Olipi lay panting beneath the shade of a thin limbed Acacia. She lay on her side, her swollen belly rising and falling in time with her heaving breath. Her trunk, draped uselessly across her tusk, brushed against the dusty earth. She lay in silence, eyes closed, exhausted after hours of agonizing but fruitless labor.
It was mid-day and the merciless summer sun baked the savanna. Olipi's mother, an elephant called Sagarami, watched over her with worried eyes. Sagarami was also the Brood Mother of the herd and she had been leading her family from one trickle of muddy water in a dried riverbed to the next when Olipi began to feel the first pains of childbirth.
“Are you sure?” Sagarami had asked. “I hoped the dry season would be well past before your child was born.”
“He must know little of the seasons from within my belly,” Olipi said, with a grimace. “He is eager to make today his birthday.”
“Children come when they will,” Sagarami said and led Olipi off the plains and toward the nearest shade; a grove of spindly Acacias. The other elephants followed and word of Olipi's condition spread quickly throughout the herd. Throughout the morning they hovered around their pregnant sister, offering what green leaves and grasses they could scrounge from the grove. Hours passed, Olipi wailing and writhing in pain, and although her hind legs were streaked red with blood, the child did not come. Eventually the pain subsided for a time, but she had grown too weak to stand and Sagarami helped her to lie down, with the admonition that she must rise quickly when the pains resume as delivery in that position would be difficult.
As the sun rose high above them, and as their hunger became more acute, many among the herd grew bored with the protracted birth and began ranging further from the grove in search of food. Others lounged impatiently in the shade of the Acacias, conserving their energy for the long walk to the next waterhole. Only a few cows clustered around Sagarami to watch helplessly over their stricken friend.
“How much longer?” the Brood Mother's youngest daughter, Siomo, asked.
“It won't be long,” Sagarami replied.
“I'm thirsty.”
“Many of us are thirsty,” Sagarami said, casting Siomo a stern glance. “I'm sure none of us more than poor Olipi, but we must wait for nature to take its course.”
“She's right, though,” another cow said. “We'll need to find water soon in this heat.”
“We'll make it to water soon enough,” Sagarami said serenely. “We will sleep here tonight and head toward the Winding River in the morning.”
The promise of the Winding River, with its deep ox-bows and lush vegetation even in the heart of the dry season, calmed them. Presently, Olipi began to stir. Her eyes opened wide and her trunk stiffened as a new wave of pain wracked her weakened body. Sagarami and the other cows approached, encouraging her to stand. When she had finally struggled to her feet, she wailed in exhausted agony, but instinctively widened her stance to prepare for the birth. The thick muscles of her thighs tensed beneath her skin as she strained to bring her child into the world. Sagarami instructed her to rest a moment in order to muster strength for another push, but the stabbing pains in her belly made it impossible to relax, even for a moment. Olipi's forelegs trembled, threatening to give way, and she let out a sudden gasp and the calf fell gracelessly to the ground beneath her. Her large body, taut with exertion, slowly relaxed as she exhaled a long breath. Sagarami nodded approval at her niece in her dignified way, but the pride left her eyes when her gaze fell on the calf that lay silent and still on the dry ground.
Olipi had barely gained her breath when she turned weakly but eagerly around to look upon her firstborn child. She nudged and prodded affectionately at her baby, but could not arouse the slightest movement. Soon the entire herd had gathered around the child, reaching out with their trunks and placing the pads of their feet reverently against its tiny lifeless body. The child did not stir. One by one they nodded condolences to the mother, but Olipi ignored them, tending and fussing over the child.
“We’ll leave her now,” Sagarami said, leading the other elephants away. “Tomorrow we will grieve with her, but tonight she should be alone.”
~
The next morning, Sagarami tried to explain to Olipi that the child could not walk with them, but the frantic mother would not listen.
“He needs more time,” she implored. “He isn't large or strong, but he'll be on his feet soon and walking with us.”
“He came too soon,” Sagarami told her. “We will name him and we will carry his name with us, but we must leave his body behind.”
“No!” Olipi cried. “I'll stay with him. I'll carry him if I have to. He just needs more time.”
