‘Poor king,’ said Rollo. ‘He never got his unicorns.’
But actually, even if he had got them, the King of Barama would not have been able to pay for them, because the prospectors who had drilled for oil in his country had been so greedy that all the oil had been used up.
So the King had no money and when he became poor he found that all the people who had fawned on him and grovelled turned their backs — and he decided to abdicate and go and live in the mountains with his old nurse, the one who had told him the stories.
And as a matter of fact he was much happier than he had been before because he became stronger and healthier and had all the wild animals to watch — and after a while he forgot about getting hold of unicorns because he realized that unicorns belonged in people’s minds, and in stories, where they can run wild and free forever.
‘I suppose we ought to be getting back,’ said Madlyn.
But before they could get down from the wall something absolutely extraordinary happened.
It was the sound they heard first; a faint scrabbling, a kind of rustle… The noise stopped and then came again, closer and louder.
They looked down at the ivy which covered the wall but they could see nothing. And then they glimpsed a faint wavering shape… a small thing, which appeared for a moment and then vanished into the tangle of leaves.
Everyone’s heart now was beating faster. It couldn’t be, of course. It was impossible.
But the thing was climbing now, slowly, stopping to get its breath. It appeared, came closer, then disappeared again.
And then, with a sudden bound, it had reached the top of the wall. It had become almost transparent, and so thin that it was a miracle that it could move at all; the bones showed through its matted fur, the yellow eyes were filmed over with fatigue.
But it had made the journey. Somehow, unbelievably, the spectral creature had crossed the causeway from Blackscar and survived alone in the chapel for weeks on end, waiting, waiting… And then came the funeral and the rat, utterly spent, had crawled into the boot of Sir George’s Bentley and fainted.
‘For heaven’s sake, man, make a run for it,’ said Mr Smith. ‘The creature’s done for. You can get away.’
Ranulf de Torqueville threw him a look of contempt. Then, slowly and carefully, he worked loose the buttons on his front — and, with a flourish, he threw open his shirt.
And the rat forced his exhausted limbs into a last leap and landed on his chest.
For a moment, nobody spoke — what had happened was too solemn for words. Then the children said goodbye and slipped off the wall but the ghosts stayed where they were, inhaling the warm and healing breath of the cattle they had helped to save.
They were no longer afraid of being left or being lonely. For they understood that when something belongs to you it belongs, and that is all there is to it. And as surely as the rat belonged to Ranulf, and The Feet belonged to the MacAllister, so the children belonged to Clawstone — and would return.