The waterhole has still precious liquid, but for how much longer will any survive?
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WE ARE STARVING. There are thirty of us, all fit lions. But for how much longer will the fitness last, in this awful drought? At least we have water. The pride is staying by one of the waterholes that still has water in it, so none die of thirst. Desperate yowls split the air of the night. My pride starves, for our prey has left to find water. Is it better to die quickly with the agony of a dry throat, or a slower death with the gnawing bite of hunger in your belly? If there was even a mouse, I might snap it up, but there is none. Birds are too fast for us, and the gazelle have stayed well away from this hole. It seems barren of animals.Dawn breaks, blinding me for an instant. Then my eyes adjust, and I see all of my lions. They are scuffling briefly over a good place at the waterhole, coming to no real struggles. I lazily saunter to the hole to get a drink, and three of the lionesses follow me. Then I hear the pounding of gigantic feet, in the distance.
Elephants.
I leap back with a hiss. One of the lionesses looks at me solemnly and continues drinking the precious water. I swing my head from side to side, trying to find out where the elephants would appear. I do not like the idea that the grey mountains of flesh would come and take the water from my lions. Then my stomach growls, and I am reminded of hunger. I know the rest of the savannah predators left their usual grounds to find water, but couldn’t we have stayed, finding food if not water?
No. Our instinct was to get water first, and all animals put water before food. Food was going to come second, whether we liked it now or not. I retreat to where the body of the pride is lying in the shade of a few trees. They too heard the elephants, but they did not seem alarmed by it. That was good—I could not deal with a frightened pride.
The elephants do not seem bothered by our presence, either. I lift my head as if they disturbed my sleep, and lie back down. The day lags on. Every so often, I take a drink. The elephants are filling up the best spaces, forcing every other animal at the hole to come second. If it was not daytime, the time when the elephants are most powerful, then my pride would attack at once, for the slight chance of a meal.
It seems as if the scorching heat will never end, but then it begins to cool off as the smooth dark of night envelopes the elephants. My pride grows restless, knowing that as soon as full dark falls, they will have a chance for a meal.
As I prepare some of my lionesses for the hunt, the elephants trumpet back and forth. I watch them, but they cannot watch me, for they cannot see effectively in the darkness like we can. The pride roars back and forth to each other, showing their hunger by a few small scuffles. Straggling elephants are still arriving, but now my hunger and theirs is unbearable.
I rise, and call the lionesses to me. Sensing that food may be at the end, they gather around me. I signal to my lionesses by flicking my tail silently towards the calves of the elephants, and instantly a small patrol, two or three lionesses at most, is off. Although I take no part in the hunt, I admire them.
They try, I will give them that. But the main body of the elephant herd closes in upon their calves, keeping my lions out and the calves in. Not even one calf is left behind in the confusion. I hiss in frustration, wanting to cover my ears against the deafening trumpets of the elephants. Will we never have a bite of food? But stragglers—some of them lone stragglers!—are still arriving.
I signal to a few lionesses still beside me, and they break away to check out this lone elephant. One of them lopes back immediately. The look in her eyes says clearly that this one is too big for even my pride to tackle.
I am willing to wait. If one showed up alone, more will. Now there is a ray of hope, a sunbeam in a dark world. And I am right. Soon enough, another loner appears, pushing its way through the bushes. I don’t try to alarm it. It’s definitely smaller than the first, but it could still kill a single lion. I beckon my pride to me, and they leave off their fruitless efforts. I point to the small loner, and they are off. A single lion would die—but there are thirty of us!
The elephant brays in dismay as my lionesses close in. They form a close pack by its heels, nipping and biting. Every so often one of them leaps up and claws at its flanks. The elephant trumpets ferociously, obviously afraid. The lionesses are not even exerting themselves. We may be hungry and weakened, but we have had water instead of food. This elephant likely has not had either for a long time.
I yowl in triumph. The elephant is tiring quickly. I lope after my pride. When I reach them, the elephant is down. My lionesses have not yet begun the feast, but I can see their hungry gazes as their eyes flick from the downed prey to my still body. I dip my head to take a bite. They join me around the kill. We eat and are full, roaring softly across at each other. Now that our bellies are full, our ragged pelts are already beginning to fill out.
Now we are grace. We are power. We are the LION PRIDE, and we rule the waterhole.
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A break from The Mirror On The Wall. Just a short little story - completely true by the way - about lions. Comments, anyone?
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