“You have to let him go,” Sagarami reasoned. “This one was born sleeping and you cannot wake him. ”
“She is right,” an old voice said from the crowd that had gathered. It was Enkakui, an old bull elephant that had returned to the safety of the brood herd when his vision had begun to fail. “Your child has gone to join the Great Mother,” he said. “The hoofed animals say that the Great Mother brings her most precious children to her side when they are very young because their hearts are still pure.”
“He hasn't gone anywhere,” Olipi shrieked. Her eyes were trembling and her voice wavered as she spoke. “My child is right here and he needs me. All he needs is time to rest and the love of his mother.”
“I've seen this before,” Sagarami said. “The dry season is always hardest on the smallest and weakest of us, but if we don't leave this calf behind and find water, none of us will survive.”
“I won't leave my baby here,” Olipi said. “I'll stay with him for as long as it takes.”
“The herd won't wait for you,” Sagarami said. “We must make our way to the Winding River with or without you.”
“Then you leave without me,” she said. “And you leave without my son.”
With that, Sagarami shook her head and turned away to begin the slow march toward the Winding River. Many of the other elephants waited as long as they dared, trying to convince Olipi to leave her baby and travel with them, but she refused. Some of the younger cows in the herd, Siomo included, lagged well behind, hoping that her distraught sister would come to her senses and catch up to the herd. Olipi stayed all that day and night by her child's side, stroking his lifeless body tenderly with her trunk. When thirst finally convinced Olipi to begin the long walk to the Winding River, she still refused to leave her calf behind. For days she carried the awkward weight of her child in her powerful trunk, making her way across the searing heat of the plains, as swarms of biting flies and circling vultures took increasing interest in her and her newborn.
Lagging miles behind the main herd, walking ever onward toward the hope of food and water, Olipi stopped to rest in the shadow of a twisted baobab. She had intended to stay beneath the tree only long enough to enjoy a reprieve from the heat of the sun, but weakened from the added strain of carrying her calf, she remained there until the sun began to sink. She had barely eaten in days, reluctant to leave the calf even long enough to search for food, and water was little more than hazy memory. She was leaning against the tree trunk, almost asleep, when she heard movement in the tall grass surrounding her. Peering out into the failing sunlight, she saw the shimmering eyes of a pack of hyenas encircling the baobab. Olipi pulled her calf beneath her and stood with the massive columns of her legs protecting it. Her weary body tensed as the ravenous animals drew closer, hidden but for their flashing eyes. She was trapped in the midst of a hunting party and she was clearly tired and weak, but few animals would dare to stand against an adult elephant, especially one protecting her child.
Olipi readied herself for a fight, perhaps her last, when a single hyena emerged from the grass and approached her. His thin limbs carried him cautiously toward her and the great shock of yellow-grey hair at his shoulders swayed lazily with his stride. As he drew near, Olipi could see his muzzle and paws were a bottomless black, as though they had been dipped in the darkness of the night sky. His eyes were fierce and his lips barely concealed the tangle of sharp white teeth behind them, but he spoke calmly and slowly.
“My apologies for the late hour of our visit,” the hyena said. “I hope we haven't unduly postponed your bedtime.”
“What do you want,” asked Olipi.
“We were simply out enjoying the evening air,” he said, gesturing to the flashing eyes that surrounded them, “when something like the fragrance of desert blossoms led us here.”
Olipi steadied herself, unsure what to make of the bold animal.
“But I forget myself,” he said, “my name is Inyal.”
“I am Olipi,” she said.
“A fine name for such a sturdy female,” Inyal smiled. “I wonder if I could ask you a question, my dear.”
Olipi squinted at the hyena in the dimming light.
“I wonder, what is it that you guard so closely at your feet?” he asked.
Olipi paused a moment, surprised by the directness of the question.
“It is my baby boy,” she said proudly.
Inyal chuckled to himself and the other hyenas cackled loudly at her response.
“And the, ah, two of you have lost the protection of your herd?”
“We have,” Olipi announced. “The herd moved on before he could gain his feet, but he just needs more time.”
Another burst of laughter rose from the tall grass.
“Time, they say, can change the course of rivers and reduce mountains to dust, but even time would surely be taxed to do what you ask of it.”
