Tides of the Subconscious

The herd waited at the cliff for the monster beneath the tide. They had built cubes for protection, tied boats to their ankles and agreed never to speak of the sounds heard at night. When the water withdrew farther than ever, no monster appeared. On the seabed lay their own hidden cargo: unopened grief, anger sealed in jars, warnings inherited from animals long dead.

The youngest rhinoceros opened one jar. A dark wave rose, but instead of attacking, it formed the shape of a memory and passed through them. Others opened theirs.

The returning tide was rough, not murderous. By morning their boats floated freely. What lived below had been dangerous mainly because it had been denied a name and left to steer in darkness.