LAST UNICORN PDF

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THE LAST UNICORN by Peter S. Beagle Flyleaf: _A Fine and Private Place_, Peater Beagle's first book, was written before he was twenty. "A most unusual. Y F T ra n sf o A B B Y Y.c bu to re he C lic k he k lic C w. om w w w w rm y ABB PD re to Y Peter S. Beagle - The Last Unicorn. THE LAST UNICORN by . 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.


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PDF | annotations and reading comprehension on Peter S. Beagle's The Last Unicorn, with Japanese translation. The Last Unicorn. By Peter S. Beagle. New York: ROC, Concept Vocabulary Analysis. Organizational Patterns. The book is organized into fourteen. Read The Last Unicorn PDF Free. Adapted for the first time from the novel by Peter S. Beagle, The Last Unicorn is a tale for any age about the.

Ride on, ride on, you'll see. I know their ways, unicorns. 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. Then the first said, "My great-grandmother saw a unicorn once.

She used to tell me about it when I was little. And did she capture it with a golden bridle? 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. Bareback, under the trees, like a nymph in the early days of the world?

My great-grandmother never moved till it woke. 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. 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. Times change. Would you call this age a good one for unicorns? And it seems to me now that I have heard stories -- but I was sleepy with wine, or I was thinking of something else. Well, no matter.

There's light enough yet to hunt, if we hurry. But before they were out of sight, the first hunter looked back over his shoulder and called, just as though he could see the unicorn standing in shadow, "Stay where you are, poor beast. This is no world for you. Stay in your forest, and keep your trees green and your friends long-lived. Pay no mind to young girls, for they never become anything more than silly old women. And good luck to you. That can't be, she thought.

She had never minded being alone, never seeing another unicorn, because she had always known that there were others like her in the world, and a unicorn needs no more than that for company. I'd be gone too. Nothing can happen to them that does not happen to me.

She moved along the dark paths of her forest, swift and shining, passing through sudden clearings unbearably brilliant with grass or soft with shadow, aware of everything around her, from the weeds that brushed her ankles to insect-quick flickers of blue and silver as the wind lifted the leaves. I know how to live here, I know how everything smells, and tastes, and is.

What could I ever search for in the world, except this again? What if they are hiding and waiting for me? From that first moment of doubt, there was no peace for her; from the time she first imagined leaving her forest, she could not stand in one place without wanting to be somewhere else.

She trotted up and down beside her pool, restless and unhappy. Unicorns are not meant to make choices. She said no, and yes, and no again, day and night, and for the first time she began to feel the minutes crawling over her like worms. Because men have seen no unicorns for a while does not mean they have all vanished.

Even if it were true, I would not go. I live here.

The animals who move in the dark, the owls and the foxes and the deer, raised their heads as she passed by, but she would not look at them. I must go quickly, she thought, and come back as soon as I can.

Maybe I won't have to go very far. But whether I find the others or not, I will come back very soon, as soon as I can. Under the moon, the road that ran from the edge of her forest gleamed like water, but when she stepped out onto it, away from the trees, she felt how hard it was, and how long.

She almost turned back then; but instead she took a deep breath of the woods air that still drifted to her, and held it in her mouth like a flower, as long as she could. The long road hurried to nowhere and had no end. It ran through villages and small towns, flat country and mountains, stony barrens and meadows springing out of stones, but it belonged to none of these, and it never rested anywhere.

It rushed the unicorn along, tugging at her feet like the tide, fretting at her, never letting her be quiet and listen to the air, as she was used to do. Her eyes were always full of dust, and her mane was stiff and heavy with dirt. Time had always passed her by in her forest, but now it was she who passed through time as she traveled. The colors of the trees changed, and the animals along the way grew heavy coats and lost them again; the clouds crept or hurried before the changing winds, and were pink and gold in the sun or livid with storm.

Wherever she went, she searched for her people, but she found no trace of them, and in all the tongues she heard spoken along the road there was not even a word for them any more.

