The Last Day of the Unicorn

The final days of the last unicorn. Short Story of the end of a species.

Last Unicorn

I

Bentl stood at the edge of the bush, his single sharp horn pointed skyward, not daring to set foot in the cleared area of the rocky beach as he watched the first rays of the sun appear on the horizon. The sky was aglow with shades of red, yellow and orange reminding Bentl of the many times he and Bamin had watched the sunrise over the blue waters.

Bentl tried to understand why Bamin had to leave him. Thinking about her and the way she left made Bentl's heart ache. If only she hadn't been so trusting of the others. That was the only answer Bentl could give for the hurt he felt. She must have been unaware of the treachery of the humans. She wouldn't have left him for any other reason.

At first, Bentl thought she would return to his side when the days shortened and the nights turned cold. The days shortened. The nights grew cold. The snows came. The loneliness continued. The next spring, as the other forest people began their spring mating games, Bentl searched for signs of Bamin.

Bentl could remember her gentle touch, her soothing voice, her soft white fur and her body heat. Often in the fresh morning light, Bentl would hear the sound of her gentle laugh, smell her scent on the early morning breeze. Sometime he could almost hear her soft tones. As he stood higher to hear the familiar sound, Bentl would hear only the sound of the wind. Then the pain would start. Not the pain of a wound, Bentl could live with that. This was a deeper pain, different.

Bentl tried to think of other things to keep the hurt from becoming unbearable. He carefully looked around. He had learned long ago that if he let himself be seen by the humans of this area they would try to hurt him, as they must have hurt Bamin. The sounds that Bentl had become accustomed to, and ignored unless they changed in intensity, pitch or volume, suddenly ceased. The little creatures instantly stopped their endless scurrying about. The flying ones became silent. The sounds of the wind and the forest seemed to fade. The silence was a warning to Bentl.

As he quietly withdrew to the cover of the bush, he held his head up high, his single, majestic horn pointing skyward, sniffing the air to determine the type and location of the danger. Bentl cursed the feeling of loneliness that had caused him to carelessly wander to the shore where he had only one escape route in case of danger. The scent he recognized as the odor of the humans. The same foul smells he had sensed around the place where he had last seen Bamin.

II

"Over here, Adam." The voice of Sam Tillotson was the type of voice one could not ignore for long. Sam, large and loud, was the foreman of the logging company that was clearing the land and destroying Bentl’s world. Sam was accustomed to using his strong voice to get things done. Sam’s head still ached with the pain of his Saturday night at Scotty’s Bar. The other man, Adam, at 18 was much younger than Sam and a little intimidated by the rough talking gang boss. Adam strode slowly toward the place Sam was indicating as the place to begin tracking. As he approached Sam, Adam wondered what it would be like to actually kill one of those magnificent trophy animals.

Winning the annual trophy contest at Scotty’s Roadhouse has been Adam’s dream ever since he was old enough to enter the competition. This year would be different. Adam had listened to the older hunters telling their tales of award winning kills. He had listened, not only to what the hunters said but also to what they didn’t say. Over the years Adam had heard the stories, listened to the description of the animals, watched the hunters as they used various phrases to describe the location of their prize winning bucks.

As he gained experience, Adam became aware of the misdirection most of the experienced outdoormen would use to protect their hunting area. Taking careful note of the description of various locations, Adam would follow the mental pictures painted by the successful hunters over a couple of drinks. “Turn off the main highway just past the old Weber place and follow the logging trail past the cold water spring..." and “100 yards past Joe Niva’s garage you turn through the bush until you come to an aspen grove and just past the fallen oak you’ll find a path...”

Adam was never able to find the locations the talkers referred to. He decided that the hunters must have been lying to protect their favorite hunting spots. This year would be different. This year he had a promise from Sam Tillotson himself. Sam would take Adam with him on Sunday and show him where the big trophies could be found.

III

Bentl stood motionless. His every sense awakened by the scent of the humans. The gentle wind was coming through the brush and out over the rocky beach where he had been only moments before. Quietly the mature buck retreated into the dense forest undergrowth. Running silently, Bentl followed a course parallel to the shore. Trying to keep distance between him and the hunters, Bentl turned inland and continued running in a slight arc. Using sight, smell and a genetically programmed survival sense, Bentl formed a mental picture of the hunters and fixed their location in his mind.

