Wilbur Smith
(twelve years old)
Dawn, gray and somber, stole softly across the terrible swamps that stood guard to the Ilungu forests. A leechuwee barked softly at the dawning day and a flight of wild ducks whistled swiftly overhead. A moorhen gave its harsh cry and a goose settled unwarily on the glittering reed-studded water—a slight splash and a startled cry as the bird disappeared in the crystal waters; a few feathers, driving slowly across the surface, marked its grave. A second later a crocodile pushed its hideous snout above the surface and then with a swirl it was gone.
Two days travel across this dreary waste and the glistening tree-tops of the Ilungu rose on the barren horizon. This was the domain of the king of the elephants, the Monarch of the Ilungu. His gnarled shafts of ivory, as thick as a man’s thigh, had battered man and beast alike to shapeless pulp and had thrown to earth trees whose mightily balks would have balked a charge of dynamite; while, lodged beneath his seared and furrowed hide, were six primitive arrow-heads and a hunk of lead that had left the muzzle of a Gibbs 450 high velocity rifle traveling at 3,000 yards per second; but the man who had fired it paid dearly, he had borne the whole fury of those smashing ivory shafts and pounding hoofs.
Then, for three months, the old bull lay on the brink of death, groaning horribly and sucking short gasping breaths; with only the strength in his wasted frame to drag himself down the slight slope to the water hole. At last he could stand and for three more months he stayed resting and feeding while his gaunt frame filled out and the same weariness and cunning attended his movements that had been there six months before that journey through the swamp.
Now he sallied out to find his herd, rumbling deep in his throat and grazing steadily along. He came upon them a wee bit later. It was dawn. Dew sparkled on the grass and trees; while the monkeys chattered shrilly from the branches and a lion heralded the day with a long low roar.
The herd stood in among the trees, the cows sleepily fanning their ears back and forth and the calves noisily having breakfast. The old bull squealed his delight but the herd hesitated to come to him. He called again and this time he saw the reason for the uncertainty; another bull left the herd and slowly strode in his direction, swaying slightly from side to side—a huge bull this, with 120 lbs. of tusk gleaming dully in the new light, his rugged gray coat scarred and torn and his eyes gleaming redly as he came on, rumbling a challenge.
The big bull hesitated; then went in, catching the youngster’s tusk in his trunk and ripping it out by the roots; using this as a weapon, he beat the other to his knees.
Ten minutes later the clearing was deserted except for a ring of vultures surrounding it and a pair of jackals who had come across the scene of carnage and now fought greedily over the battered flesh.
Half a mile away the old bull grumbled with content and led his regained herd down to the swamp.