Jackal and Wolf

by Shen Shixi

  Flame would not have been so quick to spot the prey hidden among the wild olives, nor at such a distance to sniff out any clues in the mountain breeze, nor to pick up the sound of a snow rabbit amid the noise of the wind and the birds, the rustling of the leaves and branches. She would have been listening this way and that, here and there, before she picked it up. She would need to be a hundred metres closer to catch the moving shadow of the rabbit and by the time she came close to the olive grove, the snow rabbit would have sensed danger and darted off into a twisting, winding burrow. Snow rabbits can run as fast as jackals, and even if there were no burrow nearby, it would have had a head start. It would have vanished into the distance like a wisp of smoke. Blacktail was magnificent on the outside, magnificent on the inside. It was clear to Flame that he was intelligent and smart, a jackal with exceptional talent and a superb physique.

  Blacktail licked the snow rabbit’s face, and made a low noise, the meaning of which was very clear: he was inviting Flame to eat. He was offering his prey to her. It was like the human world, where a man offers a woman a gift as a token of his love, or a ring to seal their engagement.

  Flame sniffed at the snow rabbit, and smelled the sweet aroma of fresh meat, the mouth-watering fragrance of fresh rabbit. She was actually very hungry, but although she was almost drooling in anticipation, she resisted the temptation to tuck in. She swallowed down her saliva, took a couple of steps back and, with a look of disdain, turned her head to the side to tell him that the snow rabbit was not appetising, as if to say: ‘I have a very elevated sense of taste, I want something more succulent than snow rabbit.’

  The truth is, jackals are the least picky of all the carnivores about their food. In zoos, jackals are renowned for thriving on just about anything: they don’t fall ill after eating, they aren’t bothered about eating to look good or keep trim. Whatever their keeper feeds them, they eat: simple things like tea leaves and leftovers will do. As for meat, they don’t care if it’s beef, lamb, chicken, duck, frog or mouse, good or bad, lean or fatty, fragrant or stinky. As long as it’s meat, and they can swallow it and fill their bellies – it will do. As long as they are not hungry, they are happy. They are the commoners of the carnivorous world.

  It was not really the case that Flame did not like to eat snow rabbit. It might not be her favourite item on the menu, but it was a delicacy. Indeed, it was a lucky jackal that could eat snow rabbit for dinner! She was turning her nose up at the snow rabbit for another reason. She wanted to test the jackal’s hunting skills just that little bit harder. Yes, Blacktail had sharp senses – of smell, hearing and sight. Yes, he ran fast. Yes, there was skill in his bite. But what had he chased after? A snow rabbit! Although snow rabbits are good at leaping, and although they say that a snow rabbit under pressure will bite back, when all is said and done, a rabbit is still a rabbit, and it’s lower down the food chain than a jackal.

  It is customary for jackals to prey on rabbits, and they are comparatively easy to catch. It might be the case that Blacktail was particularly fond of eating snow rabbits, and that he had developed a special set of skills for hunting them. Perhaps it was because he had so much experience of sniffing them out and hunting them down that he had been able to catch this one apparently without any effort? But was he so successful at catching other animals?

  Just like a schoolchild might be good at one subject, but not very good at another: good at maths, but not at literature; or good at English, but completely thrown by chemistry, Flame wanted to see whether he had the same expertise with larger prey. She hoped he would prove to be an all-round ace hunter.

  Over in the south-western corner of the grasslands, between the lush green and the blue sky, a little black dot was moving slowly in their direction. The dot grew bigger and bigger until it became a group of four-legged animals, a herd of Tibetan gazelles. Flame was thrilled. She began to run towards them, Nature had sent her just what she needed!