Early one morning, about to turn off the road to sleep, she saw a man hoeing in his garden. Knowing that she should hide, she stood still instead and watched him work, until he straightened and saw her.

He was fat, and his cheeks jumped with every step he took. The man knew what she was, and what he himself was for: She sidestepped his first lunge as lightly as though the wind of it had blown her out of his reach.

And even so I was never once captured. Is that what you take me for? Is that what you see? He leaned on the fence and wiped his face. A white mare with her mane full of burrs.

There's a real horse! I was on a ship with an Ayrab horse once. Even so, there were a few men who gave chase, but always to a wandering white mare; never in the gay and reverent manner proper to the pursuit of a unicorn. They came with ropes and nets and baits of sugar lumps, and they whistled and called her Bess and Nellie.

Sometimes she would slow down enough to let their horses catch her scent, and then watch as the beasts reared and wheeled and ran away with their terrified riders. The horses always knew her. But not to see them at all, to look at them and see something else -- what do they look like to one another, then?

What do trees look like to them, or houses, or real horses, or their own children? Yet she went on along the hard road, although each day she wished a little more that she had never left her forest. Then one afternoon the butterfly wobbled out of a breeze and lit on the tip of her horn. He was velvet all over, dark and dusty, with golden spots on his wings, and he was as thin as a flower petal. Dancing along her horn, he saluted her with his curling feelers.

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How do you do? Blow, wind, and crack your cheeks. I warm my hands before the fire of life and get four-way relief. You're my everything, you are my sunshine, you are old and gray and full of sleep, you're my pickle-face, consumptive Mary Jane. I would break my body to pieces to call you once by your name. You don't get no medal. Buckle down, Winsocki, go and catch a falling star. Clay lies still, but blood's a rover, so I should be called kill-devil all the parish over.

She sighed and plodded on, both amused and disappointed. It serves you right, she told herself. You know better than to expect a butterfly to know your name. All they know are songs and poetry, and anything else they hear. They mean well, but they can't keep things straight. And why should they?

They die so soon. The butterfly swaggered before her eyes, singing, "One, two, three o'lairy," as he whirled; chanting, "Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, look down that lonesome road. For, oh, what damned minutes tells he o'er who dotes, yet doubts.

Hasten, Mirth, and bring with thee a host of furious fancies whereof I am commander, which will be on sale for three days only at bargain summer prices. I love you, I love you, oh, the horror, the horror, and aroint thee, witch, aroint thee, indeed and truly you've chosen a bad place to be lame in, willow, willow, willow.

He traveled with her for the rest of the waning day, but when the sun went down and the sky was full of rosy fish, he flew off her horn and hovered in the air before her. Against the clouds she could see that his velvet wings were ribbed with delicate black veins. But instead of leaving her, he fluttered above her head, looking suddenly less dashing and a little nervous in the blue evening air. Literally, one-horned: A fabulous animal resembling a horse with one horn.

Has anybody here seen Kelly? The unicorn was so startled and so happy to hear her name spoken at last that she overlooked the remark about the horse. When he came scrambling back to her, she pleaded, "Butterfly, if you really know who I am, tell me if you have ever seen anyone like me, tell me which way I must go to find them.

Where have they gone? Christ, that my love were in my arms, and I in my bed again. Butterfly, tell me that there are still others like me, and I will believe you and go home to my forest. I have been away so long, and I said that I would come back soon. You can find your people if you are brave. They passed down all the roads long ago, and the Red Bull ran close behind them and covered their footprints.

Let nothing you dismay, but don't be half-safe. Follow me down. With them he shall push the peoples, all of them, to the ends of the earth. Listen, listen, listen quickly. Then at last come the clams. Hand to hand to hand to hand to hand. At least he did recognize me, she thought sadly.

That means something. But she answered herself, No, that means nothing at all, except that somebody once made up a song about unicorns, or a poem. But the Red Bull. What could he have meant by that? Another song, I suppose. She walked on slowly, and the night drew close about her.

The sky was low and almost pure black, save for one spot of yellowing silver where the moon paced behind the thick clouds.

