Thorn from the Stone

Thorn from the stone

Some years ago, when wolves ran wild and curdled the air with their ghostly howls, our garden was in a much wilder state and the occasional appearance of an elf, dryad, or mountain oread was not particularly rare. Only when they would suddenly dance out from the deep shade of a weeping Birch or willow did they elicit much of a surprize. Unicorns were much less common, and when one of those elegant, noble beasts wandered into our ken we would pause our activities and use the moment as an excuse to pour another glass of mead, or, in the middle of summer, a lighter ambrosial liquid. By remaining silent, motionless, and emulating the pose and posture of any of several Greek Gods they would pass among us without trepidation or apprehension. Then, one day, several years ago, a particularly large unicorn snorted and pawed its way down a newly created pathway we had hacked through the heart of a very old grove of willows. We were transfixed, mesmerized, for on the back of this uncommon animal sat what looked like Antonius Block! I kept my head and my gaze to the ground; tried to bury my sanity in the larch bark mulch I had been spreading around the Meconopsis. I thought I might be dreaming, or had imbibed a glass too many of Cabernet. But when I forced myself to look up he was still there, sipping something from a horn-like vessel. Several moments passed. I feel, now, we were both attempting to find an avenue or boulevard of communication.

But, I’ve gone on too long, let me move quickly to the crux of the issue. Laughing like a happy banshee this unicorn mounted apparition took his double-edged basket-hilted sword and thrust in into a granite boulder beside the path. And, laughing hysterically he rode off proclaiming: only one with a pure heart will ever be able to remove the thorn from the stone.

Many have tried; the blade remains, though not basket hilted.