Instinct and experience told Bentl to keep running until every last trace of the humans was gone from his nostrils and every last sound of the hunters was gone from his ears. Then Bentl thought of Bamin. If there was any chance these hunters could lead Bentl to his lost companion he must stay close. Bentl slowed and began walking toward the place where he knew he would find the hunters.

IV

It was Saturday night. The night when all the workers gathered at Scotty’s to drink off the week’s aches and dust and reminisce about the old days and how they would out-smart the dumb bucks. Sam Tillotson was there as usual at the corner table. Everyone knew the corner table was Sam’s on a Saturday night.

Constable Ned Robinson was there, too, sitting at the bar with his back to the tables, watching the customer's reflection in the big mirror behind the bar. Ned was there every Saturday night. Ned, short, balding and overweight, had a dislike for the noisy and free spirited logging men with their strong, young bodies. He was there, in his ill-fitting brown uniform with white shirt and starched collar that he could never keep buttoned, to make sure nothing got out of hand. Ned secretly hoped things would get out of hand. That would give him a chance to use the nightstick and billy he kept hanging from his belt.

As the only constable in town, Ned was given a share of the fines handed out by the local justice of the peace. Over the last year, with his salary and his share of the fines, Ned made a comfortable living for himself and his roommate, Polly. Ned was pacing his drinks. His plan, as usual, was to appear as drunk as the other patrons but to remain sober enough to handle any problem and arrest any troublemakers.
Tonight, as he nursed his beer, Ned carefully watched Sam Tillotson and his crew of road-workers at the corner table. This rowdy bunch was usually good at stirring up some late night trouble.

Polly entered the bar, smiled at Ned, and walked over to the corner table, Sam Tillotson’s table. Sam grinned as Polly, dressed in a form fitting, low cut black dress, approached his table. “Evening, Miss Polly, you goin’ to join us for an evening of drinking and dancing?” “Not tonight, Sam, I just brought this package for you from that taxidermy fella.” With that she winked and leaned over Sam and slowly offered him the package while Ned watched from the bar. Polly sat down next to Sam as he opened the package. He stood and held up the contents of the box for all to see.

A beautiful pair of white fur gloves. “Ain’t they beauties," Sam said to no one and to everyone. “Bagged me a pregnant doe last winter. These gloves is made from the unborn fawns she was carrying.” Sam’s command of the language deteriorated in direct proportion to the amount of alcohol consumed. The “oohs” and “ahhs” from the crowded bar gave Sam the courage to confront Ned.

Walking fast to control the sideways motion caused by the alcohol in his blood stream, Sam crossed the dimly lit bar and was in front of Ned before Polly could stop him. “See these gloves?” Sam loudly asked the deputy. “They’s made out of the hides of two u-nee-korn fawns from that doe you thought I poached. You couldn’t charge me ‘cause you never could find ‘er.” Encouraged by the cheers from the corner table, Sam continued, “You told us they was no more of them u-nee-korns left. You said they was all killed. Extinct, was what you said. These gloves proves you was wrong. They’s still u-nee-korns in them woods. Ned, I’ll tell you what. Ain’t nothin’ you can do. You bring me up on charges. You do that and everyone in this bar will swear they saw me buy these gloves from a travelin’ salesman.” With that, Sam staggered and turned to head back to his table.

Ned knew Sam was right. He couldn’t charge him for poaching, but as he watched the drunken logger turn away he quietly removed the nightstick from his belt and brought it down sharply on Sam’s head. Someone screamed. Sam fell in a heap on the floor. “You two," Ned said to the men nearest him at the bar, “give me a hand taking this fool to jail to sleep off his drunk. He’ll have one hell of a headache in the mornin’.”

V

Early Sunday morning Adam walked to the jail to pickup the man he thought could lead him to the trophy bucks. “G’morning Ned, how’s Sam this morning?”
“None the worse for the wear, but he’s got to learn to control his drinking and stop flirting with Polly. Both is dangerous to his well being. No charges this time. Just take him and get out of here. His head ain’t broke. It’ll just feel that way for a while.”

Adam helped the staggering Sam out into daylight and managed to get him into the right-hand seat of the pickup. Pouring strong coffee into a metal cup, Adam handed it to Sam. “This is the morning you promised to take me to the trophy hunting spot, remember?” “Hell." Sam couldn’t remember who he was much less why he was in the pickup. His head hurt. His mouth was dry and he quickly took a sip of the scalding coffee. “Hell boy, you trying to kill me?” The next sip went down better.

