the way back; but seeing the unicorns, the names seemed cheap—they fell off. I felt around in the bag for the celery. Green stuff was always good to start with—they got so little of it, the shy ones. One of them heard the crunch of the celery snapping and took a step forward, barely into the light.
I heard Jerry’s breath go in as if someone had punched him. It was the same for him as it’d been for me the first time. Nothing that lives in a subway should be that graceful. Cats run, rats and mice scurry. But the unicorns just flow out of the darkness, and not even the cinders crunch when they put their feet down. Sometimes, if they’re playful, they walk on the rails like somebody on a tightrope, and don’t slip or make a sound. This one just took one step and stretched his neck out like a swan on the lake when it doesn’t want to come too close. The unicorn’s horn glinted, pearly, the only bright thing about him—everywhere else he was the iron-rust color of the gravel between the tracks. His eyes were so brown they were black. But the end of his horn caught the light like the edge of a knife as he stepped out. “Hey, they sharpen them back there,” Dad had said one night, when a touch of a horn drew blood from his hand. Maybe they fought among themselves; or maybe there were things down there that tried to eat them. I didn’t want to think about it.
“Give him some,” I whispered at Jerry, annoyed again; he was making them wait. “Throw it. They won’t eat out of your hand.” Jerry tore off some lettuce and threw it down on the tracks. The brown one looked at him for a moment, then put its head down to eat. You could see it was starving; every rib showed. But it lowered its head slow as a king sipping wine.
More came while the first was eating. Maybe he was the herd leader and had been checking the place out. Whatever, the tracks were full in a few moments—nothing but tails switching and necks stretching and eyes, those eyes. All the unicorns were dark this time, though I’d seen ones with white socks or blazes, and once a tan one with a light mane like a palomino’s. These weren’t any fatter than any others I’d seen, though, and while they ate gracefully, they did it fast. Two of them, a rusty one and a black, got rowdy and waved their horns at each other over a piece of the Danish. Jerry threw them more, and they stopped and each gobbled a piece.
They were close, right up by the platform. I’d never seen them so close. Jerry was so amazed by the whole thing, and the rusty one standing right in front of him with its lower jaw going around and around—even unicorns look a little funny when they chew—that he nearly lost his balance and fell down when the black unicorn snuck up beside him and grabbed at the rest of the Danish in his hand. Even though he was surprised, though, Jerry didn’t let go for a second. He just stood there looking at the black, while it tugged at the Danish and gazed back at him with those deep, sad eyes. I know that look. My eyes started burning, and my nose filled up. Nothing that lives in a subway should be that proud, and that hungry, and feel that helpless. Nothing that lives anywhere should. The black unicorn got the last piece of Danish away from Jerry and ate it, delicately, but fast. Jerry looked a moment at the hand the unicorn had touched, and then wiped his nose on the sleeve of his jacket.
All their heads went up then, all at once, as if they were a herd of gazelles in a nature movie when the lion’s coming. They stared down the tracks toward the downtown end—and there was just a flicker of motion, and they were gone, headed uptown and into the dark too fast to really see. Jerry looked over at me and opened his mouth—then shut it again as he started to hear what they’d heard: the ticking and the rumbling and the squeal of metal a long way down at the next station. I crumpled up the bag and stuck it inside my jacket. We waited for the train to
I heard Jerry’s breath go in as if someone had punched him. It was the same for him as it’d been for me the first time. Nothing that lives in a subway should be that graceful. Cats run, rats and mice scurry. But the unicorns just flow out of the darkness, and not even the cinders crunch when they put their feet down. Sometimes, if they’re playful, they walk on the rails like somebody on a tightrope, and don’t slip or make a sound. This one just took one step and stretched his neck out like a swan on the lake when it doesn’t want to come too close. The unicorn’s horn glinted, pearly, the only bright thing about him—everywhere else he was the iron-rust color of the gravel between the tracks. His eyes were so brown they were black. But the end of his horn caught the light like the edge of a knife as he stepped out. “Hey, they sharpen them back there,” Dad had said one night, when a touch of a horn drew blood from his hand. Maybe they fought among themselves; or maybe there were things down there that tried to eat them. I didn’t want to think about it.
“Give him some,” I whispered at Jerry, annoyed again; he was making them wait. “Throw it. They won’t eat out of your hand.” Jerry tore off some lettuce and threw it down on the tracks. The brown one looked at him for a moment, then put its head down to eat. You could see it was starving; every rib showed. But it lowered its head slow as a king sipping wine.
More came while the first was eating. Maybe he was the herd leader and had been checking the place out. Whatever, the tracks were full in a few moments—nothing but tails switching and necks stretching and eyes, those eyes. All the unicorns were dark this time, though I’d seen ones with white socks or blazes, and once a tan one with a light mane like a palomino’s. These weren’t any fatter than any others I’d seen, though, and while they ate gracefully, they did it fast. Two of them, a rusty one and a black, got rowdy and waved their horns at each other over a piece of the Danish. Jerry threw them more, and they stopped and each gobbled a piece.
They were close, right up by the platform. I’d never seen them so close. Jerry was so amazed by the whole thing, and the rusty one standing right in front of him with its lower jaw going around and around—even unicorns look a little funny when they chew—that he nearly lost his balance and fell down when the black unicorn snuck up beside him and grabbed at the rest of the Danish in his hand. Even though he was surprised, though, Jerry didn’t let go for a second. He just stood there looking at the black, while it tugged at the Danish and gazed back at him with those deep, sad eyes. I know that look. My eyes started burning, and my nose filled up. Nothing that lives in a subway should be that proud, and that hungry, and feel that helpless. Nothing that lives anywhere should. The black unicorn got the last piece of Danish away from Jerry and ate it, delicately, but fast. Jerry looked a moment at the hand the unicorn had touched, and then wiped his nose on the sleeve of his jacket.
All their heads went up then, all at once, as if they were a herd of gazelles in a nature movie when the lion’s coming. They stared down the tracks toward the downtown end—and there was just a flicker of motion, and they were gone, headed uptown and into the dark too fast to really see. Jerry looked over at me and opened his mouth—then shut it again as he started to hear what they’d heard: the ticking and the rumbling and the squeal of metal a long way down at the next station. I crumpled up the bag and stuck it inside my jacket. We waited for the train to
Similar Books
