An Elephant's Tale

The elephant had lived for over 80 years. As a young bull, he had towered above his peers and eventually his stature and wisdom were recognised and he took his place as the head of the herd. As they moved through the African land, it was he that guided, it was he that led the way. The elephant sired many calves and they were his legacy to a changing world. His was a world of freedom and he moved wherever he wanted, unconstrained by borders and tirelessly travelling his kingdom. He had no need to be wary for he had few dangers facing him and his natural concern was for the protection of the herd. With his instincts honed to perfection, the herd prospered- their reliance upon him testimony to his leadership.

He was old now. He stood alone - the herd long gone as the young bulls had gradually usurped his position. As he had aged, each attempt to defend his dominant role had tired him more and finally he realised that he no longer had the strength to fight. Useless to the herd and forced away, he had wandered into his own world, his enormous body now shrivelled and the folds of skin hanging loosely in testimony to his growing inability to fend for himself. He was on his final set of molars and these had been worn down by the almost continuous act of feeding required to satisfy his massive frame.

Now, the feeding was difficult. He was only able to eat on the softer leaves and plants and these were far more difficult to find. No more could his massive bulk push down a tree so he could take what he wanted. No more could he take what was his by right of superiority. He knew he was dying. Occasionally, he would smell the scent of a passing herd, a lion or an evocation of his prime. His instincts still reacted although it was becoming harder to understand why they did so. His life now was focused on survival, each minute an exquisite agony with his tired muscles struggling to support the weight of his splendid tusks - once a symbol of his magnificence but now, cruelly, an ironic burden.

He leaned against a tree, his rheumy eyes continually leaking tears which formed obsidian paths through the dust covering his skin. It was a delicious moment of respite and, for an instant, he allowed himself the luxury of relaxation. He never felt the bullet which obliterated his brain. He never felt the clunk of the axes carefully hacking out his tusks. He never heard the gleeful shouts of the hunters as they ignored the great frame in their appreciation of their perceived bravery. His final act was one of charity as the creatures of the land fed on his body. His final memorial not of what he had been but of what others could take from him.

At last, his soul was at peace.

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