Short Story / Hunter
It is one of the basic matters of life to be born, to thrive, and to die. It’s a continuous cycle no one can break free of, like how the sun rises and sets just as surely as how time alternates between the drought and monsoon season. You are brought into the world and taught the way to live; you can either follow the advice and thrive, or ignore it and die. Although we all look out for each other in our tight-knit herd, when the hunters arrive and the fear sets in, we don’t have time to warn the others.
When they see you run that should be enough of a warning.
But for the ones like me that have young to look over and protect, a mother’s first priority is to protect the little ones. I’ve taught her all I know, how to stick close to the strongest stallion when she smells danger. I’ve taught her to never graze when the rest of the herd is, to instead wait and check her surroundings, to only ever feed when someone else is watching for the hunters. She’s learnt my stripes now and the sound of my call. She’s always trying her best not to lose me in the herd. Even during the drought she’s still learning, watching me closely to see which plants I eat, remembering the smell of it and doing the same.
I know I’ve taught her well.
They’re hungry again, but what can I do? They whine and claw at me, mewing for food. I growl back at them, but they don’t listen. It’s been a long time after all, a long time since I’ve found a kill big enough to feed the five of us. Vultures eye us sceptically as they circle overhead, waiting to see if we are at death’s door yet. The crickets burst into song in the overgrowth, a loud, irate hum that only serves to anger me. I can smell a lone hyena nearby too, not too far away, hiding in the long grass. Just sitting there, waiting to take one of my babies. I roar at them all, at the hyena and vultures to stay away. But they don’t care. This is the drought season. You live for yourself in times like these; you do what you need to survive. But still, I wish they’d leave us alone.
The heat is near unbearable, so I take the little ones with me into the shade. Later we’ll look for water again; the stream we usually go to has dried out. That’s why there is no more food around here. The herds have moved on to better herding grounds. As a hunter, naturally I’d follow. But as a mother I have to mind the little ones. They can’t handle such a distance yet – they’re too young. So we lie there in the shade, protected from the harsh sun and the brutal heat. I keep watch over the little ones as they curl up beside me, easily falling asleep. A soft breeze blows through and brings with it an assortment of smells. Among them I pick out the usual scent of marked territory and the pride nearby, but underneath all of those standard smells I can vaguely pick out the scent of prey. I can smell a herd of about thirty, no forty, and only a short distance away. I can’t quite make out what prey it is, but given my current circumstances I don’t think it really matters. Prey is prey. As long as it isn’t a crocodile or a rogue elephant it doesn’t bother me – anything to feed my babies.
I lift myself off the floor with a lengthy yawn, stretching out my stiff limbs for the hunt ahead. The little ones look up at me eagerly with large eyes.
‘Food?’ they ask.
‘Watch’ I reply.
I lead them to the herding site and hide my babies in a safe place. In the shade of an umbrella acacia tree surrounded by thick patches of long grass that provide perfect cover. I’m still not too sure about leaving them here though, if the rest of the pride was here then one of the younger females could stay here and watch the little ones for me. I’m afraid that hyena might still be lurking nearby, waiting for the opportunity to seize one of them. I wonder if I should go back and wait for the rest of the pride. But the herd doesn’t look like they’ll be staying here for long. The zebras and antelopes move swiftly from bush to bush and the giraffes browse from anything still green. There’s hardly anything here for them to eat. They’ll move on to better ground by nightfall definitely.
This might be the only prey I’ll find for us in a long time.
The sun has reached its peak in the sky. Nightfall will come soon. With the impressive heat, I’m not sure if it’s an illusion or not when I spot movement in the grass a few paces away. I call for her and lead her away from there, towards the safety of the herd – just in case. She doesn’t question me, she knows why I’m doing this. She’s a smart foal remember. I can be sure that she’s safe here, in the company of antelopes and giraffes she can easily blend in and use them for protection. There’s safety in numbers after all. I tell her to remember this land, that this is a safe place. She listens of course, she takes it all in. She’s a quick-learner.