Cry of the Last Unicorn

The unicorn sang softly to herself, a song she had heard a young girl singing in her forest long ago. Fish will come walking out of the sea, Sooner than you will come back to me.

It seemed to her that she had heard autumn beginning to shake the beech trees the very moment that she stepped out into the road.

At last she lay down in the cold grass and fell asleep. Unicorns are the wariest of all wild things, but they sleep soundly when they sleep. All the same, if she had not been dreaming of home, she would surely have roused at the sound of wheels and jingling coming closer through the night, even though the wheels were muffled in rags and the little bells wrapped in wool. But she was very far away, farther than the soft bells could go, and she did not wake.

There were nine wagons, each draped in black, each drawn by a lean black horse, and each baring barred sides like teeth when the wind blew through the black hangings.

The lead wagon was driven by a squat old woman, and it bore signs on its shrouded sides that said in big letters: And below, in smaller print: When the first wagon drew even with the place where the unicorn lay asleep, the old woman suddenly pulled her black horse to a stop.

All the other wagons stopped too and waited silently as the old woman swung herself to the ground with an ugly grace.

Gliding close to the unicorn, she peered down at her for a long time, and then said, "Well. Well, bless my old husk of a heart. And here I thought I'd seen the last of them. The drivers of the second and third wagons got down and came toward her. One was short and dark and stony, like herself; the other was a tall, thin man with an air of resolute bewilderment.

He wore an old black cloak, and his eyes were green. Give it to the manticore, or the dragon. Then, to the other, "What about you, wizard, seer, thaumaturge? What do you see with your sorcerer's sight? The old woman turned it for him, reaching out a crablike hand to yank his chin around. His eyes fell before her yellow stare.

He lies only out of greed, but you lie out of fear. Or could it be kindness?

I want her for the Carnival. The ninth cage is empty. He was about to turn away, but the old woman stopped him. That one was made of fishes' breath, bird spittle, a woman's beard, the miaowing of a cat, the sinews of a bear, and one thing more. I remember -- mountain roots. Having none of these elements, nor dwarfs to weave them for us, we'll have to do the best we can with iron bars.

I'll put a sleep on her, thus," and Mommy Fortuna's hands knitted the night air while she grumbled a few unpleasant words in her throat. There was a smell of lightning about the unicorn when the old woman had finished her spell.

Take the ninth cage to pieces and build it around her, but beware! The hand that so much as brushes her mane turns instantly to the donkey's hoof it deserves to be. These's not much dark left. What would it matter if we touched the beast? And Mommy Fortuna's no devil. It's just an old white mare. Rukh was tugging at the door to make sure that it was securely locked, when the gray trees in the east boiled over and the unicorn opened her eyes.

The two men slipped hurriedly away, but the tall magician looked back in time to see the unicorn rise to her feet and stare at the iron bars, her low head swaying like the head of an old white horse. II The nine black wagons of the Midnight Carnival seemed smaller by daylight and not menacing at all, but flimsy and fragile as dead leaves. Their draperies were gone, and they were now adorned with sad black banners cut from blankets, and stubby black ribbons that twitched in the breeze.

They were arranged strangely in a scrubby field: This cage alone retained its black veil, concealing whatever it contained. Mommy Fortuna was nowhere to be seen. The man named Rukh was leading a straggling crowd of country folk slowly from one cage to the next, commenting somberly on the beasts within.

Man's head, lion's body, tail of a scorpion. Captured at midnight, eating werewolves to sweeten its breath. Creatures of night, brought to light. Here's the dragon. Breathes fire now and then -- usually at people who poke it, little boy. Its inside is an inferno, but its skin is so cold it burns. The dragon speaks seventeen languages badly, and is subject to gout.

The satyr. Ladies keep back. A real troublemaker. Captured under curious circumstances revealed to gentlemen only, for a token fee after the show. Creatures of night. She turned and turned in her prison, her body shrinking from the touch of the iron bars all around her.

No creature of man's night loves cold iron, and while the unicorn could endure its presence, the murderous smell of it seemed to turn her bones to sand and her blood to rain.

