The Slaughtered Elephant

Each time his bare feet hit the hard earth of the open savanna, the boy's ankles are covered with swirling, rust-colored dust. Sweat pours off his face, thick hot air bolts through his lungs. He races against gusts strong enough to pluck small animals. Here, whether stampeding across baked earth alongside the wildebeests, or bounding with the antelope, the boy is free from expectation.

There are no difficult choices to make, just the simplicity of basic survival. He would rather be faced with being taken down by a pride of lions than to have to choose again.

But the moment the boy spots his mother just beyond the swale of high grass, his bliss shatters. The truth of what must happen sends his spirits pummeling. Always it comes to this end, him having to choose, having to make a decision, having to lose one important faction of his world in order to save another. Some nights he finds himself traveling the galaxies, other times swimming the dark depths of the ocean. But it happens also on elevators, bridges, anywhere at all. No matter where he runs to, though, he cannot hide. His fears and insecurities find him and force him to make a choice.

Today, when he sees his mother, she is sitting at a wooden table with three men. The table is shaded under a rustling canvas canopy. Taut ropes secure the canopy to two dead acacia trees. The boy, still running, cannot help but feel the hatred as he watches one of the men lean over his mother's shoulder. The other two men, one on either side of her, are close beside her as well.

Against the drone of the wind, the boy hears his mother's clear laughter and a haunting chill vibrates through his entire body. He focuses on the silk ribbon of her hat, snapping in the wind, and then the hem of her regal gown, whipping near the earth. Each time his mother raises her hand to sip her tea, faint rays of sunlight reflect off her dainty teacup.

She laughs again, loudly. The men with her laugh, too. Their teacups clink, the sound simultaneously distant and extremely clear.

As he nears the wooden table where his mother sits, the stench of rotting flesh carried by the wind invades the boy's nostrils. Despite this stink of death, the savanna teems with life: African Crown cranes strut boldly through dry flowing grass, honking at one another. Antelopes, paused from their grazing, lean from their high cover to study their surroundings.

Out of breath, he must stop running. Breathing hard, he cups his knees with his hands. The sound of wing beats causes him to raise his face skyward. Vultures soar overhead, circling the root of the rotting smell -- an elephant carcass. Distorted by the heat shimmer, the grotesque birds swoop from the sky to rip apart the flesh of the slaughtered elephant.

He does not understand what he is seeing. Or does he?

Standing motionless on the savanna soil, the boy feels the girt of earth against his curled toes. Once again he hears laughter carry from the wooden table where his mother sits.

Soon after, as always, a long shadow slips over him. The boy whirls, stares through the glare and sees his father.

A familiar sense of foreboding tingles through the boy. How many times has this happened before?

The wind passes over the boy's father's old-man weathered face, a film of glistening sweat covers his naked body. He adjusts his grip on the spear he carries. His dove-gray eyes plead for his son's understanding.

The boy closes his eyes and draws long, deep breaths. He does not want to choose today. He wants to remain wild, like the hyenas and the big cats, running free on the savanna, where all life ends meaningful.

His father's cold hand stretches across the space between them and falls on the boy's right shoulder. "It is because I am from one world," his father says, "and your mother is from another."

Fear. The boy remembers his mother's fears -- the nights long ago when he and his mother roamed the dark streets together; he, clinging to her long swishing gown. Long nights spent either searching for his father, or trying to escape him. Recalling the pain and confusion, the oby remains motionless on the savanna until he feels the smooth wooden handle of his father's spear being pressed against his palms. Sweat drips off his hair and runs down the side of face. He hears his father say, "Like this, like this." He feels his father's hand take hold his fingers and guide them around the wooden handle of the spear.

There was a time when he would have done anything for the sound of that voice; a time when he would have given his life for the touch of his father's hand. And there was a time when he did take a life for his father's affection.

Now his father crouches beside him and turns the boy so that his left shoulder juts in the direction of the table where his mother laughs with her men. The men she is with are always different, yet always there. Always. The boy allows his father to raise his limp arms, position them rigid, and lock them at the elbows.

"Remember that day, don't you?" his father says. "I came home, found you alone. Remember what we found out, together? Remember what we had to do?"

The boy opens his eyes and sees a clothesline tied between two trees. Damp clothes pinned to the line flap and writhe in the wind. Like vibrant ghosts, the deep colors of the fabric rise and fall, rise and fall. Two sheets part and the boy's mother appears from between them. Behind her, a faceless man.

Now his mother raises her face from the table and scans the savanna. She knows they are here again. The men with her move away from the table. She stands, leaving her teacup on the table, and begins to trudge through the wavering hot air toward the boy and his father. Halfway across the grass, she stops to mourn the slaughtered elephant.

The boy tightens his grip on his father's spear. He lunges forward without moving his feet, thrusting the spear, hearing the stone spearhead slice the air. he knows what he must do. He knows the instant the spearhead pierces his mother's flesh the elephant will rise again.