Fear snaked down Lewis’s spine. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck rose. He didn’t understand what was going on, but he could feel anger in the air, a terrible rage that didn’t belong to him, and he didn’t think was Rhona’s.
“Lewis, do you think this place is magic? Maybe Ailsa’s a real live witch.”
He shook his head. There was nothing magical about her. Ailsa’s greed and cruelty were only too human.
“There’s something magical happening here,” he said, “but it isn’t the place, it’s the unicorns. Can’t you feel their anger buzzing? It’s like the noise you hear when you stand close to a pylon.”
“Is that what that is?”
“I think they want us to find them, and to help them escape. I mean, they haven’t told me so or anything. I can sense it, if that makes any sense.” He stood up, stared around and then pointed westward. “See those tufts of spiky grass? The ground’s really spongy. I think it might follow the path of an old stream. We’re looking for a path that deer used to use, aren’t we? Could that be where deer used to come to drink?”
Rhona leapt up, animated once more. “Hurry up, Lewis! We haven’t got time to sit about, you lazy git! Mr Deacon will have a hairy fit if we’re late back.”
Through the wood they squelched, following the boggy path.
Then Lewis saw a large, oddly shaped object, half hidden in the undergrowth. It was a crudely carved unicorn, green with moss, blown or knocked over. The unicorn’s front hooves were sunk in dead leaves, slowly rotting in the damp ground.
First, Lewis tried to right the unicorn, but it was far too heavy. When that failed, he checked the statue for a plaque, but there was none visible, and no writing was carved on the wood. Rhona searched too, getting increasingly cross.
“How are we meant to find the herd when there aren’t any more clues?” she muttered. “We’ll need to get back, Lewis. This is a deid end.”
He shook his head. How could that be when he could feel hope fluttering in the air, light as butterflies?
“Sit down here, Rhona, please. I think we need to be still for a moment.”
For a long moment they sat in silence. When Rhona’s body tensed, Lewis realised that she was feeling the magic around them too.
“They know we’re comin’,” she whispered. Then pointed, suddenly distracted. “Aw look, a squirrel!”
Lightning-quick, the bright-eyed red squirrel scrambled across the statue’s back. When it reached the unicorn’s horn, it stopped for a second and looked back at them. Its liquid eyes stared straight into Lewis’s.
As it scuttled up the trunk of a beech tree, Lewis leapt to his feet.
“That’s the clue!” he shouted, his voice echoing round the wood.
Rhona snorted. “Don’t be daft. Unicorns can’t climb trees.”
“No, the unicorn’s horn’s the clue! It’s pointing us in the right direction.”
He started running, his feet crunching over dead leaves, hoping Rhona would follow. On and on he ran, dodging between the thin trunks of the birch trees, leaping over stumps, his determination growing with every step.
I can do this. I can keep my promise to the dark unicorn. I’m going to help.
“Lewis! Stop!”
He jumped as though he’d been electrocuted, his bravado dissolving, convinced somebody must be chasing after them, brandishing a gun. But there was nobody there. An ugly red-painted sign was nailed to the tree in front of them:
DANGER!
KEEP OUT!
Beech trees in this area are susceptible to sudden branch drop.