That was a shame. A potential target, a young zebra foal of decent build, was this close to me. If it wasn’t for the mother I could have easily dragged her away, maybe without alerting the rest of the herd. She was so close and so painfully oblivious. I should have moved quicker, that way I’d have caught her before the mother would’ve even realised. Luckily neither of them know I’m here, but that mare saw something – she’s a suspicious one that mare. Damn. I have to be more careful.
I press my body as low to the ground as I can, my tawny pelt blending in perfectly with the dusty savannah plains. Left and right the long grass rises above me, swaying gently in the breeze like a tide of water. I claw at the ground, the pain of hunger welling up deep inside me like a volcano about to burst. I watch the herd, desperately trying to resist the temptation as the young foal and mother move in closer to their herd, clearly realising there’s an advantage to numbers. I’m confused at what to do now; intelligence tells me to stalk the easiest target, the foal obviously. But instinct says I should stay here and wait. Waiting is the riskiest thing though; the wind could easily change direction and bring my scent towards the herd. They’d smell me and work themselves into a panic, the stupid beasts. But a true hunter always acts on instinct, on what they feel is right. So regardless of the risks I stay and wait. I don’t worry about what might happen in the near future, or the repercussions it could cause for my babies and I.
I am a hunter, I live for the moment.
It’s a strange feeling, suspicion. You can never be sure if you’re right or not, out of fear that your decision might well be wrong or because all of the evidence is pointing in a different direction. Suspicion makes you tense up and suspect the littlest of things, it makes you ask yourself ‘what if’ and ‘why not’. For me suspicion is making me fear for her safety. I have her following the stallion, naturally so she can learn from him but mostly because I’m suspicious. I’m not sure if what I saw was a trick of the mind or the wind, but every fibre of my being is screaming ‘danger’. There was something out there in that grass just now, and I know I’m right. I also know that we’re safe with the herd. What hunter would try and take one of us when we’re all together like this?
How ironic that the moment I ask myself this, I hear a sharp yowl in the distance. Next thing I know I’m running. Hooves pounding the ground in a frenzied panic as the sound of frightened whinnying fills my ears. I risk a look behind me, to make sure she’s still there. Thankfully she manages to keep up. I tell her to stay close, to not lose me. I hope that she hears, that she stays by my side.
I don’t know how it was possible that cheetah could’ve gotten so close to the gazelle, but it is just as well. He had managed to scatter the herd and send them running in my direction. It all works out in my favour. A hunter’s instinct is never wrong.
I lift myself off the ground, but crouch low enough so that I am still partially hidden. It wouldn’t do to scare the herd back into the cheetah’s clutches.
A hunter works for herself. She seizes whatever opportunity she is given and uses it to her advantage. It’s the trick of survival.
I lower my head and get ready to pounce as the stampeding of hooves grow louder and louder. If I time it wrong, I can easily get trampled by the crazed brutes. But if I time it right I can easily snag the closest one and snap its neck. A hunter’s greatest pride is their skill on the field, the way they corner their prey and take the necessary risks without any qualms. I flick my tail, preparing myself for the ambush. My babies will finally have something to fill their stomachs.
Run. That’s the only thing going through my mind. My heart beats a steady rhythm, hammering me forwards. I hear a roar, a thunderous roar that shakes the ground, and then a large form leaps out at me.
A hunter, I think, a real one. A true hunter with muscles that move like liquid and cruel, amber eyes; not one of those strange hunters that move on just two legs and attack with metal sticks, a real hunter with a lean body and a lengthy stride. She’s a true hunter, I think, a lioness. I take it all in, her size and her stance. I just run. I force my legs to move out of their terrified state and carry me away from her. The herd scatters around me in their flight for freedom. It occurs to me then that I’ve lost her, my little foal. I’ve lost her in the confusion.