  Tibetan gazelles are more succulent than snow rabbits. She would choose a Tibetan gazelle over a snow rabbit any day. But, more importantly for Blacktail’s trial, they are not easy to catch. They are a kind of mountain goat, but not the ordinary kind. They are strong and brave, and twice, even three times, the size of a jackal. People say that a big beast has strength: well, in the case of the Tibetan gazelle this is certainly true, with their well-developed muscles and brute force. If it were to wrangle with an ordinary black bear, it would keep going until the bear retreated. It runs at roughly the same speed as a snow leopard, and its stamina is good – it is able to run almost ten kilometres without needing to catch its breath.

  Tibetan gazelles are a big headache for hunters: they live in close family groups, and if there’s any danger, the adult males will take charge and look after the females and young fawns. Their horns are long and sharp, and they seldom give hunters the chance to get close. In the snowy mountains, only snow leopards and packs of wolves would dare to attack them. A jackal would never be bold enough to go and attack a herd of gazelles. If it was exceptionally lucky, it might happen to come across a solitary one or an injured one.

  For this reason, Tibetan gazelle is a real delicacy for jackals. Even when gazelles seem so close, they are almost always difficult to reach. Several times when Flame had been yawning with hunger, she had seen a herd of Tibetan gazelles on the snowlands up in these high mountains, but she had only dared to appreciate them from a distance. She imagined how she would attack the gazelles, how she would savour the pleasure and flavour of fresh gazelle meat. But it was like taking a pencil and drawing a pancake for your dinner. She had swallowed her saliva in frustration and stomped off.

  Just as roses are lovely to look at but not so nice to pick; Tibetan gazelles are lovely to eat, but not so easy to catch. There was a look of longing in Flame’s eyes as her gaze remained fixed on the herd ahead. ‘Perhaps,’ she told the suitor who was hot on her heels, ‘perhaps if you invited me to eat a dinner of Tibetan gazelle, then my heart might be moved.’

  This was a demanding test, a challenge that required risking one’s life. But Blacktail did not hesitate. He leapt over with a whoosh, and headed straight for the gazelles. Flame’s heart filled with joy. He would do this for her!

  This was a family of Tibetan gazelles, six in all, and of different sizes. The head of the herd was a purple-grey male. With his protruding shoulder blades, and bulging tendons on his chest, he was as sturdy as an ox-calf. His horns were pencil-thin and pointing to the sky, their translucent amber tips gleaming in the cold, giving him an air of majesty. The two adult females were slightly smaller, and there were three young ones, the youngest of which had soft, downy hair and was still suckling.

  The black-tailed jackal charged over to the herd, disturbing their peace. The females bleated in alarm, calling the young ones to their side, and bending their legs ready to spring off. When they realised he was just a jackal being provocative, that there was another jackal sitting on her haunches on the grassy mound watching him, and that there were only two jackals all together, they began to calm down. They dropped their ready-to-flee pose, and the head of the herd and the does made a rough circle around the young ones, keeping them safely in the middle. They knew from experience that if they stuck together as a herd, then the skinny little jackals would not dare to act rashly. At most, they’d drool greedily and stare. Then realising there was no gap where they could attack, the jackals would acknowledge the difficulty and give up. In other words, the gazelles were waiting for him to get bored and go away.

  But Blacktail had a point to make. He ran round in circles, gnashing his teeth in a sneaky grin, and shrieking fiercely. His plan was clear to see. He was looking for a chance to break through the outer ring and attack the young fawn with its fine skin and tender flesh.

  The gazelles kept a close eye on him. They would not let him attack. Blacktail was like a tireless robot, running round and round the herd, emitting scalp-tingling shrieks that gave one goosebumps, made one’s hair stand on en
d.

  After about fifteen minutes, the head of the herd had had enough. Although Blacktail was just one jackal, and was a lot smaller than him, he was still an executioner that could kill in the blink of an eye. What’s more, he was running round and round with malicious intent, making them very uneasy, keeping them on the alert for a long time, and forcing them to watch his every move, their muscles tense and at the ready. It was all so tiring. They longed to have their peaceful carefree life back. But it seemed their only solution would be to attack in defence, to make the first move, and to drive him out.

