Whatever--No

He had a lot of cobblestones on which to step to get to his final destination. He took a hold of the reins, but the Christmas unicorns didn’t want to go. They stamped their gold hooves, digging in. They just didn’t budge!    

The top-hatted, bowtie-wearing man grumbled. He took the carriage’s whip and flicked it at the horses, them snorting angrily. Icy frost resulted from stress. The carriage driver ordered the unicorns to pull the carriage. The unicorns neighed, tossing their heads. But no hooves went forward.

“Fine!”

The man jumped down from his carriage and grumbled about the stupid animals in front of him. He reset the harnesses so the unicorns were better equipped. They snorted again, but stood still. The man threatened to sell them to the circus or, worse, alienate them to some island out there, where they’d have to learn their lesson. “This is my life. Why can’t you two listen?”

The unicorns chomped at their bits.

The driver, pursing his lips and glaring at the stubborn animals, gripped the reins as hard as possible. White flecks of snow flitted past the coachman, exacerbating the problem. He roared for the animals to get a move on, he realized he was late for the show! The concert started now, and he had to get there. He wanted some time to himself—he wanted to just be alone. He didn’t want people around. he was going to the concert to let the music swell in his heart, swell in his ears, bring him back to the days when his mother and father and he would enjoy the concerts from so long ago. He loved the concerts, but now that it was snowing, and the unicorns wouldn’t budge, the man growled at them.

The unicorns shook their heads. Or at least the man thought he saw them do that like a human would. What?! The man got the whip and started whipping the poor unicorns until they bucked and kicked, damaging the wooden carriage. “This is my carriage! You stupid—“

The man hurled down from the carriage, whip in hand and cruelly threatened the unicorns with alienation from such a job. They’d go where they please—they wouldn’t be a nuisance to others! He tried to talk down to them, and as the night wore on, felt they would pull the carriage for such a king as he if they would fear his whip. He returned to his spot, and the whip came down, a taste of fire upon their backs! The poor unicorns kept kicking and kicking, and then suddenly bolted. The carriage jerked this way, rolled that way and eventually the coachman had to bail out before hitting a lamppost. He would have broken his neck or something terrible would have happened. Luckily, he knew what to do when it came to such a terrible event such as this one.

The coachman, after having thrown himself off such a device and tucked and nearly hit a tree nearby, heard the heart-sinking, sickening crunch and crack of what was wood against what he stared in horror was a pile of wood chopped by the local woodcutter. After apologizing profusely (arms and hands waving ever so annoyingly), the coachman dashed about, looking for his whip. “Where is it?” His angry voice emitted frosty breath. He wished he was a magician—shivering and outside when he could be handed a warm cup of coffee or hot tea or hot chocolate at tonight’s concert would be perfect. But this…

He marched right up to those unicorns, but they weren’t there. The wrecked carriage and the lost whip were what was surrounding the man, pulling at him to pay attention to him like children tug at a mother’s arm to buy candy or let them have a friend over for a playdate or sleepover.

“Where…?” the man took short breaths, folding his arms into himself. He walked to the edge of the sidewalk, ignoring staring eyes. My job is lost. My carriage is killed. The unicorns...I forgot they could disappear. They are magical. I just…what’s going on with me? He arose, demandingly those unicorns’ return. “Come on, Bristle. And Tuckers. I have a concert to go to.”

Clapping along the cobblestone street here in this small town made the man turn right. Out of the snowing darkness were two horns and then two steely-eyed unicorns. They kept their distance. What concert needs a jerk like you?

One who would love to serve a local townsman. One who would offer hot chocolate to—

A disastrously frustrating owner. You wrecked your own life. What are you going to do—make a new one and, better yet, a new whip? The ice-blue-eyed unicorn narrowed her eyes. The man gave Bristle a glare. And shivered, narrowing his own eyes. Why is my life wrecked? I tried to warn them. But they won’t listen—

Because you won’t respect us. Tuckers bobbed his head, keeping rose-pink eyes on this irritated man. He looked over at him, and swallowed. He didn’t like the strong look Tuckers was giving him.

I’m sorry, you guys. Could you—you make the carriage again? Like, piece it back together with your magical horns?

No.

The man looked at them. A long time. He knew why he was freezing in this weather. He hated the small town, planned to move tomorrow. He couldn’t wait to get out of here. Soon, the wooden pile was converted into a carriage. But the man had to chop down a lot of trees in order to remake the pile of wood he had taken from the woodcutter. He begrudgingly swung that axe the following summer and spring, spraining his ankle too hard to continue. Lying flat on his back in bed one day, he looked up at the ceiling. My unicorns were trustworthy. Now they can’t just make the carriage assemble itself? They’re freaking unicorns!

