Jackal and Wolf

by Shen Shixi

  But instead of feeling joy, Flame felt a deep sense of terror. As soon as Sweetie found her mate, she would not care about her any more. She would abandon her, not bring food for her. Flame could no longer hunt; she felt useless. When she thought of Sweetie finding a mate, she felt one step closer to death.

  It is difficult when a parent has a chronic illness or condition. And even more difficult when there is no blood link between you. Of course, Flame wanted to carry on living. She wanted Sweetie to stay by her side, to hunt for her, to bring her food. It was better to have a poor life than no life at all, wasn’t it? But Sweetie wasn’t the spinster type, who would stay and look after her, who was not interested in the opposite sex. Flame knew this. She knew that Sweetie was interested, and that this interest kept her awake into the early hours, as she listened to the choir of wolves crooning in the distance. She could barely wait!

  With her injured leg, Flame would not be able to stop Sweetie from going out and meeting her admirers. She would not be able to stop a lustful wolf at the door. It looked as though her days were numbered. It was strange that despite the pessimism, she did not bear any resentment towards Sweetie. She was simply growing up according to Nature, and Flame had no reason to be angry. Sweetie had brought her food all through the winter, and had repaid her for taking her in as a pup. That was already a huge comfort.

  It was going to snow again. Her daughter was going to find a mate and move out. These things were in the hands of Nature. There was nothing Flame could do about either of them. As the day dawned, the chorus of male wolves gradually faded away.

  About two weeks later, the deep snow melted and gave life to green grass and red flowers. The snowy mountains were filled with the brightness and beauty of spring. Sweetie’s hunting trips became longer and longer. She would often go out first thing in the morning and not return until night. Her body grew stronger and more graceful as she matured. Her hunting skills improved by the day, as she learnt to be fast and furious in her attacks.

  One after another, the herbivores, and the birds that had migrated south for the winter, returned to the Gamar grasslands. There was plenty of food for a wolf here, and with Sweetie’s courage and skill, she could be home with food within an hour or two, if she was lucky. When she stayed out all day, she wasn’t hunting, but having fun. Flame knew that Sweetie was out playing games of young love. The more she played, the more she wanted to play, and forgot about coming home.

  That day, as usual, Sweetie stepped out in the dawn light to look for food. But within two hours, when the sun was shining high in the sky, she was back, dragging a fresh white partridge into Buddha Belly Cave. Flame was surprised to see her home so soon. As Flame tucked into the partridge, Sweetie jumped up and ran out again. This was out of character too. Usually when Sweetie brought food home, she didn’t go out again; she’d stay in Buddha Belly Cave and eat it with Flame. Flame was anxious and on edge. She had a feeling that the special relationship she had with Sweetie was coming to an end.

  Sure enough, Sweetie did not come home that night. Flame waited all the next day, but Sweetie did not come back. She did not come back that night either. Sweetie must have found love. She had cast her net, and had made her catch – a handsome young wolf, her Prince Charming. They would be inseparable, enjoying their new life together.

  Once a she-jackal has grown up and found a mate, she moves out, leaving her parents behind. She sets up her own home, and never goes back. There is no expectation that she will look after her parents, and she feels no sense of duty to do so. Flame would not wait for Sweetie to come home again. It was all over. There was no one to bring food for her. The white partridge was the last thing Sweetie had brought home, and there was barely even a bone left of that. If Flame wanted to live, she would have to find food herself.

  The next morning, she staggered from the snowy mountains to the Gamar grasslands. She found it difficult to walk, and she slipped a few times as she went down the mountain. The exuberance of spring was all around. She saw lots of antelopes, wild boars and snow rabbits, but she would not be able to catch them. She could only look, and drool after them.

  Flame was hoping she might bump into a red deer that had just died, or rather one that had just escaped death, that had run and run, until its blood had run dry, or whose wound had swollen and festered, until it had lain down to die in the forest or undergrowth. She prayed that Nature would show mercy, let her find something good. But by the afternoon, what had she found? Not even a rotten mouse!

