The rogue lion wandered the corridors between territories. There he was relatively safe from the territorial males. They would remind him to avoid their lands, but not fight him. Some of the kinder ones who remembered what it was like to be alone would chat for a while when they saw he meant no harm. Ugas would share a couple of jokes. Old Mabatu would even stroke his mane and give him a blessing. Once, Duma let him eat a small portion of zebra haunch because he reminded him of his son.
Because the other rogues had to share the same corridors, he would also chat with them briefly. He wanted to join a coalition that would end his solitude. But most of the rogues had a brother or another friend already. They were quite content to keep their infrequent kills or carcasses to themselves.
By and large, the most companionship he’d known was the flock of buzzards that collect at every kill. He had negotiated an arrangement with them--in a real sense they were his buzzards. They would spot prey, and rather than watch it go to the hyenas and quickly vanish, they let a lion friend have his fill, then he would guard them while they took the remnants. It was a great system, and because this rogue was alone, they were assured of a large share.
The rogue saw the distinctive signs of a meal ahead. The buzzards were flying in circles. So the lion hurried ahead and saw their target. It was a wounded antelope with a broken leg. It staggered along in the oppressive heat on three legs, a look of desperation on its face.
The antelope spotted him and tried to run, but could only hobble quickly. Soon the lion overtook it and pushed it over, pinning it to the ground with a paw.
“No, don’t! Don’t!”
“It’s over. Just relax,” the lion said softly. “Don’t struggle and it won’t hurt much.” He gripped the antelope by the throat, pressing firmly but not causing unnecessary pain. The antelope hardly moved. It pawed at him almost gently with a hoof, vainly gasping for a breath. Then it quickly felt the need to breathe slip away and relaxed, falling into a last sleep.
The buzzards landed not far away. “Now that’s right nice, Fuzzy,” said the leader said. “I hope when it’s my time I go that well.”
“Thanks,” the rogue said, quickly ripping the carcass and availing himself of a long-awaited meal. “I could have been an antelope--he could have been a lion. That’s what my father used to say.”
“Go easy on him, Fuzzy,” the buzzard warned. “Remember, make it worth our while and we’ll help you out. Fair and square all around. That’s what MY father used to say.”
“You’ll get yours, Markaaagh.”
“You learned to say it properly, I’ll grant you. Maybe you have some vulture in your blood.”
“Maybe,” the rogue said with a laugh. “Any hyenas around?”
“Nope.”
The lion could have easily finished it off himself, but he left plenty for the small crew of buzzards to eat their fill. He watched them eat with some satisfaction. They were in a sense his pride.
“So what’s up, guys?”
“Nothing much,” Markaaagh said. “Things have been kind of dead lately. Har har!”
The lion’s nose wrinkled at the terrible buzzard breath. “Dead lately. Good one.” He looked around. “You have a new one today.”
“Count us, did you? Which one is new?”
The lion looked around and quickly pointed. “Her.”
“Haaaargh! True enough. Most carnies say we all look alike! That’s my new mate, Ohyeghegh.”
“Interesting name. Congratulations.”
Moments later, they had picked what was left of the Antelope clean and with a quickly mumbled good bye, they headed away like leaves in the wind. He looked after them longingly. As poor company as they were, he felt his loneliness close around him tighter still. He was alone once again. At least he thought he was.
He was being watched and followed by another rogue. The strange lion crept along, watching him from the bushes and through the blades of golden grass. Beside him was a hyena....