  The head of the herd snorted, pulled in his face as he drew back his head, then lowered his horns and charged towards the jackal. Instinctively, Blacktail turned his head to avoid disaster. The gazelle followed him for a few steps, as though shouting in victory: ‘You low-life jackal, I’ll show you what gazelles are made of! If you mess with us again, you’ll feel these two horns of mine deep under your skin!’ And with this, he returned smugly to the herd.

  The does shot him adoring and admiring glances. But no sooner had he turned round, than Blacktail was behind him, following in pursuit, just like before, growling at the gazelles, and leaping around ready to pounce. The gazelle was livid and it lined up its horns and charged at Blacktail again. But Blacktail had plenty of tricks up his sleeve, and turned as though to flee. When the gazelle stood still, so did Blacktail; when he turned to head back to the herd, Blacktail also charged back to the herd, snarling and gnashing his teeth. This happened a dozen or so times, until the head of the herd was exhausted and panting for breath.

  The gazelle could only drive Blacktail from the herd for a short time. There was no way he could completely escape the web that Blacktail was weaving around them. Nature has some interesting rules: herbivores can attack carnivores, but they cannot sustain the pursuit and exterminate in the same way as carnivores. When a herbivore attacks a carnivore, it is always in self-defence, the aim being to drive away danger. For this reason, when herbivores attack, they are bluffing. They yank up their necks and make a loud noise and thrash their horns about, with the sole aim of scaring off their opponent. When the enemy runs away, victory is theirs. They immediately call a halt; the battle is over.

  There was another reason why the head of the herd did not pursue Blacktail very far. He was concerned that if he chased him too far, the second jackal would jump up from the grassy mound a hundred metres away, and attack the herd.

  The next time Blacktail came close to the herd, the gazelle thrashed its horns about and bleated furiously as if to say: ‘You rogue! You hooligan! If you have any substance at all then hurl yourself at my horns, and let us fight, man to man, till one of us dies. If you are too feeble to do this, then run as fast and as far as you can. If you daren’t lock horns with me, and come sneaking round my herd one more time, then there’ll be trouble!’

  But the battle continued: you advance, I retreat. You stop, I stop. You retreat, I advance. Guerrilla tactics in action! Eventually, the gazelle stopped flashing his horns and charging at Blacktail. He had done it so many times and to no effect. If he couldn’t gore two holes in the wicked jackal, then what hope did he have of scaring him off? What was the point of wasting his precious energy?

  Blacktail was getting closer and closer to the herd. In addition to roaring out threats, he’d begun to use his legs and paws. He was changing technique; he was using harassment. Taking advantage of the gazelle’s momentary negligence, Blacktail suddenly turned tail and leapt behind one of the does. He pawed at her tail. She cried out in fear and shock. Blacktail did not wait for the head gazelle to come to her rescue, but simply leapt away from the herd. After a while, the youngest gazelle, not much more than a newborn, began to bleat, and make its way beneath the other doe’s belly, its little mouth searching for the teat. It was hungry, it wanted milk. The mother moved her legs apart and straightened herself into a steady position so the fawn could suckle. Blacktail seized his chance, whooshed in and went straight for her rear end. Her eyes bulged in shock, and she swung her head round ready to block him with her horns, but Blacktail had already leapt down, and was running off as fast his legs would carry him.

  Although harassment tactics like this did not physically hurt the herd, the psychological impact was enormous. The two does no longer gazed at the head of the herd in adoring admiration, but in silent disillusionment, as though questioning his authority: ‘If you’re the head of the herd, how come you can’t get rid of him?’

  The head of the herd ran back and forth, desperately trying to keep Blacktail away from the herd. He made no more rash attacks on the jackal. His defence became increasingly passive. His eyes were now badly bloodshot, like red agate, and he pawed at the ground nervously. He bleated at anything, betraying his confused state of mind. If carnivores have nerves of steel, then herbivores have nerves of straw, even the larger herbivores with well-developed muscles. The pressure on this gazelle was enormous. He felt he was going to crack.