“I wouldn't know about that,” Olipi said, fidgeting uneasily.
“I wonder,” the hyena asked, changing his tone, “does your baby clamor for you when you are away?”.
“I never leave his side,” she replied.
“I see,” the hyena said. “Does he wake you with his cries when he hungers in the night?”
“He is a quiet baby and does not cry,” she said.
“I'm sure he is as peaceful as a mossy stone,” the hyena said and again the plain was alive with laughter. “Tell me, Olipi, does your baby shiver when nights are cold?”
Olipi did not answer. Her eyes were welling with tears as she stared down at the hyena.
“Or perhaps you have felt you baby's warm breath as he nurses,” the hyena pressed.
“What do you want here?” Olipi demanded.
“Do you know the story of the hyena?” Inyal asked.
Olipi's silence told him she did not.
“I'm not usually one to hold court,” Inyal said, “modest as I am, but I cannot let ignorance prevail when it lies within my power to illuminate a point.”
Olipi said nothing, but listened warily.
“There was a time,” Inyal began, “when the hyena hunted alongside the lion. The hyena was smaller, of course, but he used his wits and his numbers to bring down beasts that even the lion could not. So skilled was he at killing that soon there were too few hoofed animals to support all of the creatures that lived upon flesh. The Great Mother decreed that the lions and the hyenas would each choose a champion who would meet in battle. Whichever side lost would have to join the hoofed animals and make their meals of leaves and grass from then on. The hyenas and the lions chose their champions and the two animals met to do battle. The lion, of course, made short work of the hyena, but not without injury. In fact, the wounds suffered by the lion festered and the beast died shortly thereafter. The hyenas appealed to the great mother, that though they had lost the contest, she should grant some reprieve from the life of a grazer for their partial victory. They offered the following compromise: The lions could hunt for their meals and get first choice of the flesh they would make meals of, while the hyena would have to make do with the cold bodies that the lions left behind. The Great Mother agreed and now lions stop the breath of the hoofed animals for their food, but the hyena may taste the flesh of every beast who's breath has stopped, lions, elephants and hoofed animals alike. To aid us in our search for food, Great Mother gave the dead things of the world a particular aroma that travels far on the wind and comes to us like sweet spring blossoms, though it seems to repel animals with weaker stomachs.”
“Why are you telling me this,” Olipi asked with a quavering voice.
“Can't you smell it?” the hyena said, breathing deep through flared nostrils. “The evening air carries an intoxicant that none among my kin can ignore. We followed it and it led us to you. Led us to the meal you guard as closely as if you were a scavenger yourself.”
“Your noses have deceived you,” Olipi shouted through welling tears. “My baby lives. He just needs more time.”
“His time has come and gone,” Inyal told her, stepping forward and looking directly into the elephant's eyes. “We would not be here if it were not so.”
Three days later, Olipi rejoined the herd at the Winding River without her baby. She was pale and thin when she returned. She continued to travel with the herd, but always at a distance, walking with her head down and her ears back. She spoke rarely and when she did her eyes were dull and distant.
A few weeks afterward, Olipi approached Sagarami as she stood alone watching over the herd and whispered something to her.
“Sidai,” she said. “My boy’s name was Sidai.”
The Brood Mother stroked her daughter’s head with her trunk and promised to remember the name and carry it with her for as long as she led the herd. Olipi nodded and walked away.
Chapter 2 ~
The Brood Herd had made many more trips to the Winding River, and survived many more dry seasons, before Sagarami watched over another of her cows tending a newborn. This time it was her youngest daughter, Siomo, and this time the infant squirmed healthy and vigorous in the grass before her.
It was morning on the Serengeti and the orange glow of sunrise sifted through the brittle branches of an Acacia tree that shaded the mother and child. The child, still slick and clumsy, had not yet found the strength to stand. Siomo urged him on with patient tugs and gentle encouragements, but the calf was unable to bear his own weight. Time and again he planted his large feet on the ground beneath him and struggled to stand erect before toppling forward onto bended knees.
Siomo thought of Olipi now as she watched her own child struggling to stand. It was the wet season, so water was not scarce, but the herd would have to move to follow the budding leaves and they would not be able to wait long for a child that couldn't walk. Sagarami approached the worried mother and her newborn calf.
