The Hunter and the Hunted

The man waded slowly through the waist-high swampy water to not make a sound in the otherwise silent forest. He’d wanted to go around the swamp, but doing so would have added another two days to his hunt—two days he couldn’t afford to add between him and his quarry. Every moment he hesitated was costly. So, he pressed on.

Mist rose from the surface of the swamp. It swirled around him eerily. Sparse sunlight crept through the canopy of trees overhead—more moss than light stretched toward the water below. Yet the man’s eyes were already adjusted to the dimness; they constantly scanned his surroundings, searching for movement.

His prey would have scared away even the fiercest of predators when it passed through—not even a few hours before him—but the man wasn’t a fool. A few hours were enough for a predator to regain its courage. What better way to lash out in frustration and regain lost valor than to attack prey like himself? If he were prey. That would be a costly assumption. Deadly even.

The man readjusted the custom elephant gun cradled in his elbows—out of the water’s reach. Another reason for his slower pace. Sweat trickled down the side of his grizzled, weathered face. Gnats swarmed around his head, but he paid them no mind. A minor annoyance such as buzzing bugs wasn’t worth his attention.

He hugged to the water’s edge, following the signs and destruction left in his prey’s wake. The trees had been too dense for either of them to traverse. Snapped branches that had once hung out over the water guided his way. From out in the distance, the man heard a terrible sound—his quarry.

He tensed. In an instant, his rifle was up, pointed toward the sound’s origin. For several heartbeats, he stayed in that position. His ears strained as he listened for the noise again. His prey was close enough to hear but too far away to see yet. He wasn’t sure what had prompted the creature’s cry.

Then, a sinking sensation occurred in his gut as he realized why. The wind had shifted. For much of his trek, it had been nonexistent. Even now, it was so faint that it was little more than a whisper—a few strands of wind pushing at him. It blew against his back. That was enough. He didn’t know how far sound carried in this swampy section of the forest, but the wind had carried his scent forward. It announced his presence. He was sure of it.

The man paused for the first time in hesitation. Would the creature continue its flight? Unlikely. It knew that he pursued it now. He had hoped to catch it off guard and be done with the whole affair as quickly as possible. But now the stakes had been raised. The game had changed. If he wasn’t careful, he would become the hunted. He knew from experience that prey filled with desperation became unpredictable—dangerous.

He lowered his rifle to cradle it in the crooks of his elbows. He scowled in irritation. Even though his situation changed, it hadn’t changed much. The creature still needed to be hunted, and he was still its hunter. So, he pressed on, resuming his solemn, dirge-like advance further into the swampy forest.

After another hour of that pace, traveling along the swamp’s edge, the trees ceased their huddled formation, and the man was able to climb out of the water and back onto relatively dry ground. He still followed the tracks of his prey, and he knelt to examine one of the prints it had left behind. His dark eyes scanned the subtle imprint in the mud, and his weathered hand hovered over the tracks. He had gained on it—that concerned him. The creature should have passed through this area hours before him. Yet, the tracks did not lie.

The man crouched on the ground. His rifle rested on his knee. He stroked the grey stubble on his face as he weighed his options. He was sure of it now—the creature had purposefully slowed its pace, no doubt when the wind had changed its course. He was still at least an hour behind his prey, but if it had stopped and was lying in wait for him, he had even less time. He could press forward and meet the creature head-on, or he could recover some of his sapped strength and rest for a moment. Perhaps for the final time.

He shrugged and rose to his feet. The creature was waiting for him—of that, he had no doubt. It could wait a while longer. Perched on the edge of a fallen tree, He wasn’t tensed but he was ready to spring to his feet if the need arose. His rifle rested across his knees.

Without looking down, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a battered, metal canteen—once polished and shiny. He unscrewed the cap. As he drank, his eyes roamed the surroundings warily. Many hunters would make the mistake of assuming that if their prey were stationary, it would remain so. He was not one of those hunters.

After placing the canteen on the log next to him, the man reached into another pouch and withdrew a strip of dried meat. He tore it in half with his teeth. One half he chewed, the other half he stowed in the pouch again. As he chewed, he rested his hands on the rifle in his lap. He patted the stock gently, reassured by its presence.

The man paused mid-chew as he carefully withdrew a locket from his breast pocket. His expression was distant, unreadable. Slowly he thumbed open the metal clasp, causing the heart-shaped silver locket to unfold. Inside was a faded picture of a young girl with sunshine in her grin. A locket of fair hair, almost white-blond, was stored within as well.

The man hesitated for the second time and then brushed his fingertips against the strands of hair. For once, his eyes didn’t roam his surroundings. They never left the picture of the beaming child. His expression crumpled for just a moment; grief etched itself into his features.

Then that moment was gone along with all traces of grief, replaced by grim determination. He snapped the locket shut and stowed it away again. He swallowed his meal and washed it down with another swig of water. He screwed the cap back on and placed the canteen back in his jacket.

The man took the rifle in his arms, cradling it again. He rose to his feet in a fluid, effortless motion. He had delayed long enough. Whether he remained the hunter or became the hunted mattered not. The hunt had to go on.