The bars of her cage must have had some sort of spell on them, for they never stopped whispering evilly to one another in clawed, pattering voices. The heavy lock giggled and whined like a mad monkey. Three heads and a healthy coat of vipers, as you can see.

Last seen aboveground in the time of Hercules, who dragged him up under one arm. But we lured him to light again with promises of a better life. Look at those six cheated red eyes.

You may look into them again one day. This way to the Midgard Serpent. This way. Her eyes were wide with disbelief. How could they ever take it for Cerberus? Are they all blind? The dragon is a crocodile, much more likely to breathe fish than fire. And the great manticore is a lion -- a perfectly good lion, but no more monstrous than the others.

I don't understand. And once more the magician said, "Look again. They loomed hugely over the captives of the Midnight Carnival, and yet they were joined to them: So there was a manticore -famine-eyed, slobber-mouthed, roaring, curving his deadly tail over his back until the poison spine lolled and nodded just above his ear -- and there was a lion too, tiny and absurd by comparison. Yet they were the same creature.

The unicorn stamped in wonder. It was so in all the other cages. The shadow-dragon opened his mouth and hissed harmless fire to make the gapers gasp and cringe, while Hell's snake-furred watchdog howled triple dooms and devastations down on his betrayers, and the satyr limped leering to the bars and beckoned young girls to impossible delights, right there in public.

As for the crocodile, the ape, and the sad dog, they faded steadily before the marvelous phantoms until they were only shadows themselves, even to the unicorn's undeceived eyes. I knew the old horror wouldn't dazzle you with her twopenny spells.

The time draws near. On that day, when the gods fall, the Serpent of the Midgard will spit a storm of venom at great Thor himself, till he tumbles over like a poisoned fly. And so he waits for Judgment Day, and dreams about the part he'll play. It may be so -- I couldn't say. There was no head to it, and no tail -- nothing but a wave of tarnished darkness rolling from one end of the cage to the other, leaving no room for anything but its own thunderous breathing.

Only the unicorn saw, coiled in a corner, a baleful boa; brooding, perhaps, over its own Judgment on the Midnight Carnival. But it was tiny and dim as the ghost of a worm in the Serpent's shadow. A wondering gawk stuck up his hand and demanded of Rukh, "If this big snake do be coiled around the world, as you say, how come you to be having a piece of it in your wagon?

And if it can shatter the sea just by stretching of itself, what's to keep it from crawling off wearing your whole show like a necklace? Normally, therefore, he's invisible, but dragged into our world -- as Thor hooked him once -- he shows clear as lightning, which also visits us from somewhere else, where it might look quite different.

And naturally he might turn nasty if he knew that a bit of his tummy slack was on view daily and Sundays in Mommy Fortuna's Midnight Carnival. But he don't know. He's got other things to think about than what becomes of his belly button, and we take our chances -- as do you all -- on his continued tranquillity.

And even that knack would be beyond her, if it weren't for the eagerness of those gulls, those marks, to believe whatever comes easiest. She can't turn cream into butter, but she can give a lion the semblance of a manticore to eyes that want to see a manticore there -- eyes that would take a real manticore for a lion, a dragon for a lizard, and the Midgard Serpent for an earthquake.

And a unicorn for a white mare. He smiled, and she saw that his face was frighteningly young for a grown man -- untraveled by time, unvisited by grief or wisdom.

The bars whispered wickedly between them. Rukh was leading the crowd to the inner cages now. The unicorn asked the tall man, "Who are you? The magician said, "I entertain the sightseers as they gather for the show. Miniature magic, sleight of hand -- flowers to flags and flags to fish, all accompanied by persuasive patter and a suggestion that I could work more ominous wonders if I chose. It's not much of a job, but I've had worse, and I'll have better one day.