“He looks strong,” Sagarami told her. “He'll need a strong name. Have you thought of one yet?”
Siomo brightened a bit at her mother's appraisal.
“I thought I might call him Makoon.”
“I think it suits him,” Sagarami said. “The others will want to meet him soon. Now they will have something to call him.”
The old bull Enkakui had joined them and stood smiling down at the child.
“So this is Makoon, eh?” he said. “He is a fine looking boy. He'll be chasing cows and knocking heads with bulls in no time.”
“Shouldn't he be standing already?” Siomo asked bluntly. “He seems strong enough, but he can't seem to gain his feet.”
“Some children take longer than others,” said Olipi gravely from the crowd that was gathering around Makoon. “He may need more time.”
The group fell silent at her words and all eyes turned toward Sagarami, searching her face for some idea of how to respond.
Sagarami herself was speechless and it was Enkakui, oblivious to the tension of the situation, who finally broke the silence.
“We all grow at our own pace,” he said conversationally, “and no one walks right away. He'll be fine.” The old bull, content that the new addition to the herd was strong and healthy, nodded his approval and left in search of food.
Siomo smiled, encouraged by Enkakui's words and reached down to caress her baby gently with her trunk. Makoon ignored his mother's touch and continued tenaciously in his attempts to stand upright. Olipi shouldered her way through the crowd, which reluctantly made way for her, until she had a clear view of him. In time, Sagarami and the rest of the crowd that had gathered wandered off to find something to eat or a bit of shade, but Olipi stayed behind, watching Makoon carefully and growing noticeably more excited when it seemed he might rise to his feet.
“You know, my baby had trouble walking too,” Olipi said, still watching Makoon. “I waited and waited but he never stood.”
Siomo occupied herself with Makoon, partly to avoid looking at Olipi.
“I don't think you'll have that problem with this one,” she continued. “He is strong. He just needs more time.”
“You could have another,” Siomo said. “You're still young enough.”
Olipi cast her a piercing glance, but her eyes quickly softened and she looked back at Makoon.
“There are some pains you need only feel once,” she said.
Few words passed between them after that, but the two cows stayed huddled around the newborn well into the afternoon. The herd was scattered all over the grove, lounging beneath the acacias and seeking out the sweetest leaves. The low leaves in the tree that cast its shade over Makoon had been picked over by those that been standing near look at the new baby. Siomo hadn't eaten since the night before, her attention devoted first to labor and then to urging her child to stand.
“You should find something to eat,” Olipi told her. “I can watch Makoon while you are away.”
Siomo hesitated, weighing her hunger against her reluctance to leave her child. Olipi pressed her.
“Once he gets he feet he'll be able to follow you while you graze, but for now you'll have to count on the herd to protect him.”
“Alright,” Siomo nodded. “I'll only be gone a moment.”
Siomo began to walk away from her baby, but turned and looked back after a few steps. Olipi met her gaze with reassuring eyes, wordlessly communicating confidence. Siomo nodded and moved deeper into the grove. She found her own mother tearing a clumps of grass from their roots and placing them in her mouth.
“How is Makoon?” Sagarami asked as she chewed. “Has he found his feet yet?”
“Not yet,” Siomo replied, finding a attractive plot of grass for herself. “I left Olipi to watch him while I found some food.”
“Your sister holds on much too tightly,” Sagarami said. “She longs for the river beds that have long since dried.”
“I know that I would not easily forget my first born child,” Siomo said.
“I do not ask her to forget. Bad memories have thorns, but we can choose to leave them in past or hold them close and drive them deeper beneath the skin. In any case, caring for your boy may help her to see that the long walk goes ever onwards. Looking after a child may remind her why we do not swallow dust when we cannot find water.”
“I hope so,” Siomo said. “You should see the way she looks at Makoon. She wants deeply to care for her own calf.”
“Perhaps one day she will, but first she must let go of the one she lost.”
Eager to return to her child, Siomo left Sagarami after only a few mouthfuls of grass and made her way out of the grove. When she returned to the acacia where she had left them, she found Olipi and Makoon both gone. Siomo saw a few other cows grazing lazily around the tree, but her child and his babysitter were nowhere in sight. She ran to the place they had been, ears flapping anxiously and eyes wide. Her sudden anxiety roused the cows that grazed nearby who stepped closer to find out what was happening.
