Assignment 6, Wendy U.

Soft green light, dripping mist, flickers of movement not quite seen as lazy brown water floats leaves, small green bits and pieces and swirls in random eddies. Sleekly shining brown logs bump the banks and drift down the river, ancient knowing eyes watch the bank slide by. Narrow blue ribbons of sky are revealed as the upper canopy follows the water’s path. Piercing cries of macaws rebound among the latticed branches, while eerie hoots of lemurs echo.

Through parted branches she watches the croc pull itself up on the muddy bank. It has done this before and she has watched and learned. Pushing her dark hair behind her ears she settles on her haunches to wait. Quietly holding the long spear in her hand, it is ready for instant use. Lifting her elbow she brushes a persistent fly away and narrows her gaze. She will get good meat at the end of the day and feed her grandmother.

Somnolent silence settles as the heat of the day presses down and the light is strong. Rubbing her eyes and stretching them wide she struggles to stay alert. Slowly she shifts her left leg forward, and pulls it back. Repeating the quiet movement causes her to lose her balance and tilt sideways. Quickly putting her hand out halts her fall. Holding her breath keeps it silent. The leaves next to her quiver quietly but no branches give a tell-tale snap to reveal her. The croc on the bank opens one lazy eyelid, rolling the pupil from side to side. A small twitch of its tail signals its alertness, but no movements follow. Soon all is quiet again.

Dropping to her buttocks gives relief and she enjoys the rush of blood to her feet. Almost groaning she straightens both legs, carefully resting them on the ground between clumps of dried grasses. The harsh light of midday has changed to the fading light of late afternoon. Soon the meat will come and she will be ready. No others know of this spot, it is her sacred spot, and her mother’s before her. It is the one thing left to her that cannot be taken away. She will never tell of it, unless it is to her own daughter.

The sun finally dips behind the leafy canopy again and the light fades to the soft yellow of cooling air and coming twilight. Small animals begin their song again, telling each other of food, of danger and searching for mates. Very far away there is the roar of the big cat, but she does not fear it. It will not come here, to her place. The croc lifts its head and awkwardly scrambles across the mud back to the water. Sliding into the murky river it gracefully flicks its tail and turns in to the bank overhung by brush. It too waits.

The light goes more flat and there is a rattle of small stones as the Wildebeest file down the trail to the water. They are well grown and well fed on the short grass of the savannah. Leaving the dry soils they sink into the mud of the river bank. Nervous eyes roll, lunging bodies seek to find firmer soil, cloven hooves churn up the already treacherous bank. Broad muzzles dip into the water and greedily suck the life giving waters.

The herd numbers grow as more animals file down the trail. Newcomers fan to the outside as the early comers struggle to get to the water. The mass of animals pour into the gap, as instinct urges them to find the lifesaving liquid.

Finally, the herd fills the muddy bank and late comers reluctantly edge close to the brushy areas. They are thirsty and anxious. Cows with calves tend to be in these spots, as the young animals cannot handle the push and shove of the bigger members. A calf will be tender she thinks.

At long last a hapless calf pushes too close to the overhung bank. Lightening fast the croc strikes up from the brown water, jaws snapping closed. As a group the herd grunts and startles away from the action. All attention is focused on the croc dragging the bellowing calf into the mire.

She stands and flexes her arm to ready the spear. Pushing through the brush takes her closer to the animals that do not see her in their fear of the croc. Bracing the shaft of the spear against her bent arm she stabs the razor sharp tip into the vulnerable spot behind the front leg. The animal drops without even knowing what has happened. She pushes hard against the internal organs and makes sure of its death. The meat will be sweet, and they will eat.