  For Flame to find a red deer like that would require a long string of luck! The deer’s attacker needed to catch it, but not be capable of finishing it off. The deer had to slip through its claws. Then the attacker would have to be suffering a cold or something that would diminish its sense of smell, so that it couldn’t chase after it. The wound to the deer had to be life-threatening, but not immediately so. It had to allow the deer to run fast enough to escape, and only then for the pain to kick in. Once it started, the blood needed to flow profusely, to take the deer’s spirit beyond the bridge of no return. And, given Flame’s limited mobility, the deer would have to be lying exactly where Flame was looking, a place that no hungry wild animal could get to first. The chances of all these things happening were very slim indeed. It would be easier to win the lottery.

  Flame found a little hole where the jute grows, with the fresh footprints of a vole just by the entrance. A snake or a sable could sneak into the hole and grab whatever was hiding there, but a jackal couldn’t do this. Flame could only sit and wait patiently in the jute for the vole to come out and step right in her mouth. She had been waiting about half an hour, when she heard a scrabbling sound coming from inside the hole. Then a few grey whiskers and a little pink nose appeared, twitching and trembling.

  This is how a vole detects what is there; it uses its whiskers and nose to pick up any suspicious movements nearby, and then decides whether or not to go out to look for food. Small animals have a strong sense of self-preservation: their behaviour is subtle and careful. Flame kept very still as she crouched in the jute, and if the vole had been a little more attentive, it would have noticed her.

  Gradually, the little pink nose emerged, followed by two bright eyes, darting about as they looked around. Flame tensed her muscles, silently preparing her attack. All of a sudden there was a high-pitched shriek, and a tan-brown falcon swooped down from the sky to snatch it. The vole whipped its head back into the hole, and disappeared. In fact, the falcon had been hovering in the sky high above the ground, at quite a distance from the hole, and did not really constitute a threat to the vole. But a vole’s courage is minuscule, almost nano-sized. The falcon flew off without a trace, and the jute bushes fell quiet again.

  Flame was not going to give up – this vole was almost supper – and kept very still in the jute bushes, watching the hole. Another half hour passed. The vole re-appeared, and just like before, it twitched and sniffed. Finding nothing untoward, it slipped with a squeak out of the hole, and scampered over to the jute bushes to search for berries and roots. It was a big vole, with a round fat body, weighing at least two kilograms, enough for a meal.

  Flame’s mouth was watering. She prepared to attack. Before her injury she would have caught the vole easily. She would have leapt over and trampled on it with all four paws until one of her paws had caught the whiskers, another its body, and another its legs. In the commotion, the vole would get confused. Flame would bite into its neck, and the wonderful food would be hers. But this method would no longer work for her. She would lose her balance and fall over. She would have to rely on her back legs to propel her forward, land her full body-weight on the vole and crush it that way.

  The vole crept cautiously towards Flame, checking over its shoulder all the time, until it was about a metre away. Then it put all its concentration into gnawing at the rich sweet jute roots. It was an ideal distance at which to launch her attack, and the vole didn’t even know she was there. It was the perfect time to strike
. She would attack in silence, without fuss, her back legs thrusting her right on target. Sure enough, her body landed right on top of the vole, but when she pressed her body down to squash it, she hit her leg. The pain shot through her. As she winced in pain, she arched her shoulders and unwittingly created a gap beneath her body. The crafty vole shot out and raced back to its hole. It would be in there wiggling its tail, laughing at Flame’s uselessness. All those hours of waiting and hoping!

  Now that the vole had been startled, it would be too terrified to come out of the hole again. There was no point waiting around here any longer. Disappointed and hungry, Flame left the jute bushes and went over to the edge of the marshes, hoping to find a lizard or something similar to eat. There was an animal pen by the water’s edge, but unfortunately there was nothing in it. She spotted a pair of golden pheasants picking at grubs on the damp grass, but before she could launch an attack, they beat their wings and flew up to the treetops. She went over to the patch of damp grass and found an earthworm that had been clawed out of the mud. The birds had been disturbed before they could eat it, and it was wriggling its way back into the black earth.