“Is something wrong?” asked a young cow named Tumeret, herself not more than half a season from giving birth.
“It’s my baby,” Siomo said frantically. “I left him here with Olipi and now they're gone. Did anyone see where they have gone?”
The cows stammered and mumbled but none could claim to have seen what had happened. By then nearly the entire herd had gathered. Sagarami instinctively took control of the situation.
“Didn't anyone hear anything?” she asked, scanning the faces of the cows in her herd with condemning eyes. No one had heard a sound.
“I'm sure everything will be alright,” Enkakui added, eager to see the tension lifted. “She probably only left trying to find you once the child found his feet.”
“Then where is she now?” Siomo asked.
“I've never trusted that one,” Tumeret added.
“We can congratulate ourselves for being suspicious later,” Sagarami said, “right now we need to find Siomo's calf. Some of us can search the grove while the others spread out across the open grass, we can look...”
Sagarami was cut off before she could finish. A child’s cry, crisp and shrill and not far off, rang out across the savanna. All of the elephants heard it, but Siomo moved faster than the others. She twisted her body and set out after the sound. The rest of the herd followed, trampling through the underbrush of the grove, ears alert and searching. Siomo led them, her trunk raised and trumpeting, calling out to her child and listening over the sound of her own thundering heartbeat for a response. In the clearing on the far side of the grove they found them.
Olipi's eyes were wild and her trunk was wrapped tightly around Makoon's throat in an effort to silence his cries. Makoon writhed beneath her, he had found his feet, but now he was stumbling as Olipi choked him with her trunk.
“Let him go,” Siomo shouted, lowering her head and preparing to charge her sister.
“Please,” Sagarami said, stopping beside her daughter, “let him go before he is hurt.”
Olipi staggered backwards, dragging Makoon with her.
“No. You won't take him from me this time,” Olipi growled, tightening her grip on the young elephant's throat. “You tricked me last time, but I know that this one isn't dead.”
The other elephants had formed a tight circle around them, swinging their trunks and flapping their ears, caught up in the excitement and drama of the scene. Siomo, nearly hysterical with fear and anger, shifted nervously from side to side, but dared not step toward them. She was desperate to charge and take back her child, but hesitant for fear that hasty action may cause Olipi to do him harm.
Sagarami, cool-headed in crisis, kept a calm voice as she reasoned with her elder daughter.
“Olipi,” she said, “this isn't your child. You must return him to his mother.”
“Jackals!” Olipi cried, her eyes wet and mad. “You lay in wait for weary mothers to happen by so that you may steal their children.”
“Why do you call us jackals,” Sagarami said, regarding her daughter with sadness and confusion.
“No, not jackals,” Olipi said, suddenly remembering, as though the truth had just been whispered to her. “Hyenas. Yellow tufted and ashen faced in the moonlight. You can't hide your evil deeds any more than you can hide those blood-stained teeth behind your snarling black lips. I knew he wasn't dead, but I was so thirsty and so tired. I was weak then, but I've learned your tricks and I won't be fooled a second time.”
Olipi was trembling now. She had loosened her grip on Makoon's throat, but still held him fast by the shoulders. The child gasped for air and called out hoarsely to his mother.
“This is no mangy pack of wild dogs,” Sagarami said, taking a cautious step forward. “These are your sisters and your friends, Olipi. This is your family.”
“All is one, my sisters and my enemies,” Olipi snarled. “Those that bade me leave my child all but pushed him into the drooling mouths of those monsters. I should have stayed and died there with him, but I was mad with hunger and let myself be tricked.”
“This herd has mourned your loss,” Sagarami told her, inching closer. “We walk these plains together and we carry with us the names of the fallen.”
“This herd looks on me with disgust and not one among them carries the name of my child,” Olipi spat. “I see their sidelong glances and I hear the pity in their talk. They laugh at me and the child they helped to murder.”
“That’s enough,” Enkakui shouted, blundering forward through the gathered crowd and stomping toward Olipi. “Return the boy to his mother or there’ll be hell to pay.”
