Zebra Story

 Tell me a story about zebras. No flamingos. No, no, zebras. 

 

Once upon a time in the great praire lands of Africa, south of Tanzania, and northern Kenya, it was the morning of third day of the migration. In the end of rain season, zebras crossed the praire lands  for the eastern rivers. They traveled as one great herd, parting the high grasses at their chests. It was in the midst of such grasses that predators could hide and stalk the oldest and weakest, sick or injured. 

Zefra, leader of Zebras, rose and addressed the zebra guard, those who took the perimeter. “We are near our journey’s end. We rise today tired, hungry and thirsty. We have traveled through the greatest part of the journey. We begin to end our journey now. We shall travel all day, slowly, staying together, and we will end our journey this evening at the water.”  

Zefra took council with the most experienced of the zebras. They said their worries, rumors perhaps, but they discussed reports of cheetah’s lying in wait before the waters.  

“Zefra, we have two fears,” said Captain Good. “tiresome speeches.” 

The zebra guards snorted softly.  

“and silent stalkers.” 

Zefra shook its mane, with an icy feeling. 

“You know for the unlucky, it could be the last. What would you have us do?”  

The days journey would be the most dangerous. Zefra directed Good and the other captains to again ensure that the youngest be kept in the center with the aged. 

High above in the sky a great bird soared. It parted the air with an invisible line pointing in the direction of travel but then it began circling. The bird was in search of wind for an easy coasting and it  circled climbing. The bird saw the whole herd below, thousands of zebra, beginning to move in a stream of salt and pepper. Now it found the breeze stiffened and the bird opened its wings and let itself glide. Ahead far in the distance, a grey blue line glistening in the light awaited ahead like a finish line, the great river. 

Below, in the center of the zebras, a group of zebras pranced, playfully, each in contest, boasting who would get to the river first. Siblings nipped eachother’s ears and raced forward chasing. 

“Enough, enough,” said Captain Good, and their elders around snorted in agreement. “Save it for the day.”  

The rota of the guards kept the bravest in routine, as Captain Good and the others took turns from the center to the periphery. The elders distracted the youngsters from their complaints with stories of mighty zebras kicking predators with their sharp hooves and dreams of crystal water and fresh greens. 

Just then in the distance, a strange sound rose up. Maybe nothing. Then it could be heard again. Neighing, whinny-ing. Necks stiffened in alarm, a rustle moved from flank to flank. Then they were able to hear only the rhythm, slow thudding. The sound unified, lower and louder at the same time. Even the elder were moving together in haste.  

Only after a while did they slow, and then breathing heavily, trotting a little while more, before they finally resumed the gradual pace of before.  

That evening at the water, Zefra signaled for a count. It seemed as if all of them were still arriving, but Zefra wanted to know. The first reported were all present, the captain guards, the young, the caring elders, but other reports took longer, and then Zefra felt a twinge of doubt. “Where is Captain Good?” They knew by then. Some had not arrived, but some were disappeared. They were not coming in.