Inspired by Brian Doyle’s “Joyas Voladoras” & Caroline Goodwin’s teaching
Consider the unicorn
“Described since antiquity as a beast with a single large, pointed, spiraling horn projecting from its forehead . . . depicted in ancient seals of the Indus Valley Civilization and . . . mentioned by the ancient Greeks in accounts of natural history by various writers, including Ctesias, Strabo, Pliny the Younger, and Aelian.”— Unicorn, Wikipedia
A magical animal with a horn capable of purifying poisoned water and healing the sick. Only a virgin could tame such an animal.
The Hunt of the Unicorn at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City depicts the unicorn in seven tapestries woven around 1500 in Brussels or Liège.
I believed in unicorns when I was a child. I thought they lived among dragons in the realm of King Arthur, Sir Lancelot, and Lady Guinevere.
One day while driving, I heard a young woman on a radio show talking about the time in college when she asked her friends, in all seriousness, if unicorns were endangered or extinct.
In my teens or twenties, I somehow crossed over from believing in unicorns to knowing they don’t exist and never did, but I don’t know how it happened.
Years later, my partner’s friend, Ed, stayed with us for a month or two while he rebuilt his father’s house. The three of us stayed up late most nights eating peanuts in the shell, drinking beer, and spinning ridiculous stories and scenarios related to unicorns. One night, the two of them authored a Wikipedia entry for unicorns that stated the collective name, like a murder of crows or a congress of ravens, is a rainbow of unicorns. In response to editor queries for references, my partner, Luke, and Ed cited elaborately titled ancient tomes they’d conjured over another round of beer. Unable to locate these mythical books, the Wikipedia page editors eventually removed “a group of unicorns is known as a rainbow of unicorns.”
Another night, Luke and I came up with a unicorn-themed practical joke: I would sew a lavender unicorn button that I’d found onto one of Ed’s T-shirts when he wasn’t home. While he was shopping for groceries or grabbing a coffee or swinging a hammer, he’d discover the plastic unicorn and laugh, or so we imagined. But as we approached Ed’s bedroom door, it became clear our entry would be a violation of privacy so we dropped the idea. Well, I dropped the idea for Ed.
The next day, I sewed the button onto one of Luke’s T-shirts, folded it, and tucked it back into his stack of white Hanes. Later in the week, as we stood next to each other cooking dinner, I saw the lavender unicorn on his shirt and howled until the tears streamed down my face. Bewildered, he asked what on earth I was laughing at and all I could do was touch the unicorn button. He looked up at me, shocked, and asked, “How did you do that? How did you put that on my shirt just now?” Between my yelping shrieks, I explained that I didn’t put it on just then, I’d sewn it on days before. Neither of us could stop laughing as we imagined what his team of engineers and colleagues must have thought of the jaunty little lavender unicorn with a pawing hoof on his chest — no one had said a word about it all day.
When we told Ed about the joke, he didn’t laugh easily. There were questions. It was a mistake and we had crossed a line even in the momentary thought of playing it out on him. Though we hadn’t entered his room or touched his things, our willingness to consider it must have betrayed his trust in us in a small way, in a way that couldn’t be defined tangibly. Ed was free to leave us at any time, of course, but he was living with us because he trusted us, he had brought his things and settled in, made a decision against renting another place because we had invited him to stay with us.
In the last tapestry from The Hunt of the Unicorn, a delicate unicorn with a tail like a fleur de lys is captured and chained to a pomegranate tree, a symbol of fertility and marriage in the late Middle Ages. Descriptions of this panel, “The Unicorn in Captivity,” include rich symbology. The golden chain around the creature’s neck represents marriage, the red marks on her body represent fruit stains, and the low circular fence, not a true restraint. Historians also say the height of the fence, if seen literally, would be easy to jump over, if the unicorn wanted to.
But the scene is disturbing. Aren’t those red splotches, in fact, blood? The title of the series is The Hunt of the Unicorn. Is it possible that the tranquil repose claimed by historians is actually exhaustion and stress? Even perceived confinement can contaminate the will and still the agency of a person trapped.
By the time my father brought his mistress home for dinner, he had nearly lost his job as an American Airlines pilot for showing up drunk at work. He had caused a scandal in the neighborhood for drinking alone with Mrs. Rose, an alcoholic widow, and he’d called my mother from jail with a flimsy story about his innocence after a night of boozing at Bimbo’s nightclub.
The night he brought home his mistress, my mother cooked steak and served them whiskey, because that’s what my father wanted. My mother had two small children and no salary, no family in this country. She didn’t know yet how to drive a car. After dinner, my father left with his mistress, and later that night, at the bottom of a ravine off Highway 1 to Stinson Beach, my father’s body was found next to his blue Peugeot.
In the early morning, I watched my mother collapse in front of the police at our front door. Since that moment half a century ago, my mother has remained alone. My father is still the age he was when he died, and my sister is still heartbroken. The only survivor, the only one to escape, was my father’s mistress, Ruby.