This is not the end. Rukh was standing before a cage that contained nothing but a small brown spider weaving a modest web across the bars. She had the bad luck to defeat the goddess Athena in a weaving contest. Athena was a sore loser, and Arachne is now a spider, creating only for Mommy Fortuna's Midnight Carnival, by special arrangement. Warp of snow and woof of flame, and never any two the same. But it drew the onlookers' eyes -- and the unicorn's eyes as well -- back and forth and steadily deeper, until they seemed to be looking down into great rifts in the world, black fissures that widened remorselessly and yet would not fall into pieces as long as Arachne's web held the world together.

The unicorn shook herself free with a sigh, and saw the real web again. It was very simple, and almost colorless. You see, the spider believes. She sees those cat's-cradles herself and thinks them her own work. Belief makes all the difference to magic like Mommy Fortuna's.

Why, if that troop of witlings withdrew their wonder, there'd be nothing left of all her witchery but the sound of a spider weeping. And no one would hear it. She glanced at the cage closest to her own, and suddenly felt the breath in her body turning to cold iron. There sat on an oaken perch a creature with the body of a great bronze bird and a hag's face, clenched and deadly as the talons with which she gripped the wood.

She had the shaggy round ears of a bear; but down her scaly shoulders, mingling with the bright knives of her plumage, there fell hair the color of moonlight, thick and youthful around the hating human face. She glittered, but to look at her was to feel the light going out of the sky. Catching sight of the unicorn, she made a queer sound like a hiss and a chuckle together. The unicorn said quietly, "This one is real.

This is the harpy Celaeno. But it was an ill fortune, and they both know it. Mommy Fortuna's craft is just sure enough to hold the monster, but its mere presence is wearing all her spells so thin that in a little time she won't have power enough left to fry an egg.

She should never have done it, never meddled with a real harpy, a real unicorn.

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The truth melts her magic, always, but she cannot keep from trying to make it serve her. But this time --" "Sister of the rainbow, believe it or not," they heard Rukh braying to the awed onlookers. She and her two sweet sisters nearly starved the king Phineus to death by snatching and befouling his food before he could eat it. But the sons of the North Wind made them quit that, didn't they, my beauty? Polly want a cracker? The harpy's talons tightened on her perch until the wood cried out.

I cannot get out. Schmendrick the Magician drew himself up several inches taller than the unicorn would have thought possible. The magician fled, calling back softly, "Don't be afraid, Schmendrick is with you. Do nothing till you hear from me! It was growing dark. The crowd stood in front of her cage, peering in at her with a strange shyness. Rukh said, "The unicorn," and stepped aside. She heard hearts bounce, tears brewing, and breath going backward, but nobody said a word.

By the sorrow and loss and sweetness in their faces she knew that they recognized her, and she accepted their hunger as her homage. She thought of the hunter's great-grandmother, and wondered what it must be like to grow old, and to cry. But Mommy Fortuna's Midnight Carnival holds one more mystery yet -- a demon more destructive than the dragon, more monstrous than the manticore, more hideous than the harpy, and certainly more universal than the unicorn.

Behold Elli! Something moved in the cold, and the unicorn saw Elli -- an old, bony, ragged woman who crouched in the cage rocking and warming herself before a fire that was not there.

She looked so frail that the weight of the darkness should have crushed her, and so helpless and alone that the watchers should have rushed forward in pity to free her. Instead, they began to back silently away, for all the world as though Elli were stalking them. But she was not even looking at them. She sat in the dark and creaked a song to herself in a voice that sounded like a saw going through a tree, and like a tree getting ready to fall.

Even while we exhibit her here, she is walking among you, touching and taking. For Elli is Old Age. She felt herself withering, loosening, felt her beauty leaving her with her breath. Ugliness swung from her mane, dragged down her head, stripped her tail, gaunted her body, ate up her coat, and ravaged her mind with remembrance of what she had once been.

Somewhere nearby, the harpy made her low, eager sound, but the unicorn would gladly have huddled in the shadow of her bronze wings to hide from this last demon. Elli's song sawed away at her heart. What is given burns the hand -What is gone is gone. The crowd was stealing away, no one alone but in couples and fews and severals, strangers holding strangers' hands, looking back often to see if Elli were following.

