The smell on the wind perplexes me. Heavily musky yet thinly rank, the odor possesses weight and weakness. As I follow the scent up the hill, I wonder what manner of beast I will encounter. Certainly, I do not expect some sickly gnu. And healthy rhinos give off an acrid aroma that most predators describe as “rage.” No, this beast smells of memory, of life apart, and of barely restrained anger. I wonder.
Cresting the rise, a large, gray form comes into view. Massive, it scrapes the lowest branches of the marula tree. Wrinkled skin sags with age, and the closest, flapping ear bears a ragged hole. Yellow has overtaken the curving tusks. Now, the odor makes sense.
Elephant, a rogue male, I growl in distaste. I do not waste time hunting beasts such as this. Not only can they fend off even the strongest predators, but the meat nauseates me. In frustration, I stretch and prepare to hunt elsewhere. Then I hear trumpeting, and I pause.
The rogue stares out across the savanna, eyeing a herd of his kind grazing. He shifts his rear legs repeatedly and the smell of musk increases. Mating season, I realize, wondering if an opportunity approaches. Narrowing my vision, I spy a large tusker already moving among the females of the herd. If a challenge ensues, surely a wounded, tired loser will stumble away, perhaps weak enough…
My original quarry hesitates, however, and I remember the edge of weakness, of less-than-perfect health in his scent. Does he know, this old alpha? Does he sense that his time among the herds has passed? He rumbles low, but no trumpeting declares his intentions. Perhaps he will remain a rogue on the edge, tantalized by the memories of younger years.
I huff, and pad northward. I have no time to wait for ageing elephants. A flock of vultures circles nearby, promising easier scavenging. Besides, even dying elephants never whet the appetite.