by Sam Williamson

Content Warning: Blood

Nobody knew he was taking a stroll through the forest, for he delighted in breathing the fresh spring rain, as well as admiring the hopeful, pink buds scattered along his path. Nobody—aside from you, reader, and me—knew that he fell down with comical suddenness, brought down by a strange rock that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. He swore he hadn’t seen it at first. It resembled a cone, sharp and twisted, its color so vivid it oddly recalled gold.

Then, with his body still pressed to the ground, the earth began to tremble. Leaves and branches shuddered, as frightened as he was. The soil split open. A hole formed.

That day, nobody except him saw the creature that rose from the hill.

First, a head emerged. It swayed from side to side, until it fixed upon a target. Then, with astonishing speed, the rest of the creature burst free, scrambling out of its burrow and breaking into a run. With what intentions, he didn’t know, but it seemed wise to stay out of its way. Galloping on four legs, it thundered past him and vanished from sight.

He pushed himself upright, brushing dirt from his clothes with his fingers. Scratches appeared on both palms, though nothing serious—something he could tend to once he got home.

A violent shake, accompanied with the sound of a heavy collision, nearly made him fall again. In the distance, a flock of birds had flown away. The man moved on, crossing creeks and shallow valleys, following a trail of peculiar, singular destruction. At the end of it, he found once again the creature, now lying motionless on the ground.

Before, it had been little more than a blur, an unstoppable streak of green lightning. Now he could see it clearly. It could have been described as a unicorn, but it bore little resemblance to the elegant beings of fantasy books: tall, graceful horses with flowing manes and gleaming horns. The creature at his feet reminded him of a calf, its hide the deep green of moss clinging to tree trunks. The horn, once majestic, was now beside its unconscious body; only a small fragment remained in its head. Blood seeped from the wound, the rest smeared across a bald, metallic structure, possibly some kind of boiler.

The man closed his eyes, searching his memory. He was certain he had something like this before: a wooden sculpture, perhaps one that had belonged to his grandfather. Beneath it, a small plaque bore a name: Camahueto. Yes, it had to be a Camahueto. A strange animal indeed, the material which myths are made of. But stranger creatures had walked this planet, many of which we sadly never had the chance to meet. With gentle care, he wrapped the creature in his long jacket. Tucking the broken horn safely into his backpack, he began the walk home, praying the poor being would survive the night.

✿

When he arrived home, the creature continued to sleep deeply. The wound had stopped bleeding; a scab was forming faster than he ever anticipated. In the bathtub, he cleaned it using the shower head, dried it and wrapped a bandage over its head. He improvised a bed using old pillows and blankets, and tucked the creature in. After checking once more that it was breathing, he changed his clothes and tended to his own wounds.

When he examined his hands, he froze. His right palm was completely healed. Puzzled, he tried to recall what he had done differently. Later, he remembered gripping the Camahueto’s horn with that hand. He retrieved it from his backpack and, somewhat clumsily, reattached it using copious tape and a modest amount of glue. The result was far from promising, but trying felt better than doing nothing.

That night, he slept on the couch instead of his bed. The rain was thinner, rather polite, tracing lines along the windows. He woke up several times, unaccustomed to this extra breath; steady, deep, oddly comforting.

Sometime before dawn, a faint sound pulled him fully awake: fabric dragging, something shifting. He rose slowly, careful not to startle the creature that might now be watching him. The Camahueto was upright, wobbling on its four legs, one blanket trailing behind it. When it noticed him, it froze, not in fear really, perhaps intrigue. Its eyes were small, dark and reflective, catching what little light there was. There was no panic in them. Only a kind of waiting.

“It’s all right,” he said, surprised by the softness in his own voice. He tried to sound as reassuring as possible.

The creature blinked once, studying him, then lowered itself carefully back onto the pile of pillows. Its head tilted slightly, the bandage still secure, the taped horn clinging on by faith more than craftsmanship. He adjusted the blankets, sat beside it for a while, and eventually returned to the couch. Sleep found him quickly this time.

✿

Days followed in a quiet procession. He asked for a few days off from work, a decision that felt both irresponsible and inevitable. The world beyond the apartment seemed suddenly less urgent. At the moment, all his thoughts were occupied elsewhere. He learned the Camahueto’s habits little by little: how it preferred the light dim, how it drank water by dipping its snout carefully, how it flinched at sudden sounds but relaxed when he hummed, tunelessly, while moving around.

The wound continued to heal faster than it should have. He continued to be amazed by the fact that the animal had not died in the first place. Each morning, when he removed the bandage to clean it, the scab had shrunk further, darkening, retreating before his eyes. The horn, however, remained stubbornly fragile. He tried different adhesives and wrapping techniques, even going so far as to bind it the way one might wrap a Christmas present. The result was always the same: a horn that looked like a kid’s art project.

Still, the Camahueto bore it without complaint. It moved slowly at first, favoring one leg, then the other, testing its weight against the floorboards. By the end of the week, it followed him from room to room, close but never touching, like a duckling following its mother.

He began to speak to it. Not because he expected answers—that would be weird—but because silence had started to feel awkward. He told it about his grandfather and the wooden sculpture, about the forest trails he used to walk as a child. When the subjects would narrow down, he talked about the breakfast he was making and how he liked to do his laundry. The Camahueto listened with its entire body, ears angled, tail still, eyes half-lidded in what he chose to interpret as attention.