Sam began to sort out his mind. Last night, that’s right, last night he was at Scotty’s. With the coffee cutting through the fog, he slowly remembered the events of last night. Polly? Ned? Gloves? Adam? Sam began to put the evening’s events together. Where were those gloves? He jammed his hands in his coat pocket and felt the soft texture of the new gloves. Now he remembered. Polly brought the gloves to him at Scotty’s. After he had shown the gloves to that damned Ned Robinson that things got a little fuzzy.

Sam vaguely remembered that he had promised the kid he would take him out to do some scouting for trophy horns. “Keep on the main road for a couple of miles out of town," Sam managed to say between swallows of the strong, hot coffee.

VI

Bentl cautiously approached the thicket that would hide him from the hunters. He could smell them. He knew they were there. There was another faint scent Bentl could detect as the gentle wind drifted toward him. He couldn’t define it but it somehow seemed familiar.

Quietly, Bentl approached the edge of the thicket and then he saw the two men. The big one was saying, “This is where I got that pregnant doe last year. She went down with one clean shot. Didn’t know she was carrying until I gutted her. Found two dead little ones. That’s what these gloves is made from. Maybe the buck is still hangin’ around this area.” With that he pulled the white gloves from his coat pocket and Bentl caught the familiar scent. “Bamin?” He thought. No, it wasn’t quite like her but it was a little like her. Not sure of what to make of the new scent, Bentl slowly backed away from the hunters.

Not fast enough. Sam caught sight of the majestic white animal in the bush and ran to the pickup to retrieve his rifle. Opening the chamber while running towards the thicket Sam tripped, dropped the rifle and cartridges and went crashing into the bush. “Don’t just stand there, kid. Help me get this gun loaded. That was a trophy buck.” Adam quickly picked up the cartridges, handed them to Sam and said, “No killing! It’s out of season.” “There ain’t no season on trophies," Sam replied. Grabbing the shells from Adam, Sam headed off toward the tracks left by the big animal. “There they are. Look at the size of them friggin’ tracks. Sure must be a big ’un. Follow me, kid, and watch your step.”

Bentl circled around to get behind the hunters so he could get closer and find out what the strangely familiar scent was. As he fell into position behind the duo, he could smell the overpowering smell of the humans. He could catch the other scent from time to time. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the hunters realized that they were walking in a circle. He had to find the source of the strange scent.

As Bentl watched, the bigger of the two hunters reached in his pouch and drew out two white things that looked to Bentl to be furry hands. He inserted his hands inside the fur. The scent became distinct. Bentl’s mind brought back all the days he and Bamin had spent together. The scent was Bamin, yet, not Bamin.

Thousands of years of evolution had taught wild animals many things. One thing it taught was the ability to recognize offspring by scent. Bentl’s slow powers of logic began to form an image of Bamin and her fawns. He couldn’t see them but he knew they must be close.

As Bentl watched, the big hunter picked up a handful of dried leaves and let them fall slowly to the ground. “Winds coming from behind us. The critter might have slipped around and could be following us. Let’s go up another hundred yards and get off the path and wait for ‘im.” Bentl watched as the two walked away and disappeared in the bush.

Rushing over to the place where the leaves had been dropped, Bentl quickly examined every scent. Strong smell of the humans, faint scent of Bamin and new scent that Bentl sensed was a mixture of his and Bamin’s. Anger welled up inside him as he slowly came to the conclusion that the white hands he saw were the skins of his, and Bamin’s, children. Anger and hate replaced caution.

Bentl lowered his head and charged into the bush where he knew he would find the humans. He saw them. His charging momentum carried him past the smaller hunter and, lowering his head, his long spear shaped horn found it’s mark in the middle of the chest of the one wearing the white fur gloves.

Sam Tillotson died. The spike horn pierced his heart and he was dead before he hit the ground. The thrust of his horn into the big hunter’s chest twisted something inside of Bentl’s neck and it snapped. With his fading strength he carefully tugged the gloves off the dead hunters' hands and laid his head to rest on the soft white fur. Then Bentl, too, was dead.

VII

Adam had no thoughts of trophies as he buried the body of the magnificent unicorn in the glade where it fell. Through tear filled eyes, he buried the two white fur gloves beside the dead trophy.

The next morning when the search party, led by Constable Ned Robinson, found Adam and the body of Sam Tillotson they also found a fresh grave decorated with wild flowers and the broken remains of Sam’s prized hunting rifle.