Chosen Too Read online

  'What ever became of him?’ Yowlar wondered aloud.

  Hoaru gave a puzzled meow. ‘Who?'

  'Our dear old dad.'

  'It's not like you to be sentimental.'

  'Just thinking out loud.'

  'Don't bother yourself. He met with the same fate that befalls all pride leaders; he grew old and got deposed.’ There was a strange twinkle in the elder Sabretooth's eyes.

  Yowlar was not sure what disturbed him more: the unappealing prospect of aging or Hoaru's anticipation at his own brother's inevitable downfall. The time had come to change topics. ‘He won't be back in a hurry.’ Yowlar referred to the retreating stranger, a catch of regret in his observation. He was in the mood for drawing blood.

  'Not this season, but come next he'll be trying again and I'm betting he will not be on his own,’ Hoaru bleakly forecasted. ‘Trouble seldom travels alone.'

  Yowlar drew his mouth back, baring his impressive teeth. Now eight and nearing the end of his second year of overlordship of the Sunning Rock Sabretooths, he remained in peak condition. The same could not be said for Hoaru, his tatty pelt stretched taut over a skinnier, underfed frame crisscrossed with battle scars. Males rarely lived beyond their twelfth year, due to the rigors of their harsh and demanding lifestyle. Bearing Hoaru's creeping agedness in mind, without his brother's invaluable aid to fend off encroachments by contenders Yowlar's tenure over his pride was going to wind up shaky at best.

  'I feel like biting someone,’ he grumped. ‘Why don't we go find something to kill?'

  Standing, Hoaru sullenly traipsed after Yowlar. Food was always a great comforter.

  Yowlar padded through his territory, the rays from the late afternoon sun pulling the shadowy alter-images of flora and fauna alike into elongated parodies of leaf and flesh. Coolness seeped into the dank air in the form of a fanning breeze ruffling Yowlar's magnificent coat. He stopped periodically to mark the boundaries of his expanse with a spray of urine on a selected bush or rock, maintaining his presence by the sheer pungency of his scent in conjunction with the odd roar of proclamation. His range extended from the pride namesake that was Sunning Rock in the east, northward to the forested Hideaway Thicket as that conglomeration of dwindling cypresses and multiplying elderberry followed the undulating curve of the Sentry Hills into the western swampland of Marshy Green. Scrubland Domain itself angled northeast as a thirty-mile wide belt of flatland littered with the occasional boulder and a profusion of wild looking shrubs, its southern border demarcated by the sticky ooze of Blackmud Mire. It was to this preferred stalking ground that Yowlar headed, Hoaru dutifully in tow.

  Blackmud Mire could be better described as a scavenging ground. The region was a collection of asphalt deposits, the recognisable tar pits of Rancho La Brea sited in what is presently modern day Los Angeles. But for now it remained a wilderness and death trap for the incautious and inexperienced. Animals were lured here by thirst. No sooner had they begun to wade into and drink from the shallow pools of freshwater scattered about did they discover the treacherous tarry bottoms of said watering holes. Caught in the unforgiving grip of the clinging, oily fluid seeping up from deep belowground, the weight and struggles of each victim sealed its doom as the black morass sucked flesh and bone down to be horribly smothered. That grisly end usually never eventuated for the bigger herbivores. Predators, lured to the tar pits by the prospect of an easy meal, preyed on the trapped beasts before the meaty buffets were pulled down into the black quagmire. Wolf and coyote, eagle and condor, all vied for their share of the pickings, many falling victim to the unfussy tar traps. This was takeaways Late Pleistocene style!

  The Sabretooths were no exception. Yowlar surveyed the dingy landscape, lifting a paw in disgust. The ground underfoot nearer the tar pits was turning spongy, changing from the stunted grass of the plain into patches of bare muddy earth interspersed with pockets of inky stickiness, where wells of tar bubbled to the surface from underground reservoirs. A strident baying sounded in the near distance and Yowlar pricked his ears. After a moment of carefully listening to those howls and a following chorus of excited yelping, he signalled to Hoaru and they split up. Staying on the edge of the tar pits while his brother ranged downwind across the scrubland, Yowlar slinked with the inbred quiet of the hunter, noiselessly honing in on the calls of a jubilant wolf pack. A baleful trumpeting dead ahead confirmed the big cat's suspicions as he swung inwards over the threshold of Blackmud Mire.

