The Unicorn from the Stars

it. I prayed a long time over you and brought you back. Martin You, Father John, to be so unkind! O leave me, leave me alone! Father John You are in your dream still. Martin It was no dream, it was real. Do you not smell the broken fruit⁠—the grapes? the room is full of the smell. Father John Tell me what you have seen, where you have been? Martin There were horses⁠—white horses rushing by, with white shining riders⁠—there was a horse without a rider, and someone caught me up and put me upon him and we rode away, with the wind, like the wind⁠— Father John That is a common imagining. I know many poor persons have seen that. Martin We went on, on, on. We came to a sweet-smelling garden with a gate to it, and there were wheatfields in full ear around, and there were vineyards like I saw in France, and the grapes in bunches. I thought it to be one of the townlands of heaven. Then I saw the horses we were on had changed to unicorns, and they began trampling the grapes and breaking them. I tried to stop them but I could not. Father John That is strange, that is strange. What is it that brings to mind? I heard it in some place, monoceros de astris, the unicorn from the stars. Martin They tore down the wheat and trampled it on stones, and then they tore down what were left of grapes and crushed and bruised and trampled them. I smelt the wine, it was flowing on every side⁠—then everything grew vague. I cannot remember clearly, everything was silent; the trampling now stopped, we were all waiting for some command. Oh! was it given! I was trying to hear it; there was someone dragging, dragging me away from that. I am sure there was a command given, and there was a great burst of laughter. What was it? What was the command? Everything seemed to tremble round me. Father John Did you awake then? Martin I do not think I did, it all changed⁠—it was terrible, wonderful! I saw the unicorns trampling, trampling, but not in the wine troughs. Oh, I forget! Why did you waken me? Father John I did not touch you. Who knows what hands pulled you away? I prayed, that was all I did. I prayed very hard that you might awake. If I had not, you might have died. I wonder what it all meant? The unicorns⁠—what did the French monk tell me?⁠—strength they meant, virginal strength, a rushing, lasting, tireless strength. Martin They were strong. Oh, they made a great noise with their trampling. Father John And the grapes, what did they mean? It puts me in mind of the psalm, Et calix meus inebrians quam præclarus est. It was a strange vision, a very strange vision, a very strange vision. Martin How can I get back to that place? Father John You must not go back, you must not think of doing that. That life of vision, of contemplation, is a terrible life, for it has far more of temptation in it than the common life. Perhaps it would have been best for you to stay under rules in the monastery. Martin I could not see anything so clearly there. It is back here in my own place the visions come, in the place where shining people used to laugh around me, and I a little lad in a bib. Father John You cannot know but it was from the Prince of this world the vision came. How can one ever know unless one follows the discipline of the Church? Some spiritual director, some wise learned man, that is what you want. I do not know enough. What am I but a poor banished priest, with my learning forgotten, my books never handled and spotted with the damp! Martin I will go out into the fields where you cannot come to me to awake me. I will see that townland again; I will hear that command. I cannot wait, I must know what happened, I must bring that command to mind again. Father John Putting himself between Martin and the door. You must have patience as the saints had it. You are taking your own way. If there is a command from God for you, you must wait His good time to receive it. Martin Must I live here forty years, fifty years⁠ ⁠… to grow as old as my uncles, seeing nothing but common things, doing work⁠ ⁠… some foolish work? Father John Here they are coming; it is time for me to go. I must think and I must pray. My mind is troubled about you. To Thomas as he and Andrew come in. Here he is; be very kind to him for he has still the weakness of a little child. Goes out. Thomas Are you well of the fit, lad? Martin It was no fit. I was away⁠—for awhile⁠—no, you will not believe me if I tell you. Andrew I would believe it, Martin. I used to have very long sleeps myself and very queer dreams. Thomas You had, till I cured you, taking you in hand and binding you to the hours of the clock. The cure that will cure yourself, Martin, and will waken you, is to put the whole of your mind on to your golden coach; to take it in hand and to finish it out of face. Martin Not just now. I want to think⁠—to try and remember what I saw, something that I heard, that I was told to do. Thomas No, but put it out of your mind. There is no man doing business that can keep two things in his head. A Sunday or a holy-day, now, you might go see a good hurling or a thing of the kind, but to be spreading out your mind on anything outside of the workshop on common days, all coachbuilding would come to an end. Martin I don’t think it is building I want to