The man demanded the unicorns’ unrelenting loyalty to be displayed for the carriage to come back to life. Tuckers and Bristle shook their heads, looking defiantly at their owner. The man’s mouth became a twisted pair of lips that snarled out something ugly and hurtful. The unicorns disappeared, not coming back. The man blamed them for his loss of seeing the concert, and waited for their appearance once again.

Looking for them, the man bumped into the woodcutter. “Have my wood?” He demanded.

“Uh…” The man shook his head. “No. My ankle’s—”

“Either better or worse or the same. Get it better—”

“My unicorns don’t listen to me—”

“And neither do you! Do it now.” The man grumbled about lame customers. The man balled his fists. Whatever! I’ll chop down as many trees as possible. I don’t care about healing my stupid ankle. He chopped down a lot of wood, barely making the cut for the amount of wood he had to chop down to imitate the woodcutter’s previous pile. When the woodcutter demanded a little more, the man grabbed the axe and stormed off, making the woodcutter shake his head in disappointment.

“I’ll give him wood.”

Going up to the carriage that had been wrecked, the man saw that Tuckers and Bristle’s names had been carved into the wood. Beautiful gold and black letters—all by him, the coachman—stared back at him, all splintered and fractured. Suddenly, the man jumped.

Have our names all embalmed on the carriage? Tuckers looked hard at the man. Blinking hard, the man shook his head. He backed away from the unicorns, from the woodcutter’s shop and from this town at all. He dashed away. But he knew hatred of the place he had called home for the last few years wasn’t going to wipe away having lost his parents to a carriage crash. The same carriage wreck that claimed his own carriage’s life. And almost that of his.

Do you just want to die?

Yeah. And us wish you were here to—

Do what? He spat, glowering at them, face set to stab daggers of ice into their faces. He would, if they were real.

Just be the coachman you want to be. Have us take you places—

If you had gone, we would be at the concert last year, and I would be happy!

The unicorns looked at each other. Then they looked back at the mistrustful coachman. Mr., we don’t even want to call you master. You’re not our owner—you’re an abusive jerk who doesn’t come close to friend. Just…stay away. Give the woodcutter all the trees you want. Just…go away. The unicorns stayed away from the coachman. He chopped and chopped, never stopping to take a break. Soon, his casket lay in the ground, next to that of his parents. The unicorns stood there, over his tomb, staring hard, trying not to blink tears away.

”Well,” Tuckers blinked, “that’s who he was. An angry fool who went without sleep, food, water or breaks to achieve his dream—of sitting angry-free at the concert. Hope he’s doing that somewhere out there!”

“Yeah.” Bristle said. “Guess we’ll see his bright grin every day in heaven.”

“That’s forever from now!”

“Whatever. At least he’s not mad at us anymore.”

“What was he so angry at again?”

“His parents died in a carriage accident. His cherished memories were all he had. He wanted his parents. He wanted to hold their hand while watching the coveted operas he so talked about.”

“Too angry to remind us of them. Too sad to bring them back to life.”

“Well…” The unicorns snorted and then galloped off, running faster and faster until they flew, having remembered they had wings. They could fly over things because they could soar right through the air, never missing an inhale of cold air or wetness of a cloud or a dodge from lightning or a near ear blasting of thunder. The unicorns stopped at the man’s house.

“He—”

The man sucked in a lot of air that night as he jerked awake, sitting up in bed.

A dream.

The man worked that day, chopping trees down all day. When he had topped the woodcutter’s woodpile with much, much wood, he stood back and even grinned. Then he shook the woodcutter’s hand. “Like to enter our annual contest?”

“I’m just back here to satisfy your pile.”

The woodcutter nodded. “Yes, sir!”

The man moved, with his unicorns, to somewhere east of the city. The waves rose and pounded into the sand. “My parents… they died. This town just reminds of them. The concerts, though…I want to be there. I want that warm feeling I got when being with them. I don’t want to leave this town. It makes me feel like I’m back home again. Leaving will just rip the wound right open.”

Yeah. They did. Just like you in that dream. Do you want to end up like them?

The man looked at the unicorns. He looked down, feeling inferior. Inferior to his own horses! “So you can fly.” It was the next Christmas. Snow started falling, he shivered. “I’ve seen in my dream.”

“Yep.”

The man returned to the town. He studied the cobblestone driveway. The rolling, creaking and screeching of carriages, the clopping of unicorns’ hooves, the salutations and Merry Christmas’s from so many 19^th century top hat-tipping men to blushing women filled his ears. He looked up. He loved Christmas. He blinked back tears. Memories of his parents floated through his mind—

He bought a new carriage. Hooking Bristle and Tuckers up to it, the man ordered them to behave. They snorted, frosty puffs of irritation. Snickering, the man grabbed his whip and lay it beside him. His gloved hands gripped the rope. He told them to move. They did, pounding the cobblestone driveway ever so hard.   