  A cow mastodon slumped bogged down in the deadly ooze, sinking steadily as her five-ton body inexorably dragged her towards oblivion. She was already submerged up to her belly, the shaggy red-brown guard hairs of her lower extremities matted by the sticky blackness. The doomed prehistoric elephant, her trunk flaying about, was wild-eyed and panicky, struggling in vain to lift her trapped legs free of the engulfing tar. A quartet of short-legged Dire Wolves circled her, impatiently waiting for her death throes to quieten enough for them to safely move in and strip the flesh from her exposed back—to eat her alive! They bayed again in expectation, their haunting cries accompanied by the plaintive yelps of a pair of hungry coyotes hovering nearby.

  Sniffing the patent odour of cat, the lead wolf—a flinty-eyed male with a broad head and massive teeth designed for cracking bones—stopped circling to stare at Yowlar with unafraid frankness. What do you want here, pussycat?’ he said in an intimidating snarl.

  'You're trespassing on my turf, fido.'

  The canid curled his lips back in an ugly sneer. ‘The Mire has always been common ground. It was never the sole province of you bloodsuckers.'

  The black-backed wolf had him there. Yowlar nonetheless pressed the issue. ‘I'm hungry and in the mood for Tusker meat.'

  'Then you had better go and track down one for yourself.'

  'The cow behind you looks tasty enough.’ The arrogant Sabretooth deliberately made a show of casually sitting down. ‘If I'm feeling generous, I may even leave her bones for you.'

  The wolf snickered. ‘You are full of it, flatfoot. I am many, you are just one. I don't see your mangy pride backing you up.'

  Yowlar flattened his ears. This flea-bitten cur was infuriatingly right again. At half his size and a fifth of his bulk, a lone wolf was no match for the strapping pride leader. However, multiplied by a factor of four and it was Yowlar out-muscled. There was indeed strength in numbers.

  The Sabretooth nonchalantly got up, turned his back on the sniggering wolf pack and sauntered back the way he had come, hissing under his breath, ‘I hate dogs.'

  Stopping on the verge of the Domain, he distastefully licked at his tarred paws. Yowlar disliked tar almost as much as wolves. It was a fruitless cleanup, for the thick, black liquid stuck maddeningly to his fur and tongue, making him gag. He gave up and continued back on to the plain. Llama abounded on the flatland in small family groups, cropping grass or browsing the many shrubs. Unnerved by Yowlar's blatant presence, the pockets of flighty, unfussy eaters scattered at his approach, sensing that the cat was on the prowl for a meal. Justified as that prudence was the lissom herbivores had no need to fear. Yowlar hankered for Tusker meat.

  Specialised big game hunters, the Sabretooths were feeling the unpleasant effects of a steady downsizing in the regional elephants. Mastodons stayed plentiful and would remain so for a further 3,000 years, but were half-sized shadows of their hairless cousins. Huger mammoths grandly bearing fifteen foot long spiralled tusks lumbered sedately across this same landscape in rapidly declining numbers. Natural selection was working against the titan Tuskers; in only half a century they would be relegated to remembrance. Preferring bigger cuts of meat, the dominant cats lamented that the elephantine pickings had slimmed increasingly into hairy offerings. But beggars cannot be choosers.

  Yowlar had not padded far when Hoaru came loping up to him from out of a thicket on silent paws.

  'Where were you?’ the pride leader mewed, swiping at his brother, who ducked out of the way of the clawed rebuke. ‘I was just humiliated by a
bunch of wretched Howlers.'

  'I was busy,’ Hoaru growled back. ‘You said you were hungry. I found you a treat.'

  'There's a female Tusker stuck in Blackmud back over there,’ Yowlar shared. ‘Between the two of us we should be able to drive those insolent dogs away to get at her.'

  'I've located an easy meal that'll avoid the risk of getting caught in that muck ourselves.'

  'What could be easier than feasting on a trapped Tusker?'

  'Her wandering calf ... at least I assume the hairy little beggar belongs to her.'

  Yowlar opened his jaws in a feline approximation of a grin. ‘Brother, you have redeemed yourself. Whereabouts is this tender snack?'

  'Back out on the Domain a ways.'

  'Show me.’ Promptly forgetting about the smart-mouthed wolf and his posse, Yowlar followed Hoaru's lead and stealthily went from thicket to thicket, making masterful use of the concealing groundcover. When Hoaru dropped onto his belly and crawled behind a particularly large clump of brush, he did likewise.