Olipi lurched backward, raising her tusks to the old bull and jerking Makoon beneath her. Siomo let out a cry and Sagarami circled round to face the enraged kidnapper, shouldering Enkakui aside.
“We all wish your boy could have stayed with us,” Sagarami said, “to watch him laugh and play in the river. To see him grow tall at the shoulder and sturdy of tusk. But the Great Mother has taken him to her side. All that is left for us is to remember Sidai and whisper his name to the bones in the ossuary.”
Olipi flinched at the mention of her son’s name and her gaze fell reverently to the ground. “He will grow tall and strong,” she said, stroking the wailing child beneath her with her trunk.
“But that is not Sidai,” Sagarami said, near enough now to reach out and touch her daughter. “That is Makoon, your sister’s child. All the herd will watch him grow, but he needs his mother.”
“I will care for him,” Olipi said.
“How will you nurse him?” Sagarami asked. “Your milk has long since dried.”
“I will find a way,” she said, tears streaming down her sallow cheeks, “but I will not let you take another child from me.”
“Olipi...,” Sagarami pleaded, but she could not say more, because as she began, Siomo, head down and charging, slammed into Olipi’s ribs. The older cow staggered and fell, her massive bulk crashing down dangerously close to the child she straddled. Siomo pulled Makoon clear with yank of her powerful trunk and dragged him back into the protection of the crowd.
Olipi thrashed and wailed in the dirt of the grove, desperately trying to right herself. Once she had found her feet, she turned wild-eyed toward the crowd and was met with a wall of raised tusks. Below the unforgiving faces of her herd, amidst a forest of leathery grey legs, Makoon stood well protected, but shivering with fear. Olipi stood panting, her ears spread and eyes bulging, as she scanned their faces.
“Better to die in the jaws of a hungry dog than to live among you creatures,” she screamed, spittle spraying from her quivering lips. “Remember my boy’s name. Call out ‘Sidai’ when you beg Great Mother to forgive you for what you have done. Call out his name and beg on bloody knees for forgiveness. And hope the she is kinder than you were to my boy.”
“Now listen here,” Enkakui said, his head high and chest puffed out with authority, but a stern look from Sagarami convinced the old bull to hold his tongue.
“You’ll face judgement,” Olipi said, turning and marching out of the grove and onto the plains. “And when you are judged, you’ll be alone, without the protection of a herd. Great Mother will weigh your heart against your sins and toss the lighter onto the burning desert sands. You’ll stand in judgement for what you have done.”
She raved on as she trudged out across the sun baked savanna, her mad voice swelling as she cursed them, but she did not look back.
“I’ll do more than whisper to the bones,” she cried, wandering back the way they had come, not toward the lush grasslands to the West, but North, through thorny forests toward the ossuary. “I’ll tell them all what you have done and a thousand generations will block your path, shutting you out of Great Mother’s herd as you have shut me out of yours.”
The herd stayed clumped together for a time, some fretting over Makoon and his mother, while others scoffed indignantly at Olipi’s accusations. Sagarami stood apart from the rest, watching her daughter’s outline shrink into the distance.
Before nightfall, Olipi was out of sight and the herd camped another night in the grove, most too excited to sleep. The next morning, Sagarami gave the call to move and they set out toward the lush grasslands in the West, and though Olipi occupied their thoughts as they walked, they did not speak of her. The long walk goes ever onwards.
Chapter 3 ~
The years rolled on and Sagrami's herd traveled the plains in a slow procession as they had done for generations. Makoon, now in his sixth year, had become strong and healthy child, trotting along at his mother's heels during their long journeys.
An elephant herd moves like a languid fire across the grasslands, toppling trees and clearing the vegetation in each valley down to the very twig and root before moving on. They may walk hundreds of miles in a season, leaving a broad swath of barren earth and naked branches behind them. And like the aftermath of a fire, new growth reclaims their trampled paths at the first hint of rainfall. Fresh blades of prairie grass sprout like yearling down in the thirsty soil and tree limbs turn from brown to green as tender buds emerge. The Brood Mother remembers their routes and in a season or two returns to fill the bellies of her herd with the sweetest leaves.