Rukh called plaintively, "Won't the gentlemen wait to hear the story about the satyr?

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This is illusion, the unicorn told herself. This is illusion -- and somehow raised a head heavy with death to stare deep into the dark of the last cage and see, not Old Age, but Mommy Fortuna herself, stretching and snickering and clambering to the ground with her old eerie ease.

And the unicorn knew then that she had not become mortal and ugly at all, but she did not feel beautiful again. Perhaps that was illusion too, she thought wearily.

I guess I'm just stagestruck at heart. It was like I was a rope holding her, and she was untying me. She thinks about it all the time. I can feel her thinking about it. But I choose to keep her. No other witch in the world holds a harpy captive, and none ever will. I would keep her if I could do it only by feeding her a piece of your liver every day. He sidled away from her.

Harpies aren't bright. When she came to the harpy's cage the monster made a sound as shrill as a spear, and spread the horrid glory of its wings.

For a moment it seemed to the unicorn that the bars of the cage began to wriggle and run like rain; but Mommy Fortuna crackled her twiggy fingers and the bars were iron again, and the harpy sank down on its perch, waiting. Mommy Fortuna said, "You're mine. If you kill me, you're mine. To trick a unicorn into believing herself old and foul -- that takes a certain skill, I'd say. And is it a twopenny spell that holds the Dark One prisoner?

No other till I --" The unicorn replied, "Do not boast, old woman. Your death sits in that cage and hears you. You were out on the road hunting for your own death. But I spared you the finding of it, and you should be grateful for that. They hurt her, but she did not draw back. Keep your poor shadows, if you will, but let us go. Do you think I chose this meager magic, sprung of stupidity, because I never knew the true witchery?

I play tricks with dogs and monkeys because I cannot touch the grass, but I know the difference. And now you ask me to give up the sight of you, the presence of your power. I told Rukh I'd feed his liver to the harpy if I had to, and so I would.

And to keep you I'd take your friend Schmendrick, and I'd --" She raged herself to gibberish, and at last to silence. You must tear out your own, and not expect to get it back. The true witches know that.

All witches weep like that. She turned and walked swiftly toward her wagon, but suddenly she turned again and grinned her rubbly grin. No, I had to give you an aspect they could understand, and a horn they could see.

These days, it takes a cheap carnival witch to make folk recognize a real unicorn. You'd do much better to stay with me and be false, for in this whole world only the Red Bull will know you when he sees you. III Schmendrick came back a little before dawn, slipping between the cages as silently as water. Only the harpy made a sound as he went by. But I asked him a riddle, and it always takes him all night to solve riddles. Next time, I'll tell him a joke and keep him busy for a week.

You never would wonder about that. They resign themselves to hunting somewhere else; but, before they leave, one of the hunters calls out a warning to the Unicorn that she may be the last of her kind. This revelation disturbs the Unicorn, and though she initially dismisses it, eventually doubt and worry drive her to leave her forest. She travels through the land and discovers that humans no longer even recognize her; instead they see a pretty white mare.

She encounters a talking butterfly who speaks in riddles and songs and initially dodges her questions about the other unicorns. Eventually, the butterfly issues a warning that her kind have been herded to a far away land by a creature known as the Red Bull. She continues to search for other unicorns. During her journey, she is taken captive by a traveling carnival led by witch Mommy Fortuna, who uses magical spells to create the illusion that regular animals are in fact creatures of myth and legend.

The Unicorn finds herself the only true legendary creature among the group, save for the harpy, Celaeno. Schmendrick, a magician traveling with the carnival, sees the Unicorn for what she is, and he frees her in the middle of the night. The Unicorn frees the other creatures including Celaeno, who kills Mommy Fortuna and Rukh, her hunchbacked assistant. The Unicorn and Schmendrick continue traveling in an attempt to reach the castle of King Haggard, where the Red Bull resides.

When Schmendrick is captured by bandits, the Unicorn comes to his rescue and attracts the attention of Molly Grue, the bandit leader's wife. Together, the three continue their journey and arrive at Hagsgate, a town under Haggard's rule and the first one he had conquered when he claimed his kingdom.