  Blacktail stepped closer. With more persistence than a thirsty mosquito, he leapt before one doe then another, giving menacing glares and endless roars, and threatening them by baring his teeth and flexing his claws. The does were white with terror, their emotions all over the place. The head of the herd suddenly gave a long, loud bleat, and ran off to the foothills of the mountain. He was beating a retreat, calling the does and fawns to follow him, to run for their lives. If he did not have the stamina to drive the jackal out, then the brute would not let them eat or drink, and they would get more and more agitated. It was a desperate situation, a living nightmare. If they couldn’t deal with him, they would have to run from him. They would leave this place, get away from this wily trickster.

  Blacktail was overjoyed. This was exactly the result he had hoped for. Given their size, jackals have a limited ability to attack. If the gazelles insisted on staying put, and patiently battled it out with him, they would guard that young fawn so closely, employing such stubbornness and confrontation, that it would be hard for him to snatch it away. But now they were running off he had a chance to chase them, and maybe find victory in the chaos.

  At first the gazelles were very orderly. One doe led the way, the other brought up the rear, with the three fawns safely between them. The head of the herd rushed about, busily changing places as he tried to escort the herd carefully on its way. There was a clear formation to this herd in motion. It was an orderly retreat.

  Blacktail started up a new game of dodge-the-leader. When the head of the herd ran to the left, Blacktail ran round to the right. When he charged to the right, Blacktail slipped off to the left. He also kept up his incessant sniping at the smaller doe. The herd moved together, responding as a group to emergencies and dangers. The smaller doe cried out for reinforcements. The larger one called to the head of the herd for help. But he was tired from all the running about, from trying to be in two places at once. It was like having to play catch whilst running for your life. It felt so slow, yet what felt like a long run was only a few hundred metres.

  Flame trotted along behind the herd. Until now, she had played the role of an outsider, quietly watching from the sidelines, not offering to lend Blacktail a hand. But she could read the situation, and she knew that if she offered her help, they could act together as a pair, and capture the little fawn. But she resisted the urge to help. She kept quiet, watching coolly from the side, because this was not hunting in the ordinary sense of the word. She had set him a test. She wanted to see whether he could catch the little fawn with its fine skin and tender flesh, all by himself.

  The game of dodge-the-leader had been going on a while now – dodge to the left, dodge to the right – and the head of the herd was so confused he didn’t know if he was coming or going. He no longer knew how to defend the herd, and lost the will to continue the struggle. He abandoned his responsibilities, ran off past the two does and three fawns he was supposed to be protecting, and selfishly fled for his life. There was no herd formation for running away. Th
e others tucked in their heads and ran as fast as they could, to try to catch up with him. The does with the two older fawns were strong enough to run fast. The doe with the youngest fawn lagged behind.

  Blacktail focused on the little fawn. When carnivores go on the chase, the first thing they do is pick their target. A hunter is an opportunist and, like choosing the ripest sweetest fruit, he tries to select a weakling, one that is old or young or frail.

  Although the little fawn was moving its four legs as fast as it could, it was small and not very strong, and there was no way it could keep up with the others. It fell further and further behind the head of the herd. The doe was keeping close to the fawn’s side, burning with impatience, and bleating at it constantly to hurry up. Then the fawn’s foot caught in the grass and it tripped and landed with a thud on the ground. It had never occurred to the doe that the fawn might trip, and she carried on running. Blacktail seized his chance, shot over like an arrow in the wind, and landed on the fawn.

  As soon as the doe realised the fawn had fallen, she turned to go back to him. Seeing Blacktail there on top of him, she tucked in her chin, stuck her horns forward, and charged ferociously straight at his chest. She might be smaller and leaner than the head of the herd, and her horns might be a little shorter, but if she hit him head-on at speed, then the consequences were not worth thinking about. Blacktail had no choice but to jump down from the fawn and run.