Sagarami knew the routes well after decades of traveling them. Year after year she circled her herd from the marshy flood plains in the West, to the arid grasslands in the South, up through the dense Acacia forests in the North, and back again. She kept in close communication with the other herds that wandered the plains, planning her routes to make sure there would be enough for all to eat and drink. Her low, rumbling calls could be heard by other Brood Mothers all across the savanna and Sagarami listened carefully for theirs. In this way they coordinated their movements, especially during the dry season, to avoid crossing paths and starving in each other's wake.
Each year, during the wet season, when melt water from the snow-capped mountains floods the dry plains below, the herds rendezvous on the lush banks of the Winding River. Nourished by the rich soil and cool water, a thick jungle of plant life grows faster than even their combined numbers can devour.
Sagarami led the herd there now, intending to time their arrival early enough after the floods to give her herd first choice of campsites. The Stag Herd followed more closely now that they moved toward the river. Some of the younger bulls were entering musth and harassed the cows in the Brood Herd at every opportunity. Makoon and the other calves liked to watch the half-crazed stags tusk each other bloody and chase cows across the valley.
The Brood Herd stopped to feed, so it was only a matter of time before the stags would arrive and Makoon wanted to find a good place to watch if there was to be a fight. He left his mother and made his way to a gently sloped hillside that gave a good view of the valley where the stags were grazing. There he found Loloito stepping cautiously between clumps of pale blue wildflowers scattered throughout the lush grasses. She was only a year younger than Makoon, but small for her age, and though her features were sturdy, she was narrower at the shoulder than he was at the neck.
She ignored him as he approached, reaching down occasionally to grasp a mass of the tiny blossoms.
"What are you doing?" asked Makoon.
"I'm gathering flowers.”
Eager to join her, Makoon scanned the grass for patches of blue in the lush sea of green that stretched out below him. He found a cluster of wildflowers and snatched them up. He put them in his mouth and chewed them, unimpressed with the flavor.
"They don't taste very good," he said.
"No they don't taste good," she said, "but they smell nice and they look pretty."
"What do you do with them?" asked Makoon.
"Well, you can put them all over yourself and then you'll smell nice like they do," she said, her head back and showering herself with a spray of flowers.
Makoon squealed with laughter and tossed another clump of flowers into the air above her. The petals descended slowly, twisting and tumbling as they fell across her back.
"Here are some for you, Makoon," said Loloito, placing a clump of flowers carefully on his head.
"Bulls don't wear flowers," he said, shaking his head and flapping his ears.
"Why not?"
"They just don't," he answered, gesturing toward a nearby valley. "A big bull like Arrabal wouldn't wear flowers and neither would I."
In the valley beyond the wildflower patch stood the bull Arrabal, his long, battle worn tusks told of his age and experience. Size and strength were the only measures of any consequence in the Stag Herd and Arrabal was the largest and the strongest among them. Time and again he had defeated competitors and his dominance was not often questioned. His prowess in battle had earned him the title of Stag Lord, and although he did not share Sagarami’s responsibility in leading his scattered herd, the other bulls deferred to his title and he had his choice of the cows. Somtimes, however, a bull might decide to challenge Stag Lord, and today large stag named Canito was circling Arrabal where he stood in the valley.
"I've seen Arrabal wear flowers," said Loloito with a smile. She took a single flower from the dozens now scattered at their feet and tucked it gently behind Makoon's ear. "Just the other day he had a whole bouquet of water lilies tucked behind his ear," she said.
"No he didn't!" shouted Makoon, reaching up to pull the flower from behind his ear. He tossed it away and said, "Arrabal would stomp these little flowers into the ground."
"If he did, I wouldn't give him any more," she said, lifting her trunk in the air and making a spectacle of her indignity. She turned away from Makoon and pretended to lose all interest in him, but Makoon was focused on the bulls squaring off in the valley.
The two bulls had been eyeing each other since the early morning mists had cleared, Arrabal standing calmly near the middle of valley while Canito paced anxiously at its perimeter. Canito's cheeks were stained with the dark discharge of Musth and his movement's were hurried and unmeasured.
“Find another valley to graze in, tusker,” Arrabal taunted calmly. “Your pacing unsettles my digestion.”
