a pool of clear water.

  They waited.

  No sound from the front of the church. Was the man still there? Or had he closed the door so silently they hadn’t heard and gone on to search elsewhere? How long would they have to stay like this? Who was he, anyway?

  Cara trembled and tried not to cry as the questions and the fear swept through her. Raising her hand to her neck, she clutched the special. The feel of it brought back an old memory, something she could glimpse only in tatters and fragments. It was from just before she had lost her parents. She had been two, maybe three, years old, and very ill. Her grandmother had stayed by her bed for many hours. When she had finally been forced by another emergency to leave, she had acceded to Cara’s pleading and left the amulet behind.

  It was the first and only time Cara had had the special to herself. She had clutched it tightly as she drifted in and out of fever dreams. And in that time, as she tossed and moaned on the bed, something had come to her. She remembered only a glimpse of white and a sense of peace. Then something had touched her, a touch that was fierce and hard, both hot and cold at once. In that moment the fever had broken.

  That was all that remained to her of a memory that had tugged and teased in the years that followed, slowly fading from the surface, yet never leaving altogether.

  As she grew older, she told herself that it had been a hallucination, a side effect of the fever. Yet whenever she thought of the incident, she had a sense of something altogether unearthly having brushed her life. At times she had even longed to be ill again, in the hope that she might once more experience the strange mystery of that night. She could certainly use a little magic right now. . . .

  She blinked. How long had she been sitting here, lost in memories? With some discomfort she realized that her leg was
going to sleep beneath her.

  Grandmother Morris leaned close. In a voice so soft that Cara could barely hear it, even though the old woman’s lips were brushing against her ear, she whispered, “We have to get out of here. We’re going to crawl to those doors as silently as we can. I will push one open. You go through first. Be ready to run if I give the word.”

  Cara nodded. Hoping that her sleeping leg wouldn’t betray her, she tipped herself forward and began to crawl. The beating of her heart seemed to pound in her ears, the sound so loud she wondered that it alone did not alert their pursuer.

  Grandmother Morris was close behind her.

  And what of the man who was stalking them? Was he still here — or had he given up, leaving them to fear nothing but shadows?

  The smooth floor was cold beneath Cara’s hands. The door was warmer and carved with designs that her fingertips couldn’t quite decipher.

  “Be ready,” whispered Grandmother Morris. Kneeling beside Cara, she began to push on the door.

  Cara wedged her way into the opening, scarcely daring to breathe. She was halfway across the threshold when her grandmother cried, “Run, Cara! Run!”

  Springing to her feet, Cara bolted for the next set of doors, the ones leading to the outside. She grabbed the handles, then cried out in despair.

  The doors were locked.

  2

  LEAP OF FAITH

  Cara turned, frantic with fear.

  “This way,” cried Grandmother Morris, grabbing her hand.

  They hurried through a small door at the side of the foyer. Inside, a set of narrow stairs spiraled up in a tight curve. Turning, Grandmother Morris shot the bolt in an old-fashioned latch. They started upward.

  They had gone about ten steps when Cara heard someone slam into the door. The hunter! He slammed into it again, and she realized he was not just venting his anger; he was trying to break it down.

  She didn’t need her grandmother’s urging to move faster. Heart pounding, she climbed as fast as she could, spiraling up into the darkness, ignoring the prickling of the pins and needles that tingled along her leg.

  They came to a small landing. Cara heard a click as a dim light came on overhead. Her grandmother was leaning against the wall, one hand still on the light switch, the other pushing back loose strands of her long gray hair.

  A thick rope ran through the center of the room, entering through a hole in the ceiling, leaving through a hole in the floor.

  Another crash below. This time they could hear wood splintering. The door was not yet down, but it was clear that it was not going to last much longer.

  “Do you have the amulet?” asked her grandmother.

  Cara nodded.

  “Good. Hold fast to it, and listen to me. I am going to ring the bell. It may bring help, but we can’t be sure that it will come in time to save the amulet.”

  The amulet? thought Cara. What about us?

  “Here is what you must do,” continued her grandmother. “Climb to the top of the tower. The roof is flat, with a low wall surrounding it. Count the tolling of the bell. On the twelfth stroke, press the amulet tight to your chest and whisper, ‘Luster, bring me home.’ Then . . .”

  The old woman faltered, closed her eyes. Across her face moved a strange mixture of fear and longing, joy and loss.

  Cara shivered again, with a new kind of fear, unlike that brought on by the pursuer.

  “And then . . . ?” she prompted.

  Her grandmother flinched at the sound of another crash from below. Turning to Cara, she looked her full in the eyes. “Then,” she whispered, “you must jump.”

  Cara stared at her grandmother in disbelief. The question the old woman had asked in the sanctuary — “Do you think I’m crazy?” — took on a new and terrifying meaning. Before she could think of what to say, they heard another crash from below.

  “That door won’t last much longer,” whispered Grandmother Morris. “He must not find the amulet. Climb, Cara, for your life, and for more than you can imagine. I have been there, my love, and it is wonderful. Do not be afraid. Hold the special. Count the chimes. Throw yourself to the wind, and this I promise: You will see unicorns.”