  Well, an earthworm wasn’t a golden pheasant, but at least it was meat. She bit into the earthworm and chewed. There was a strong earthy taste, very unpleasant, but at least it was something to eat. Perhaps she could dig up a whole pile of earthworms? On second thoughts, if the other wild animals saw her digging up earthworms, stooping to the level of a pheasant, she would lose face, with tragic consequences.

  But the most important thing was to survive, and to do that, she had to forget about things like saving face and self-respect. She had to put them to one side. She used her mouth to pull out some plants, then dug her claws into the mud. She couldn’t use the injured front leg, so she tried to dig with one of her back legs, but this slowed her down considerably. It was the first time she had tried digging for earthworms. She had no experience, and didn’t know how to tell which sods of earth would have earthworms underneath and which ones wouldn’t. She was digging randomly, wasting a lot of effort. She dug for ages before finding two 10-centimetre-long earthworms. Such meagre rations would not replace the energy she had spent finding them. Disheartened, she crouched on the ground and snorted in frustration. What a waste of effort. Better to quit now. But how on earth was she going to get herself some supper, and fill her belly?

  By now the evening mist was beginning to fall on the Gamar grasslands, and the sky was beginning to darken. She had spent ages digging in the earth. Her muscles were sore, and her bones were aching. She was so hungry it brought tears to her eyes.

  In the vast marshlands, the last light of evening fell on the water, and the wind blew ripples over the lake. The water shimmered like fish scales catching the light. It was like a beautiful painting, rich in colour and texture. But Flame’s belly was so empty she could not appreciate the beauty. Animals are very practical, and things that cannot satisfy hunger are useless.

  Flame heard the sound of beating wings in the sky above her. She looked up and saw a black swan in the evening haze. Her mouth watered. She thought about the toad that wanted to eat swan. If that was impossible, what chance was there for a jackal with a dodgy leg? The black swan flew over the water and landed in the reeds not far from the bank. In springtime, the reeds are not yet full and bushy, and Flame could see quite clearly in the evening light. Another black swan in the reed banks was welcoming it back to the nest. There could be no doubt that this was a pair of black swans, that one had been out looking for food, and the other had stayed home to look after the nest. There could be only one reason why they had not gone out together. There must be eggs in that nest!

  Flame knew about swans. In the spring they fly back to the Gamar grasslands from the far south, and immediately set about building nests and laying eggs, to produce the next generation as quickly as they can. They want the eggs to be hatching into cygnets in the early summer, long before the late autumn and the harsh weather sets in – then they would be able to fly south with the flock for winter. As these thoughts ran through her mind, a warm feeling came over Flame. She had fresh hope for survival. She would not be able to eat swan meat, but there was a chance she could eat swan’s eggs!

  In the marshlands, the spring floods caused by the melted snow and ice had already receded. The summer rainy season had not yet started. Right now, it was the dry season. The water was so shallow you didn’t have to swim through it, you could walk through it. This stretch of land still counted as part of the marshes; there were several quagmires beneath the water, and no one knew how deep they went. Flame had been over to the reed banks before, and knew the way. If she followed the path made by the seven or eight clumps of grassy hillocks, she could guarantee avoiding the quagmires of death.

  If Flame could get to the reed bank, the black swans would be startled and fly off, and then she could find the nest and eat the eggs. Swans usually lay two eggs. They are twice the size of wild duck eggs, and have a hard shell that is not easy to break. She would find a stone with a sharp edge somewhere near the nest, hold it in her teeth and smash one of the eggs. She was hungry. She planned to eat one, then pop the other in her mouth and take it back to Buddha Belly Cave to enjoy at her leisure.

  Flame was quite enthusiastic about this, and waded through the water that came up to her knees, over towards the reed bank. The grassy hillocks below the water were all different shapes and sizes, and there was slippery moss growing on the smooth pebbles. Walking on three legs, she would take a few steps then stumble and fall. It was very difficult.

  When she had got about halfway, she heard the throaty calls of a bird ring out, loud and hurried. Soon, the startled cries became a riot, and the vast evening sky filled with swans shaking out their wings, preparing to take flight. She had imagined this scene. Black swans live together in flocks, lots of small families making up a much larger clan. They have a sentry system at night, and the sentry-guards, who sound the warning alarm, are responsible for the security of the whole clan. A vigilant sentry had spotted her, and called for reinforcements. Flame continued to head for the reed banks. Experience had taught her that black swans are as weak as sheep, and the moment a wild animal attacks, they flee the nest and run for their lives. ‘You can call out as much as you like, until all the sound in your lovely long neck is gone, I am still going to eat your eggs!’

