Long ago, before the trees could speak, before the winds were fixed to the corners of the earth, a unicorn loved a maiden.
He came to her, as she sat by his pool in the forest, and he laid his head in her lap. She stroked his silver mane, looked into his silver eyes, and knew that she loved him as well.
Yet he was an immortal unicorn, and she a mortal child.
* * *
Not so long ago, a young man loved a young woman.
He came to her, at the university they attended, beside the lake where she studied, and he rested his head in her lap. She ran her fingers through his unruly hair, looked down into his brown eyes, and she, too, fell in love.
Because they were both mortal children, they lay together that very night, and many nights after. When she conceived, halfway through their final semester, they decided to marry. The day after graduation they spoke their vows with joy beside the lake, while the winds blew warm from their fixed places and the trees whispered their names, in voices no mortal could hear.
* * *
The unicorn left the maiden and ran through the forest, chasing the winds. Each breeze he caught said the same thing: “You must run farther still. Another has the answer you seek.” At last he stood at the very edge of the world, where the furthermost wind told him, “There is a way. Do you truly wish to take it?”
With a single nod of his head, a single glint of sunlight reflecting off his horn, the unicorn said, “I truly do.”
* * *
The young woman bore twin girls, with silver hair that shimmered beneath the hospital lights and silver eyes that stared wide at the world. As the young man held them, he felt a shiver of fear beneath his joy. Yet still he named them, as he and his wife had decided: the older Sara for her recently buried grandmother; the younger Amelia for the sister he'd lost long ago.
* * *
The unicorn returned to the maiden, wearing a young man’s form. Yet still the maiden knew him. “I would always know you,” she said, for in those days knowing was not yet bound to any one name, any one shape. She drew the unicorn close and they lay together, amid the silent trees. When the dawn broke, she was no longer a maiden.
When the dawn broke, he was no longer an immortal beast.
* * *
The young man’s daughters grew swiftly. Amelia turned into a smiling, dreaming girl, forever gazing out windows. She heard the trees whispering to one another, and while she didn’t understand their words, the joy behind them was clear. She told her mother, and her mother nodded, encouraging without understanding.
Sara turned into a scowling, angry girl, forever slamming windows shut. She too heard the trees, but when she told her father, fear flashed across his features, and Sara grew frightened as well.
As the girls moved through the years, the young man’s fear only deepened.
* * *
The unicorn had known the price he would pay and accepted it.
But the woman had not known and did not accept. She loved the unicorn still, but now her love was darkened by grief. That grief never left her, not even when she bore first a son, then a daughter. As the years passed she watched lines deepen the unicorn’s face, watched his silver hair fade to gray, and she knew all those years were nothing, beside what the unicorn had lost.
“Do not grieve,” the unicorn said. He only found his wife more beautiful with the changes of each year. “Nothing is ever forgotten. Nothing is truly lost.”
“That may be comfort to a unicorn,” the woman said, “but not to a mortal child.”
* * *
The year she turned sixteen, Amelia stole out into the night. She waited shivering beneath the trees, at the edge between forest and town, for a boy who didn’t show.
As she waited the trees whispered, “Nothing is ever forgotten. Nothing is truly lost.” For the first time, Amelia understood their words. She laughed with joy, all thoughts of the boy gone. From the corners of the earth the winds reached out, tugging at her ankles, urging her to run. Amelia lifted a foot, feeling as if she were balanced between earth and air, light enough to fly away.
A hand gripped her shoulder, pushing her down.
“What are you doing?” Sara demanded.
“Nothing,” Amelia lied, as the wind died and the trees fell silent.
“Good. Let’s go home.”
Amelia heard the fear in her sister’s words, and because she loved her sister—because she didn’t want to frighten her sister—she followed Sara away.
Back in their room Sara shut all the windows, drew all the shades, turned her music so loud Amelia couldn’t hear the trees.
Sara relaxed a little then, for with the windows closed and the music on, she couldn’t hear them, either.
* * *
“Our daughters will run with the wind,” the unicorn said. “Our sons will pass the blood on to their children. Our children will carry the gift of our love for all time.” But still the woman felt no comfort, not then and not when the unicorn died, only a season later.