The man listened to the clopping. Every horse stamp was like a musical beat. He thought, guiding the unicorns to the concert he had missed that year. Stopping them, he jumped out, the whip behind him. He gave his unicorns hard pats, and said, “Thanks. For taking me.”   

Yeah. A stiff answer.           

The unicorns bolted as soon as the man entered the concert, having shown the ticket master his ticket of admission. Razor sharp teeth had seared the harnesses through so that the unicorns won. They flew, free of the carriage. They were unicorns with wings—their so-called master was as normal a man as he could be. They flew off, returning only to see whether the man overcame his anger towards his parents’ death. He called to his unicorns but they never appeared. One night, they told him he could go with them far away. He could be flown away from here. From concerts.                 

Conduct a symphony about your parents, for your parents?

The man raised his eyebrows. He thought. Would it work?           

He tried, but he said he’d never conduct another song again. The unicorns appeared again. The man fell short of making the cut every time. His music soared spectacularly, conductors shaking his hand before every concert. He grinned massively. Watching the conductors perform his almost masterpieces, he imitated conductors. Soon, his unicorns were forgotten. He had sold his soul to making money off his music. His carriage life had been abandoned.

Bristle and Tuckers talked that night near the man’s home.      

“I think he’s in love.”

“With music!”

“If she were a woman—”

“Well, it’s not. He can’t marry his music.”  

“He did. Look at him—staying up late by candlelight, that quill pen going a million miles per hour. Him closing his eyes and assumedly humming as his hands sway to and fro. Music already in his head. He just needs to pen it down.”

Bristle looked at Tuckers. “Don’t we love him? Do we want him to master over us?”

“He’s…” Tuckers took a deep breath. “He’s in control. He devoted himself to his carriage business: whipping us into action. He has always guided us, making us take him where we need to go. We did, but I want him to know he has always planned us to go where we needed—that’s why he found us and raised us. He knew we were the perfect duo to pull him in the direction in which we had to go. In which he had to go. Towards the concerts. Towards the swelling music that would pull his mouth into a satisfying smile and spill out of his ears. He would bleed black ink!”

“His plan now is to be the next great composer. Or at least the next great music writer of concerts.”

“He will master the art of writing music. And then move on to become a famous composer.”

“He’ll lose us. We’ll just have to fly away.”  

Soon, it became the very breath he breathed. He wrote into the night. He wrote throughout the day, taking his music with him everywhere he went. He showed others. He neglected meals at times. He went to bed, music notes staring back at him as the sheets lay on his raised thighs. The quill pen fell from his limp hand as his exhausted eyes closed for the first time. But no breath exhaled out of this man’s body anymore—

The man jerked awake, cold sweat dripping down. He wrapped himself in a tight hug. “Mom, Dad. Where are you?”

Candlelight illuminated two pink eyes. A unicorn’s head with horn of a twirl of scarlet wrapped between pearls of white appeared.

“What do you want?”

“Name’s Bristle.”

He turned over. “What do you want?”

“Bristle—”

“I know your name.” He threw his sheets off his bed, tipping over the candlestick lying on his piano next to the open window. Hurling ugly names at the screaming horse, he ordered Bristle to stay away from him. That night was a long one, as he scrambled about, the fire gobbling up all his music. “No, no! Mom and Dad would never approve of this—”   

“Monstrosity!”

Tuckers snorted, and then flew off with Bristle. The man, engulfed by the fire, stood there.

“Never mind, Mom and Dad. You wouldn’t even like the music anyway.” The man watched the flames greedily consume such painstaking work. The man wanted to die this time. “I’m here, flames! You can eat me, too.”

Up above, Bristle and Tuckers swooped into the house, breaking the window, and rescued their master. They carried him far away. The man begged his unicorns to be his unicorns. They did only on one condition: he love them. They reminded him of his parents in a way. He threw himself at them, rubbing their manes. “I have only you!”

“Treat us the way you would your parents.”

He loved them, but not like his love for his parents. They were animals, after all.

“Please—I’m sorry.” He shivered in the icy wind. “Please—get me out of here.”

Bristle carried the man on her back. Tuckers told him they’d go somewhere different, away from the cold. To a warm place. He wanted to go to a cold place to sit near the fire. To tuck himself away into the cabin.

“Yes, sir!”

He was, sipping hot chocolate by the fire. Memories of his parents came to mind. He let them be. He longed for a companion. He ranked his unicorns second to that of his parents. His girlfriend left him, and he grew old with his unicorns, dying.  

Being put next to his parents.

Smiling, the unicorns flew off, happy for the now joyful man. He was with his parents.    

Later, in heaven…

When he hugged Bristle and Tuckers tight, Bristle and Tuckers put their chins on his back, their necks over his shoulder, one at a time. The horses held it there for a long, firm time. The man hugged them back—tightly.