As he traveled farther into the heart of the forest, following the creature’s trail, the quietness grew. With it grew the apprehensive feeling in the man’s gut. He had heard tales from long ago—of those who had hunted this creature’s brethren. In those fabled stories, the creature would also know it was being hunted. It would deliberately slow down to taunt its hunters before running away again.

At least, that was how the stories went. He’d heard other tales—other methods used to capture the creature—but he had no intention of capturing it. This situation was different. The man felt the familiar weight of the rifle in his arms, and he quickened his pace.

He ghosted through the forest. Making no noise among the silent trees, his booted feet found places to fall where his footsteps would be muffled. He had learned to move as such long ago. The wind had not yet shifted. It still pushed at his back. It urged him forward, but he needed no encouragement.

The man’s gaze shifted as he saw something beside the creature’s tracks. He stooped down to observe it more closely. The creature’s last meal, he realized. It wasn’t fully digested. The reek of bile and decay clung to it. It befouled the man’s nostrils. He grimaced and then rose to his feet. The vomit told him two things. The creature was indeed sick—his hunt was justified—and it was close. Very close.

He heard a tree branch snap to his left, and he spun, his rifle up and firmly nestled into his shoulder. His left eye was closed. The right stared fixedly down the iron sights of the rifle at the source of the breach of silence from within the dense foliage.

A second later, a bushy-tailed squirrel scurried up a tree. The man exhaled slowly. He let out the breath he had taken when he first heard the noise. He started to lower his rifle and then froze. His blood ran cold.

If he knew the stories of old, the creature certainly had to know them as well. It was no more mindless than he. In all the stories, when his kin had hunted the creature with the intent to capture it, they’d lure it in and distract it. While it was distracted, that was when they’d make their move. What if the creature had learned to do the same?

The man heard more branches snapping—behind him this time—and he heard the creature’s cry. He turned, too late to fire his rifle. The creature was much too close for that. It barreled toward him; horned head lowered like a knight’s spear leveled straight for his heart.

The man dove out of the way, narrowly avoiding its charge. He rolled to his feet, but the creature was quicker than he had anticipated. It halted its charge faster than he thought possible. Its hindquarters snapped back as the creature aimed a kick at him.

The creature’s hoof caught him in the right shoulder. The man grunted in pain as he was knocked backward off his feet. He slammed into a tree trunk and gasped as his breath was driven out of him. He somehow managed to hold onto his rifle throughout everything. He raised it as the creature turned to him. Its nostrils flared—eyes red with a crazed rage. Foam dripped from its mouth.

It reared up as he fired. The normal pain of the recoil was heightened by the creature’s blow to his shoulder. The man grunted again. The creature screamed in pain as the large-caliber bullet hit it squarely in the chest. It still didn’t fall. The man fired again, aiming for the same place. The rifle’s rumble overpowered the creature’s scream.

The creature took one staggering step forward, and the man ejected the spent cartridges from his rifle. He held the gun with his right hand and pulled two more cartridges from his belt. He inserted them into the receiver with a fluid, well-practiced motion. He reloaded before the creature could take another step—his rifle trained upon it once again.

There was no need. The creature started to take another step, wavered, and then crumpled to the forest floor. It let out a pained cry as it hit the ground with a resounding thud. The places where the man’s shots had hit the creature slowly spread, staining its coat red.

The man stayed out of the dying creature’s reach. His rifle was still trained upon it, but he knew that it would never rise from the ground again. This wasn’t the first time he had seen one of its kind, but it was the first time he had hunted one.

“The Monoceros,” he said quietly, speaking for the first time since he had started his hunt. His voice was gruff, but his tone was respectful.

The unicorn nickered quietly. Its side rose and fell laboriously.

The man lowered his rifle. “I’m sorry it had to be done,” he whispered to the creature hoarsely. “There was no other way. I’ve seen this sort of sickness take root in the mind before. Once it does, there’s no curing it.”

His face twisted into a sad, grimace-like smile. “It’s been said that you can heal others from poison, but what happens when the poison is in your own brain?”

The unicorn’s eyes rolled toward him, blinking balefully.

The man’s smile faded. He reached into his pocket, taking hold of the locket briefly. “I’m sure you didn’t even know you hurt her. It wasn’t something that you could control. I couldn’t save her,” he murmured. A single tear escaped, falling down his grizzled cheek. “But I can keep you from killing anyone else.”

He solemnly lifted the rifle once more with careful aim. He hesitated for the third and final time as the unicorn met his gaze—unblinking and steady. Its eyes had changed. They’d lost some of their manic energy. The red tinge had faded from the corneas. The man exhaled slowly. The unicorn blinked once. Acceptance? Gratitude? No matter. The rifle roared in the forest, startling a murder of crows in the distant trees to take flight.

The man remained motionless. The roar echoed in the forest until it faded. Silence returned. He lowered the rifle and sank to the ground next to his fallen foe as the last of its life left its ruined body. He ran his hand over its flank. His fingers brushed against the unicorn’s bloodied, once white-blond coat. He pulled out the locket and placed it next to the creature on the blood-darkened ground. Then the man lowered his head into his hands and wept bitterly. The noise did not drive the silence away. It only made it all the louder. But finally, his hunt was at its end.

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