I am on a pilgrimage to see the unicorn. The sky is bright and blue. I catch glimpses at my periphery, as my eyes contract and expand in the light. The textures beneath my feet shift and change, requiring more concentration than usual. I feel like a horse with blinders on, ears twitching in the frosty air. Those walking alone are my allies — those with laundry over their shoulder, and wandering, distracted eyes. Those with bags over white knuckles, with a direction in their step are foe. Where are you going? Who are you going to see? How did you meet them? Did you wake up this morning with different color eyes? The sun comes up and footprints bleed through. I travel on. The train snakes through caverns lined with omens, answers, dreams, that penetrate the dim warmth. My stomach turns, and flips. There is a price to pay for this way of movement. Fragments of noise make their way to my ears as I peer into faces that do not peer into mine.
If you counted everything that light reflected off of in these tunnels, the number would be at odds with the light you can see. The dirt takes: that’s why they build the tunnels so close to the surface. So they don’t lose them underground. A man gets on with a brand new bike helmet and a luminescent vest, still in plastic. The cardboard of his helmet, attached by two zip ties, acts as a visor. I wonder if he’ll take it off when he gets somewhere sharp. We rumble on. His shoes, pants, and red jacket look new, too. He shifts his sleeve, and green seeps out from an unseen place. Contain your gasps, your groans, I want to say, but my fellow passengers remain still and silent. On the underground moving path, shock and awe are scarce, and punished. The man who is green at the edges makes a break for it, but his secretions bind him to us. He’ll have to try a little harder than the element of surprise. The element of surprise is over-abundant down here. The train stops, and the walking begins. Out here, up high, there is less that is demanding to push in at the edges. The river, the clouds, the brick buildings, and the tangled bridges are far. Their scope fits inside my iris. The unicorn is close.
On the hill, I think of little other than my breath and aiming my footsteps for bare ground. I no longer feel the weight of darting eyes and green minds. The rules out here are clear. Every needle points towards one thing. The unicorn stirs, kicks, and although I have rock yet to scale, I feel her hoofbeats in my palms. Here, no messages, no answers, no dreams. The stone walls hold time, not angry, prying words. Nothing teems, or drips, or glows. I have no allies or foes inside these limestone passageways. The unicorn is there. Not always in sight. I see the edge of gleaming flank disappear around corners. Coarse hair pushed up against foggy interior windows. Shadows on the floor run long, fuzzy at the edges. Shadows on the walls are contained and clear. People are the same, here, still. Moving slowly in and out of her orbit. The unicorn does not transform our grey thoughts and indelicate movements. Garments rustle. Doors bang. My boots, wet from the climb, squeak on the uneven brick floor. I heard flashes of conversation, complaints. Commentary on the warmth of the halls. Three others, whose faces I recognize, populate the building. In this city of push and pull, I am never by myself. Only two prove true. The unicorn calls forth blunders and doppelgangers. Already, I am lost in the stone building. Its size is unforgiving—hallways can be traversed in different directions. Hunger pangs my stomach, but to sever myself from the unicorn and the wide sky evokes a similar pang. Faces repeat. Voices rise and fall.
I want to see the candles lit. I want to place my palm on the nose of the beast at the center of this world and keep it there, until our temperatures are equal. Until stillness settles into me and stays. I want to lie down on this floor and watch the room grow dark. I would like the lady of this house to extend her open hand to me. I wish these limestone walls would swallow me up. As my time runs out, the unicorn retreats to its post. I remind myself of the insignificant toll and the relative ease of this journey. A pilgrimage I am permitted to repeat. The unicorn will hold my time alongside the rest.
Calcite bubbles with hydrochloric acid, that's why limestone is vulnerable to acid. Calcite makes up the limestone. The hardness is three. Limestone is a sedimentary rock formed by chemical processes. Do you remember?