  'Your snack's about a Shaggyhump length beyond this bush,’ his brother quietly informed him.

  'You know the routine,’ Hoaru suppressed a growl of displeasure and slinked away upwind. Why did he always have to do the legwork for his lazy sibling?

  Inching forward, Yowlar risked a peep through gaps in the shrub's waxy leaves. The ‘baby’ mastodon was half as big again as an adult Sabretooth. She was standing vulnerably out in the open, rumbling comfortingly to herself. Separated from her mother and herd, the lonely infant cow was already dead. Yowlar idly wondered why the wolves had not brought her down, but wasted no more thought on the matter. Their oversight was soon to be his gain. Staying low, he crawled on all fours to the extreme right of the unsuspecting elephant.

  Lifting her trunk to test the westerly breeze, the young Tusker trumpeted in alarm. Hoaru had done his job and purposefully given away his scent, panicking the prey. Instinct took over. Wheeling to her left she charged away from the frightening stench of cat, her fan-like ears flapping madly, her tail upraised from fear.

  Yowlar broke from cover to come at her in a fury of fangs and fur, pouncing from his place of hiding up onto the juvenile's back as she rushed past the thicket. Alarmed, the cow spun about and by chance bucked off her attacker. The flung Sabretooth landed adeptly on his feet and instantly rushed back at the plucky youngster. Rearing up on his hind legs, Yowlar gripped the small Tusker's rump with his forepaws. Digging his extended claws through the coarse hair deep into her hide, the great cat flexed his muscles and brought his considerable strength to bear, planting his back paws firmly on the ground and leaning back with all his might. The terrified calf resisted but, gradually pulled off balance by the move, toppled over onto her side.

  Her brief fight for life was at an end. Slavering, Yowlar straddled the prone mastodon. Jaws gaping wide, he arched his neck and plunged his outsized canine teeth into the calf's heaving belly, puncturing the tough skin. Closing his mouth, the Sabretooth braced himself before jerking his head upwards, neatly eviscerating his victim. She squealed and convulsed from being ripped apart alive.

  Hoaru padded up to the kill to sit watching his brother skilfully disembowel the downed elephant. Her shrill cries were fading, her feeble struggles subsiding. Yowlar took an inordinate pleasure in killing. Bringing down game meant more to him than simply capturing food. He derived perverse enjoyment from exercising the fundamental clout of nature. To kill meant dispensing ultimate power. Domination was that basic.

  Finished gutting the hapless calf, Yowlar began to avidly feed on the innards spilling from her torn abdomen, mindful to treat his specialised stabbing teeth with care while he fed. In a quirky paradox of nature, the frightening canines capable of shearing through muscle and sinew were fragile weapons that could twist and break if scraped against bone. They also hampered eating, meaning that Sabretooths could only enjoy the boneless cuts of prey meat. Their horrid wastefulness did prove beneficial for the many scavengers forming Mother Nature's invaluable cleanup crews.

  Hoaru yawned and lay down with his head between his paws. He would not be allowed his meagre portion of the carcass until his brotherly leader had eaten his fill. Such was Hoaru's unhappy lot in life: always the pride's mate, never the pride.

  The sun was beginning to set by the time Yowlar rose and moseyed away from his half-eaten kill, his belly swollen from his gluttony. He barely acknowledged Hoaru skulking past him to scavenge the remains. Ambling beneath a stunningly red sky festooned with mauve clouds, Yowlar prudently gave a family of skunks a wide berth as they meandered single file across his path toward Hideaway Thicket. Not even the stupidest Sabretooth hassled a smelly Stripeback. He came upon his pride in the dusky light of early evening six miles west of Sunning Rock. The fifteen smaller females, lounging about after dining on a pronghorn kill, greeted their returning leader with a round of affectionate head-butts. Yowlar ignored the general hellos from his harem and made unerringly for one particular individual.

  Miorr was his unmitigated favourite. She was by no means the ruler of the roost in the ordered female hierarchy, nor could she be considered genteel or servile. But that was her attraction. Miorr did not fawn over Yowlar like some lovesick bison calf. She did in fact abhor the attention he continually showed her. Yowlar got the impression that the surly queen despised her existence in a set-up where the females did the lion's share of the hunting, protecting and rearing of the cubs. Miorr's bitterness served only to encourage Yowlar's unwelcome interest in her, heightening his craving to dominate.