Canito bristled and turned to face the Stag Lord. “What they say is true then,” he said, drawing himself up to full height. “Arrabal has no stomach for fighting.”
“The promise of a fight sits well with me. It is the musth-crazed bull stomping around in my valley, a bull too young to challenge a Stag Lord, that turns my stomach.”
“I am Canito,” the challenger snorted, “seventeen seasons old and strong enough to replace a worn out Stag Lord past his prime.”
“Harsh words, spoken loudly,” Arrabal said, glancing around the valley. Enkakui and some of the other stag bulls had gathered in the wildflower patch to watch the contest. Loloito ignored the bulls in the valley and continued to gather up clumps of flowers, but Makoon was transfixed.
When Arrabal was satisfied that enough elephants were watching to make the fight worthwhile, he spoke. “If you have come to fight, tusker, then put ivory behind your words.”
Canito reared onto his hind legs, trumpeted his battle cry, and charged into the valley. The large bull closed the distance between them quickly, raising great clouds of dust and scattering birds that had been hidden in the grass. He stopped short a few feet from the Stag Lord and stomped furiously at the ground, head raised and trunk outstretched in a display meant to intimidate his rival. Arrabal stood his ground, but his calm posture stiffened.
The two bulls searched each other for signs of weakness. Canito’s movements were vigorous and aggressive, but Arrabal knew that an elephant in musth was also sloppy and emotional. Musth makes an elephant brave but blind.
Arrabal made the first move, testing his challenger with a short lunge at his throat, breaking off at the last moment. Canito flinched and trumpeted, surprised by the Stag Lord’s early attack. Arrabal could see the anger building in the big bull’s eyes and knew that he had already won the contest. Canito swung his head wildly in response, slicing the air with his curved tusks. The Stag Lord evaded easily, letting Canito tire himself. The bulls squared off again and Arrabal lunged, but this time he did not pull up short, and the two elephants collided. Their tusks rattled and their trunks entwined as they both struggled for a better grip. Arrabal gained an advantage early and his long, straight tusks came up hard below his rivals jaw.
The challenger broke off the struggle and backed desperately away, but Arrabal pressed the victory and charged again, striking the same vulnerable spot beneath the jaw. Lifting hard with his neck, the stag lord repositioned lower, into the bull's throat. Canito howled and tried to free himself, but Arrabal's powerful trunk held his rival close. Canito reared up to break the hold and Arrabal stood with him, pressing his tusks relentlessly against the soft flesh of his opponent's throat. A trickle of blood ran down the milky ivory of Arrabal's tusk and Canito twisted desperately to free himself. Canito's thrashing had thrown him off balance and he began to fall, pulling his attacker along with him. Arrabal's tusks slipped from his Canito's throat as they fell and locked at a harsh angle with his opponents tusks. The heads of both elephants went careening toward the ground, until Arrabal planted his forelegs and twisted his neck against the fall. There was a sickening crack as Canito's left tusk snapped. Arrabal pulled himself free and Canito crashed to the ground. A cheer went up from Enkakui and other elephants who were watching.
Arrabal stood victorious over the defeated challenger. Canito lay moaning and choking in the grass, his left tusk a chalky, jagged stump. Arrabal reached down and snatched the broken remnant of the big bull’s tusk from the ground and marched toward the assembled crowd while Canito struggled to his feet. Makoon squealed and stomped with excitement as Enkakui and the others congratulated the Stag Lord. Loloito tried to keep picking flowers but she felt anxious and afraid.
"Do you think Canito will be alright?" she asked Makoon.
"I don't know, but I bet he'll think twice before he tangles with Arrabal again."
"Stupid bulls. Why do they have to fight all the time?" She waited for an answer, but Makoon had already turned away and was ramming his head into Enkakui's side.
"Let's fight, Grandpa!" he said.
"Alright," said Enkakui indulgantly, holding Makoon at bay with his trunk. "But I've got to warn you. I used to be a pretty tough customer when I was your age."
Loloito watched Makoon swing wildly at Enkakui, awkwardly trying to reach him with his trunk.
"No fair, Grandpa!" he said. "I can't reach."
Loloito searched for her mother among the elephants who had gathered to watch the fight. Unable to find her, she left the flower patch.
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