(I briefly mentioned my whereabouts in another story. Best to give you the whole scenario.)
I’ll be 85 in about two months so, some years back, decided I wished to be scattered from the Cape of Good Hope in my native South Africa. Easy, I’ve a home there so moved from the ranch in Kansas to behind Table Mountain to my estate in Claremont, a suburb of Cape Town. Fine. A year later I was nowhere near death so flew home….and into a dust storm. I love Kansas but….years spent there brought back memories so…..thought where did I also really like?
Easy, Buenos Aires. Which is now part of my tripartite commute. Kansas, Argentina, South Africa then reverse. I’ve so many miles that the ticket agent for Lufthansa at Ezeiza Airport just hands me a First Class ticket for Sao Paulo-the change point as there’s no service between here and the Cape so...on to Brasil. You can see how this gets long and, at my age, tiring.
Below is a story I wrote at least two decades ago but never published. Why? Writing to me is something I do for my own amusement and pleasure. If, occasionally, one sells, great. My agent is now deceased so I only get offers from those places who used pieces of mine in the past. And, of course, they aren’t writing to me here in Argentina.
I hope you’ll enjoy this one; Comments are always appreciated.
P-J
Hunter and Prey
For two days I've not bathed, had any contact with things to make me clean, hygienic. I've slept in my sweat, worn the same clothes, stayed out of doors, let my self be grilled by the sun. My tan, leathery skin has almost been turned to camouflage by the erratic way the melanin in my white skin has permanently coloured itself varying shades of brown, tan, beige...from my toes to my shaved head, dots, slashes in some places what would seem to be a poorly done tattoo of colour. Nude, I can walk through the tall grasses and not be seen even if it's only to my knees. It is how I want it, the change of the man I was to the hunter I have become and the day for the hunt has almost arrived. I sit in the full blast of the sun trying to form a plan, a visualization of the ground where I will pursue what I want. The hummocks, the creeks, the rock faces, the open plains, the trees and the edge, the sea. The deep sapphire blue that indicates cold, deep water that looks beautiful but only allows moments of life. Yes, that's where it will end, must end, at the foam on top of the waves and there are only two choices, plunge in to whatever the consequences are hidden in water or stand proud and accept the defeat and what will happen next.
I am prepared for this day, this hunt for now they are rarer, less interesting, the game not as clever or wanting more than what amounts to a good work out. I will give it that. And more. I will make it become game as to a hunter that is all I need. This is no walk in a pretty place to admire the flora, this is a match between wills and intentions with only fauna involved.
The beaters have gone out-it seems unfair but today and for how ever long this will take, I want some containment, it's the right of the hunter and the lot of the prey to be known, to be discovered in an area, to be corralled even when thousands of hectares are involved. This is not meant to be a fair fight, when hunting, it never is; The Hunter Wins.
My sweat drools off my nose and I lap up the salt with my tongue. My body has closed down those senses that would be offended by smell and pain and the thousand indignities that comes with hunting. I know that the prey has been equally prepared, it can take the heat, the variance of weather, it has acclimated itself to the area, is ready to be elusive, to run parallel to the sea-the mistake they always make; Only a randomly executed path saves them for the longer time, lulls them into false security, a euphoria of victory. And I watch.
As the years have gone on I've altered how I hunt just for the amusement of variation and, because I know that word gets out, to attract more prey to find what might be interesting to them; They know it will be a fair hunt, it always is and the hunter always wins.
Time to begin. Grabbing my horse by the mane I mount up, all that I'll need is with me, no saddle, only a rope bridle. From my belt are my few things that I will use...eventually, rope, pegs, a small trowel. Around my neck my binoculars, in my hat fishing line. And hooks. Some large enough for a shark or for prey. A bush knife, one side serrated, one side honed to the point it could be used as a razor and the butt of it opens at the tip to reveal a waterproof area for matches, a silk cloth. In my boots, another knife for skinning and a small blade to cut the skin in the event of snake bite. Sunglasses with polarizing lenses and what more do I need? Nothing. I tap the rope to one side of the horse's neck and we go forward at an ambling pace, no urgency, no necessity to be at one place at one time although there is one place and there will be a time.
It is almost an even match; I carry no food, no water just a slight advantage in that I know where fresh water is, how to make traps for for food. If there has been a drought then the prey and I will both suffer, if I succumb then I will be lost as no one will come looking. I think about that now and again, dying in the hunt and realize that is the best end. For that, there's only one other end, I contemplate it now and again, but it would have to be the best of all prey, the cleverest the most...sadistic. As sadistic as I am to take pleasure in these hunts, wanting to catch my prey, stake them out then squat, staring at them, deciding what will happen next. The roar of the ocean, the clean smell of it. We both hear and smell that. Yes, one day I must hunt for the last time. To the sea, to the edge of the water.
I can see the prey standing there, holding the power over me as I continue to dig a hole in the sand, hard, grinding work as the sand pours back in but, eventually, a cone shaped depression exists, just big enough for a man, a hunter to stand in. Only a few binding necessary, a meter of sand pushed in to anchor me and then, as the prey squats, the tide inexorably comes in forcing the sand into the hole until there's only my head above the now sea smoothed beach. Am I far enough up to only be engulfed for a minute or so before the tide withdraws or have I misjudged and those minutes finally become submersion and I can only see the sun through the distortion of moving water. The sun that gave life, the sea water which is most of our body. I wonder when, not if, I'll be the prey?
But not today, I can feel the lust for this in my sac, feel my rod tensioning, my balls rising….. as I move away from the comforts of the house. I can feel my cracked lips smile, the bridge of my nose so burned it looks like it had been grilled warming to smell to sense to become part of the hunter. I lean forward and let the horse wander. Where is my prey? How does he want to be caught? What should I do with him? To him? What might amuse me? I smile as I think about pleasures to be considered, committed.
It is hot and I'm sweating just as all hunters do. I am fully engaged in what I'm about, the hunt, the capture of the prey but just now I am exhilarating in my own toxic masculinity, feeling the need for pain, man on man sex with suffering seize me. Yes, what would it be like to be the prey? Would that make me a better hunter? If I understood the rationale of the prey? I wonder. Is the prey having the same sort of excitement but theirs born of fear? Fear and Determination, the hunter and the prey. Sex and Death.
The Hunt Begins.