  “But . . .”

  Another crash from below.

  “Climb!” urged her grandmother, flinging herself onto the rope and pulling it down with all the weight of her slender body. “Climb! The amulet must not fall into his hands!”

  “Who is he?” asked Cara.

  The look of pain and sorrow that lanced through her grandmother’s eyes was heartstopping. The old woman shook her head, as if driving away some unwelcome thought. “There’s no time for talk,” she replied, shouting to be heard above the tolling of the bell. Suddenly the rope surged up, pulling her with it, lifting her feet from the floor. “Remember,” she cried, “you must jump on the twelfth chime of the bell! Don’t lose track! Now go. Go!”

  Cara turned and ran.

  Another chime. And then her grandmother’s voice, calling one last request: “Cara! Find the Old One. Tell her . . . tell her, ‘The Wanderer is weary.’”

  What Cara heard after that might have been a sob, but it was lost in the third toll of the bell, and she could not be certain.

  Three strokes already. Cara ran faster, fearing she might not reach the top of the tower before the twelfth chime. At the thought, her footsteps faltered. She was running as if she actually intended to jump.

  Did she?

  Could she?

  Hand on the rail, she spiraled up through the darkness, counting off the fourth and fifth chimes.

  And their pursuer — was he running up the stairs now, too? Running toward Grandmother Morris? What if he caught her before she could toll the bell the twelfth time? What then?

  She was breathing in great gasps. The back of her legs felt as if they were on fire. She heard the sixth chime — or was it the seventh? No, it was the sixth; it had to be the sixth. She mustn’t lose count!

  Her free hand, the one not on the rail, clutched the amulet hanging from her neck. It felt warm. She opened her fingers. To her astonishment, the amulet was starting to glow.

  The seventh chime. Seventh? It had to be the seventh, not the eighth.

  The glow of the amulet grew brighter. She loosened her grip on it and light flowed from between her fingers, bright enough to light her way as she scurried up the worn, wooden stairs, spiraling, spiraling toward the top of the tower.

  At the eighth toll of the bell — she was sure it was the eighth — she came to a ladder. As she stepped on the first rung, she heard a scuffle break out below her, cries of anger from her grandmother and from a deep male voice. She wanted to turn back, to help, but her grandmother’s urgent instructions had been to keep the amulet away from the man.

  Clambering up the ladder, she pushed with all her might at the trapdoor on the top.

  It wouldn’t budge.

  For a terrified moment she thought she would be trapped. But a sudden cry of pain from her grandmother filled her with such rage that without realizing what she was doing she flung the door open.

  Footsteps from below. He was coming after her! And what of Grandmother Morris? What had he done to her?

  The bell tolled again. Cara smiled grimly. Whatever had happened, her grandmother still had the strength to work the rope. Cara couldn’t let the old woman down now.

  She scrambled onto the roof of the tower, then stopped as a heavy male voice called from below, “Wait! Cara Diana, wait!”

  Terror froze her limbs. She had heard that voice before. Where? Where?

  A cold wind whipped around her. The snow had turned from flakes to icy chips that stung her cheeks. She stumbled to the edge of the roof. Her senses reeled as she saw the white-covered world spread out beneath her.

  The tenth chime sounded.

  Again her grandmother’s question, “Do you think I’m crazy?” caromed through her brain. The old woman had to be crazy, telling her to throw herself from the tower. Yet the amu
let, casting its fierce glow through the storm, said otherwise, said there was magic afoot.

  The next chime — the eleventh? — sounded as she climbed onto the chest-high wall that circled the roof.

  Far below her, tiny dots were racing to get out of the storm. Were any of them racing to the church, racing to help her and her grandmother?

  She braced herself, ready to jump — or at least try — at the twelfth chime.

  Silence.

  Fear clutched her heart. Had she miscounted? Had she missed the moment? If she jumped now would she simply fall to her death? Racked by confusion, she tottered on the wall, staring at the world so far below. Cold fear wound its way through her body.

  A sound behind her. The pursuer had made it to the top of the stairs. Then the bell tolled once more, the twelfth and final time, and ahead of her a ball of light blossomed in the sky, its color the same spring green as the light flowing from between her fingers.

  Clutching the amulet, Cara whispered, “Luster, bring me home!”

  “Wait!” cried the man.

  Snow whirled around her. The wind whipped through her hair. Leaning forward, Cara threw herself from the tower.

  3

  LUSTER

  The first rush, as she plummeted toward the sidewalk, was terrible. But before she could force a scream through her tightened throat, she fell into the green light, which swirled and twisted around her.

  Then her fall was slow and strange, and though it seemed to take a long time, it was a time like dreaming. Afterward, she could no more have said how long the fall actually lasted than she could have numbered the stars in the sky.

  Her landing was sudden but soft. She lay still for a moment, staring at the sunny sky above her, wondering where it had come from. After another moment she closed her eyes, as if to shut out the strangeness. Where was her grandmother? Where the hunter, the church, the snow-covered city?