  Tonight Miorr was feeling oddly friendly and, after meeting Yowlar with the ritual head-butt, began grooming him. He put it down to her having come into oestrus. Licking his bloodstained muzzle with her rough tongue, she tasted a delicacy. ‘Mmm, fresh Tusker, if I'm not mistaken.'

  'A small one,’ Yowlar cagily admitted.

  'Did you leave any for me?’ Miorr purred hopefully.

  'Hoaru's eating up the dregs now.'

  She pulled away. ‘You pig.'

  That was more like the old Miorr. ‘The baby Tusker did in fact squeal like a Grunter when I stabbed her with my fangs,’ Yowlar heartlessly noted. Pig-like peccaries abounded in the open woods adjoining Scrubland Domain and when caught made a horrendous squealing sound while being butchered.

  The nonplussed pride leader sat on his haunches and said conversationally, ‘We chased off another young male this afternoon.'

  'Was he one of ours?’ Miorr eagerly enquired.

  'Funny that ... Hoaru asked me the self same question.'

  'And?'

  'And what?'

  'Was he a cub of ours?'

  'That's hard to tell, Miorr, since we didn't really have the opportunity to get acquainted. For some reason he just took off like a scared jackrabbit. Maybe he didn't like the way Hoaru smelt.'

  'Yowlar, you are such a beast.'

  'Flattery will get you everywhere,’ he lustfully responded, coming to his feet. Miorr was exuding the irresistible odour of sexual receptiveness he found so aphrodisiacal. She deliberately turned her backside away from him. ‘Don't be a tease,’ Yowlar said, playfully swatting her flicking ears.

  'I miss my cubs.'

  'I'll father you a new litter,’ he ardently suggested, sidling up to her.

  'Why do you always have to run them off? My cubs are the only joy I have.'

  Yowlar sighed, his mood being dampened by Miorr's melancholy. ‘It is our way. I won't brook having potential usurpers living right under my paws. I was chucked out by my hard-nosed sire at a young age and had to go steal my own pride. Let my sons do the same or be killed trying.'

  'They're just babies.'

  'You get far too attached to them, Miorr. They'd sooner claw you than put up with your incessant mothering after they've reached their second season.'

  'Better that than your loveless attentions,’ she snarled.

  'Speaking off which,’ Yowlar growled enthusiastically. Without further ado the
big male climbed atop Miorr and roughly grabbed the scruff of her neck in his jaws. She flinched as he forcibly copulated with her. This was the beginning of a long and tiring mating session. Sabretooths coupled every thirty minutes on and off for several days on end, seldom eating during that intense period of procreation. Luckily for Yowlar he had just filled up on red Tusker meat and Hoaru could mind the shop while he was otherwise engaged.

  With a profound sense of relief Miorr felt Yowlar's overbearing weight slide off her back. She lunged at him savagely, growling ferociously. He retreated, laughing cruelly.

  'You're wishing me dead right now,’ he shrewdly surmised.

  'Wishes sometimes come true,’ Miorr warned.

  Recalling Hoaru's grim prediction concerning the unavoidability of a pride leader's future, Yowlar said, ‘You'll get your wish one day, when I'm too feeble to fight off a younger challenger. But by then you will be too old to enjoy your small victory.'

  Miorr mewled unhappily. She was ten and theoretically Yowlar had the potential to rule the pride for at least two more years, four at the most. Miorr could live for another six, meaning that she would be spending almost half her adult life under Yowlar's contemptible dominion.

  'Your freedom's going to be short-lived anyway because once I'm gone another male will take my place,’ concluded Yowlar. ‘Better the devil you know then.'

  Feeling exceptionally virile, he remounted Miorr and bit down on the nape of the complaining Sabretooth female. In Yowlar's life there was such a thing as a free ride.

  Chapter Two

  'I'm hungry for new meat,’ Yowlar decided. ‘We hunt Fleetfoots.'

  'Shouldn't that be Fleetfeet?'

  The Sunning Rock pride leader snarled displeasingly at Hoaru for correcting his grammar. Yowlar was the brains of his outfit, his brother the brawn. The status quo did not need changing.

  Unexcited by the prey choice, Hoaru whined, ‘It's dangerous hunting that area in springtime, or anytime for that matter.'