I call for her, try to tell her to stay with me. She doesn’t reply. I rear up. Where is she? I can’t see her, I can’t see her stripes. I hear a throaty growl, somewhere behind me. I lash out with a kick, a kick strong enough to shatter a skull. But she’s a clever one this hunter, she darts to the side and snaps her jaws at me, growling again with a threatening hiss. I’m scared, is she singling me out? She moves so gracefully, tail flicking side to side in a nonchalant fashion, those deep, amber eyes locking me in place. What do I do? What can I do? I shy away. Are there more hunters like her? Are they behind me? I throw my head to the side. I can’t see the other hunters, none like her anyway. She pounces at me and I feel her claws dig into my hind leg, ripping and tearing through flesh, ruining my beautiful stripes. I cry out in pain as I stumble and fall. She tries to shift her weight onto me, to pin me to the ground, but somehow I manage to hit her. She’s stunned, if only temporarily. That’s what a kick to the head can do to you. I try to ignore the burning pain and right myself. When I see her stumble, I take my chance.
I stagger slightly. Somehow she has managed to push herself up again, in a foolish desperation to live. I’ve never lost a kill before, and this isn’t going to be my first. But what can she do now? Blood gushes out of the wound like a river of scarlet as the dim-witted mare feebly trying to limp away. Does she really think she has a chance? I mean I could sit here and wait for her to die from exhaustion – it’s much easier and means less effort on my behalf. Or I could let her pass on with dignity and kill her now. But a brazen, vain beast like her would rather grovel on the floor than die with pride. I am a hunter; we know just how cruel life can be. The mare has it easy – trust me.
I watch for a moment, to see if she’ll give up and let me kill her. She keeps going unsurprisingly. She tries to follow the rest of her herd, but they have long ago abandoned her for safer grounds. She’s calling again, pitifully I may add. She occasionally glances back at me, fear in her eyes before she drags herself on again. Pathetic I think. Give it up I want to tell her, but it’s not as if she’ll understand, the stupid beast. Her body is drenched in sweat from panic and pain. She stumbles and doesn’t get back up again. But she’s breathing. I think to myself, now’s the time to end this. I circle round her, slowly and calmly. She weakly kicks out at me with a feeble cry, crazed eyes darting around like she’s been cornered in a forest fire. I decide that now is the time and without a moment’s hesitation, I pin the mare to the ground with my weight and sink my jaws into her neck. Tightening my chokehold on her, I ignore the thrashing and her strangled cries until I feel her body fall limp beneath me.
I can’t breathe. Is this what it’s like to die? All of the pain that had once seared through my body has long since vanished, replaced now with the strange sensation of numbness. I can feel my body breaking at the hunter’s mercy, but strangely enough it doesn’t hurt. I try to look around me, in the hope that I’ll catch a glimpse of her stripes once again. I feel guilty, so guilty that I won’t be there for her anymore. She needs me, she’s too young to be orphaned like this. I’ve tried so hard to protect her, and in the end I was the first one to go. I strain my eyes in a vain attempt to find her, but she’s not there. I look up at the hunter, her piercing amber eyes glaring straight down at me. She looks confused, I think, but why?
My question is answered when I hear thunder roll in overhead and see a single streak of lightning light up the sky. And then the most beautiful sound fills my ears and thickens the air as rain pounds down on me from every direction. How ironic that it rains now, after all of those days and nights I struggled to provide for her during the drought, and now when I lie here dying it is all finally over. The hunter looks at me with those cold eyes, the same ones that seem so cruel and intense as well as intelligent and complex. And then I look at the sky, rain pouring down on us as if to make up for the many days it had deserted us. But it’s too late now, I’m done for. They say sleep is the cousin of death – there’s no use trying to keep my eyes open anymore. I’m one of the hunted now, just another kill to fill the hunter’s appetite.
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The italics are not working, so it’s hard to tell who is speaking when you make the transitions, but after a while I figured it out.
This is very nicely done, I thought the voices of each animal were distinct enough, had their own point of view, and adequately described life as they must be seeing it. I was kept interested until the last couple of paragraphs. Why can’t the lionness return to thoughts of her family at the end, her satisfaction in her success in feeding her family? I liked the focus on the rain, for me the ending would be better if it ended with the zebra’s positive observations of what the rain would mean for the herd and her daughter. Leaving the obvious unsaid, that she is “just one of the hunted” to me would be more powerful.
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