  Flame stumbled on a bit further, until she was about twenty metres from the reed bank. A black swan flapped its wings and took flight. Its loud and sonorous cry rang out through the sky. This swan had a golden beak and strong body. He was clearly the leader of the flock. At Goldenbeak’s cry, the reed bank filled with the sound of wings flapping and beating, as a dozen or more black swans took to the sky, following their leader, and circling above Flame’s head. They cried and clamoured, collectively pouring out their indignation.

  Flame knew that the black swans were cursing her. ‘Not much longer for you, jackal! Shame on you, egg thief!’ But she didn’t care. Their curses would not hurt her. She just wanted to eat the eggs, and if that meant hearing a thousand, even ten thousand, curses, then so be it. Curse away! A free concert of swan music for me!

  All of a sudden Goldenbeak came close to her head. His wings stopped flapping for a moment, and he dropped something. It landed right on the bridge of her nose, hot and sticky and smelly – bird poo! The other black swans followed suit, took aim from the sky, and fired.

  It was the first time Flame had experienced the poo-firing tactics of a black swan. Their technique was pretty impressive: they gathered in their wings, swooped down, making a beautiful arc in the sky, took aim and fired. They seemed to have planned in advance how much to shoot, then landed the missiles right on target. Most of them hit her head. There were only a few misses. The swans were like a squadron of bomber planes. Their bombs did not kill, but they were certainly offensive. If this was the price she had to pay for filling her belly, she didn’t care. How convenient that she was in the water
already! She could easily wash it off, and clean herself up.

  Soon after this, Flame stepped out of the water and on to the reed bank. As soon as she touched land, her sharp eyes picked out a nest made of branches and reeds, just ten or so steps ahead of her, with two grey-coloured swan’s eggs inside. Carried away with excitement, she ran over as fast as her dodgy leg would allow.

  But it all quickly ended in tears. The night sky was dim, she was running too fast, and she didn’t see the ditch ahead of her. Her foot went in, and her centre of gravity shifted. Her damaged leg was not strong enough to take her body weight and she crashed to the ground. Gritting her teeth and struggling for a while to get back on her feet, she had just managed to steady herself when Goldenbeak swooped down and gave her a vicious kick from behind. Flame lost her balance and flopped to the ground once again.

  Goldenbeak’s long, long neck reached proudly for the sky. With his wings beating gracefully, he honked a loud cheer, like a battle horn sounding, calling the swans to go for her guts. They swooped down from all sides, to attack in turn, kicking and scraping with their feet, beating with their wings, pecking with their beaks.

  Under normal circumstances, black swans would not dare to mess with a jackal. It was jackals that attacked swans, not the other way round. Who has ever heard of a black swan fighting a jackal? Flame had been here before, and had stolen eggs from nests in the reed bank. When the swans found their nests looted, they had screamed angrily. Nothing more.

  What was happening now was unprecedented, unheard of. It was not a case of the swans humiliating her and feeling emboldened. Flame knew that. It was because she was weak and could be bullied. Goldenbeak had seen her staggering along and falling over, and knew she was a lame jackal unable to hunt. That was why he had summoned the swans to attack.

  A swan can stamp and kick its feet all over a jackal’s back but the worst they can do is scratch a few lines of blood. It can beat its wings as vigorously as it likes, but the wings cannot do much damage. Its beak is broad and flat, but the most it can do is pluck out a clump of jackal fur. In short, a swan is not much of a threat for a jackal. But Flame had been under attack from ten to twenty swans for a while now and she couldn’t take any more of it. Having only three good legs meant that the swans’ feet had pushed her off balance over and over again. Their wings had whipped up so much dust that her eyes stung with the pain. She had been pecked relentlessly on the back, and some bold swans had pecked and tweaked at her ear, which hurt so much it made her see stars.