In the mornings they went on their way, Schmendrick’s pockets full of bread and cheese and oranges, and the unicorn pacing beside him: sea white in the sun, sea green in the dark of the trees. His tricks were forgotten before he was out of sight, but his white mare troubled the nights of many a villager, and there were women who woke weeping from dreams of her.

One evening, they stopped in a plump, comfortable town where even the beggars had double chins and the mice waddled. Schmendrick was immediately asked to dinner with the Mayor and several of the rounder Councilmen; and the unicorn, unrecognized as always, was turned loose in a pasture where the grass grew sweet as milk. Dinner was served out of doors, at a table in the square, for the night was warm and the Mayor was pleased to show off his guest. It was an excellent dinner.

During the meal Schmendrick told stories of his life as an errant enchanter, filling it with kings and dragons and noble ladies. He was not lying, merely organizing events more sensibly, and so his tales had a taste of truth even to the canny Councilmen. Not only they, but all manner of folk passing in the street leaned forward to understand the nature of the spell that opened all locks, if properly applied. And there was not a one but lost a breath at sight of the marks on the magician’s fingers. “Souvenir of my encounter with a harpy,” Schmendrick explained calmly. “They bite.”

“And were you never afraid?” a young girl wondered softly. The Mayor made a shooing noise at her, but Schmendrick lit a cigar and smiled at her through the smoke. “Fear and hunger have kept me young,” he replied. He looked around the circle of dozing, rumbling Councilmen and winked widely at the girl.

The Mayor was not offended. “It’s true,” he sighed, caressing his dinner with linked fingers. “We do lead a good life here, or if we don’t, I don’t know anything about it. I sometimes think that a little fear, a little hunger, might be good for us‌—‌sharpen our souls, so to speak. That’s why we always welcome strangers with tales to tell and songs to sing. They broaden our outlook…set us to looking inward…” He yawned and stretched himself, gurgling.

One of the Councilmen suddenly remarked, “My word, look at the pasture!” Heavy heads turned on nodding necks, and all saw the village’s cows and sheep and horses clustered at the far end of the field, staring at the magician’s white mare, who was placidly cropping the cool grass. No animal made a noise. Even the pigs and geese were as silent as ghosts. A crow called once, far away, and his cry drifted through the sunset like a single cinder.

“Remarkable,” the Mayor murmured. “Most remarkable.”

“Yes, isn’t she?” the magician agreed. “If I were to tell you some of the offers I’ve had for her—”

“The interesting thing,” said the Councilman who had spoken first, “is that they don’t seem to be afraid of her. They have an air of awe, as though they were doing her some sort of reverence.”