✿

Sometimes, he caught it staring at the windows.

Not at the glass itself, but through it. Beyond it. The Camahueto would stand there for long minutes, head tilted, nostrils flaring slightly. Once, he found its nose pressed gently against the pane, fog blooming across the glass.

“You can’t go out there,” he said, more to himself than to it. “Not yet. You need to recover first.”

The Camahueto stepped back, obedient but unconvinced.

He began taking it out onto the balcony in the mornings, when the sun warmed the concrete and the neighbors were already at work. From there, it could see more sky. Sometimes birds passed close enough to leave shadows on the railing, and the Camahueto would follow them with its eyes until they vanished.

When he returned to work, he claimed that he was dealing with a personal issue. That phrase always ensured there were no follow-up questions. Oddly enough, he found his tasks easier, that conversations required less effort. Everything felt smoother, as if something in him had been quietly tuned. He did not attribute this to the Camahueto. Or rather, he did, but without ceremony. It felt natural, like the way spring insists itself upon winter.

Weeks passed. The Camahueto grew stronger, its movements surer, its presence more assured. It developed preferences, which he found very amusing: apples over pear; sitting near his feet while he read; sleeping curled against the couch even when the bed was available. He began to think of it as a pet, though the word felt inadequate. Pets obey, he told himself. Pets belong.

This creature did neither.

✿

The attempts were subtle at first. A nudge toward the door as he put on his shoes. A lingering pause in the hallway. Once, he found the latch on the balcony door turned—not fully open, but altered, as though tested. He scolded it gently, felt foolish immediately afterward, and rewarded it with a slice of apple. The longing in its eyes, the uncalled melancholy, did not diminish.

On a Sunday night, when the town lay asleep, he decided to try something different. He clipped a leash, unused since a childhood dog, onto an improvised harness and opened the door. The Camahueto stepped into the hallway with a reverence that surprised him. Its hooves made no sound on the tile. Outside, the world unfolded in layers. The Camahueto paused at every threshold: the building entrance, the sidewalk, the park at the end of the street. It walked slowly, deliberately, as though each step required consultation with something deeper than instinct.

In the park, he unclipped the leash. The Camahueto did not bolt as it once had. It did not run, or leap, or test its freedom. It simply walked forward, nose low, tail steady, choosing a direction with quiet certainty. He followed, hands in his pockets, unsure what was going to happen.

They walked for hours, through streets that softened into paths, paths that thinned into trails. The town loosened its grip gradually. Grass replaced asphalt. Trees gathered in earnest. The air shifted, faintly salted with something unfamiliar. It was only when the sound reached him (rhythmic, endless), that concern settled in.

The sea.

✿

He stopped, but the Camahueto did not. It neither hurried nor hesitated. Its pace remained unchanged, a measured advance toward something it had already decided upon. He quickened his steps and called out without thinking.

“Wait.”

The creature paused. Turned its head slightly, just enough to acknowledge him. Its eyes were clear, resolved. Then it continued.

He followed with a growing unease, thoughts colliding before they could fully form. Animals did not do this, he told himself. Not unless something was wrong. Not unless they were lost, or sick, or driven by some broken compass. He remembered the countless nature documentaries he had watched, where it was common to find an animal abandoning the pack and wandering off alone toward almost certain death. Yet the Camahueto walked with no sign of confusion. There was no panic in its body, no desperation. Only purpose.

The forest thinned, opening suddenly onto a stretch of pale sand. The sea lay beyond, immense and patient, shifting its colors in an effort to mimic the sky. It was mainly yellow, slightly pink, like the buds he had found that day in the forest.

He felt absurd standing there, shoes sinking slightly, jacket flapping in the wind. The Camahueto stepped onto the sand and paused, hooves pressing shallow impressions that filled almost immediately. It lifted its head, nostrils wide, tasting the air as if it were memory. But memory of what?

Was this defiance? He wondered. A refusal to accept the boundaries of flesh and bone, an animal walking, calmly, toward what would surely undo it? Or was it obedience, to something older than fear, older than survival itself?

He thought again of outcasts, of creatures born slightly wrong, slightly apart. Of forests that no longer made room for myths, of a world that was no longer interested in keeping them. Perhaps this Camahueto had been alone long before it met him. Perhaps it had always been heading toward this moment, even when it lay unconscious in his bathtub, even when it slept curled among borrowed blankets.

Or perhaps this was not an ending at all. Perhaps the sea was not death, but a return; a threshold rather than a conclusion.

The Camahueto slowed at the water’s edge. Foam brushed its hooves and withdrew, leaving a darkened trace behind. It stood there for a long moment, perfectly still. Then it turned its head back toward him.

In its gaze there was no plea. No farewell. Only acknowledgment.

Thank you, the creature seemed to show through its gentle look, for loving me… And trusting me.

Slowly, carefully, it lifted one hoof and placed it into the sea. Then another.

❀✿❀

Sam Williamson (she/her) is a Chilean writer currently studying Medicine and pursuing a minor in Literature. Her work has appeared in Ionosphere, Amazine, The Literary Hatchet, and other literary magazines. Her short story “The Blonde of Kennedy” is also featured on the Kaidankai Podcast.