A resident of Hagsgate named Drinn informs them of a curse that stated that their town would continue to share in Haggard's fortune until such a time that someone from Hagsgate would bring Haggard's castle down. Drinn goes on to claim that he discovered a baby boy in the town's marketplace one night in winter. He knew that the child was the one the prophecy spoke of, but he left the baby where he found it, not wanting the prophecy to come true.

King Haggard found the baby later that evening and adopted it. Molly, Schmendrick and the Unicorn leave Hagsgate and continue toward Haggard's castle, but on their way they are attacked by the Red Bull. The Unicorn runs, but is unable to escape the bull. In an effort to aid her, Schmendrick unwittingly turns the Unicorn into a human woman. Confused by the change, the Red Bull gives up the pursuit and disappears.

The change has disastrous consequences on the Unicorn, who suffers tremendous shock at the sudden feeling of mortality in her human body. Schmendrick tells the unicorn that he is immortal and that he cannot make real magic unless he is mortal, and encourages her to continue her quest.

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The three continue to Haggard's castle, where Schmendrick introduces the Unicorn as "Lady Amalthea" to throw off Haggard's suspicions. They manage to convince Haggard to allow them to serve him in his court, with the hopes of gathering clues as to the location of the other unicorns.

Haggard eventually reveals to Amalthea that the unicorns are trapped in the sea for his own benefit, because the unicorns are the only things that make him happy. He then openly accuses Amalthea of coming to his kingdom to save the unicorns and says that he knows who she really is, but Amalthea has seemingly forgotten about her true nature and her desire to save the other unicorns.

Following clues given to them by a cat, Molly, Schmendrick, and Amalthea find the entrance to the Red Bull's lair. When the Red Bull attacks them, Schmendrick changes Amalthea back to her original form. Fortuna keeps the immortal harpy Celaeno captive as well and acknowledges the dangers of caging such a monster, but deems the risk secondary to the deed's recognition and prestige. While held captive, the unicorn is befriended by Schmendrick, [5] an incompetent magician in the service of Mommy Fortuna.

With the help of Schmendrick, the Unicorn escapes, in the process freeing Celaeno, who kills Fortuna and her henchman Ruhk. The Unicorn and Schmendrick later gain a second traveling companion Molly Grue, the careworn lover of Captain Cully the disappointing "reality" behind the Robin Hood legend. When the Unicorn nears the seaside castle of King Haggard, the keeper of the Red Bull, she encounters the animal, which turns out to be a monstrous fire elemental.

At the last moment before her capture, Schmendrick uses his unpredictable magic and transforms her into a human woman with white knee-length hair. With her in this guise, the Red Bull is uninterested and departs. The Unicorn suffers tremendous shock at the feeling of mortality in her body. While Molly wraps the Unicorn's human form in a blanket, Schmendrick states that the magic, not he, chose the form, and promises that he will return her to normal after the quest is complete.

Haggard is at first unwelcoming, and Schmendrick introduces the Unicorn as his niece Lady Amalthea. Nonetheless, Haggard consents to lodge the trio, replacing his more competent on-call wizard, Mabruk, with Schmendrick, and setting Molly Grue to work in his scullery.

Mabruk himself leaves when he recognizes "Amalthea" for what she truly is, and jeers that by allowing her into his castle Haggard has invited his own doom.

Caught in her newfound emotions, she struggles with thoughts of abandoning her quest for the sake of mortal love.Dancing along her horn, he saluted her with his curling feelers.

I have no time. She never could abide the smell of any beast, even a cat or a cow, let alone a wild thing. Molly Grue, the third of the travelers, seems simply to embody every womanly trait. Deer love and envy unicorns. He made a frantic, foolish, flying leap and landed on Rukh's back, hugging the dark man dumb and blind with his long arms.

You are just as beautiful as our mothers said.

ELTON from Denton
Browse my other articles. I have only one hobby: music. I love exploring ePub and PDF books daintily.
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