His son and his daughter went out to bury him. In the forest, as they dug into the earth, the trees found voices and softly, so softly, called to the unicorn’s children. The son didn’t hear and continued his digging.
But the daughter heard, and halted. She looked to her brother and saw grief in his brown eyes, thought of her mother and saw the same. So she heeded the calls of the trees, trading grief for joy, laughing as she flew away with the winds, deep into the forest.
Her brother cried after her, but she didn’t answer. He buried his father alone, returned to his mother, and together they bore a double grief.
* * *
Sara kept the windows shut, but she couldn’t keep her sister home. Night after night Amelia crept off to dance with the wind, to listen to the trees. Alone with her fear and her silence, Sara waited, wondering each night whether her sister would return.
Her father waited as well, remembering another child, years ago, and the fights she’d had with her parents. He said nothing to his daughters. He would spare them the anger and bitterness the fighting had caused, if he could spare them nothing else.
His wife knew nothing of the danger. She slept peacefully beside him, dreaming untroubled dreams.
Amelia knew nothing of the danger, so when she returned home, her dreams were untroubled as well.
* * *
After a time the woman’s son married, and his wife came to live with them. Grandsons followed, one child after another, and in them the woman found, not an end to grief, but a means to set grief aside for a time.
But her last grandchild was a girl. The woman knew the danger, and strove to keep the child from the wind and the trees. Instead she taught her cooking, and weaving, and other household tasks.
The girl fought with her grandmother, who wouldn’t let her outside alone.
She fought with her father, who arranged her marriage not out of love, but because he was certain once she was married—once she was a woman—she would be safe.
The wedding was outdoors, and a spring storm blew in halfway through. The girl felt the wind, dancing over her skin. She heard the trees, whose voices she’d been kept from all her life.
She made her decision in an instant. She followed the wind and was gone, leaving her puzzled groom at the altar alone.
This was one grief too many for the woman, who took to her bed and stayed there, her back turned to the window and the trees.
* * *
One night while Amelia was out, a spring storm blew in.
Sara’s music couldn’t cover the sound of wind through the trees. Sara hid beneath the covers, but then she heard shattering glass and wind crashing through her window.
“Amelia,” she whispered, making her decision in an instant. She cast the blankets aside and ran for the forest, ignoring the rain, calling her sister’s name, fearing that if she didn’t bring Amelia back, no one would.
She found Amelia at the edge between forest and town, running hard for home. Sara grabbed her, held her. “I thought I’d lost you,” she said.
“Nothing is ever lost or forgotten,” Amelia answered. The sisters held each other in silence, while the rain stopped and the winds slowed their blowing through the trees.
“Amelia,” the trees whispered. “Sara.”
The call was too strong to ignore. Sara turned toward the woods, frightened, eager. Amelia took her hand.
Together they ran through the forest, dancing with the wind, listening to the trees. Together they ran, through all the stormy night.
But when morning came, only one of them returned.
* * *
The woman died late that spring, with her son and her grandsons beside her. The sky was clear the day they buried her, the wind soft. If the trees mourned, no one heard.
The son carried his grief from the grave with him, knowing his sons would carry it in turn. Nothing would ever be lost or forgotten.
* * *
When the man saw his daughter return alone, he drew her close. “Amelia,” he said.
Amelia bowed her head, tears falling against his chest. “I couldn’t hold her,” she cried. “I couldn’t bring her home.”
The man knew grief then, but he also knew joy. “I feared,” he said, “that I would lose you both.”
He told his daughter everything then, and his wife as well: about the sister who’d left his family long ago; about other daughters, lost to other generations, since a time before the trees could speak, before the winds were fixed to the corners of the earth.
Amelia heard it all, and she understood at last. She continued to run through the forest, sometimes for the joy of running, sometimes to call for her sister and unknown aunt. The trees whispered their names back to her, but revealed nothing more.
Her father’s fear diminished each night Amelia returned, until he understood as well.
In time Amelia fell in love, and married, and bore sons and daughters of her own. She told her children all her father had told her, so that they would know his grief, and hers.
But she also took them with her, when she ran on windy nights, so that they would know her joy: her daughters by hearing the voices of the trees, her sons by understanding the voices their own daughters would one day hear.
And she knew that nothing is ever lost or forgotten.