The day before the dinner in the corn field a mountain lioness—a lady lion—of significant size and enviable patience came upon the tracks of our four adventurers. She recognised the mouth-watering scent of tender young billy goat and the almost-as-delicious scent of sweet young horse. The third scent she also recognised. Woody and sour, far less appealing: bony old goat. Mountain lions aren’t versed in the arts of making less tender and less succulent meats more tender and more succulent by aging or smoking them. She'd pass on the older goat’s leathery flesh.
The lioness had reached an age of comfort and contemplation. No longer slave to circumstance, she had the luxury of having to provide for no-one but herself. If, rather than hunt, she felt like sitting on a rock, watching the world go round while her tummy grumbled, that’s exactly what she’d do. She had raised four demanding litters in five years and seen off the last of her last litter a year ago. Lions don’t have family get togethers and they don't send Christmas cards. As soon as the children can catch guinea pigs and fall out of trees without spraining wrists or ankles—(it can be difficult for a lion to tell which is which)—they’re on their own. The lioness was no longer interested in child rearing or the affections of males. She had rebuffed the amorous advances of a number of lions this season. She was alone and liked it thus. Not having kids to worry about feeding and protecting she could afford to postpone eating. Hunting was a game, a sport, with the added bonus of dinner as its denouement. Though she went days without thinking of food, when the lioness came across the tracks of our heroes (yes, we can call them that) the lioness was hungry, surprisingly so. The last thing she’d eaten was a guinea pig. A small one. A week ago.
In the tangle of scents wafting up from the ground was that of a fourth animal. The lioness was unsure what it was but she’d enjoy figuring it out before she laid eyes on it, before she killed it. She thought it unlikely that whatever it was would be a suitable dessert to the main course of horse and billy goat. A hurried appetiser, at best. If the smell of it was anything to go by—and it usually was—she’d probably leave it for the vultures and worms.
Just in time for tea, the lioness told herself. Tomorrow’s tea, she added, not wanting to rush anything. She enjoyed letting her hunger grow as she put the willies into her quarry. The hunted come to realise they’re being followed even if they don’t see or hear or smell their hunter. No animal the lioness hunted ever saw or smelt or heard her until the last moment. Though they often knew she was there. Much like a seaman knows there are thunderclouds below the horizon. When, after hours or days of tracking, the lioness, swift and silent, moved in for the kill, it came almost as a relief for her prey. They had come to understand that death was close at hand, which made them uptight and often quite irritable. The hunt was half over before the quarry was sighted. The lioness had a habit of sneaking into her prey's dreams at night, which was a bit show-offy but all part of the fun of a rounded meal.
“A meal is about far more than eating,” the lioness's dad had told her in the short amount of time they’d spent together. “It’s all about putting the willies in your dinner before you eat it. The low level anxiety you create in the animals you’re stalking makes them taste better. Fear and anxiety flavour the meat, make it a stronger tasting, more potent, meal. Eating such a meal makes you stronger.” The lioness wasn’t too sure about the veracity of the last statement. She took everything her father said with a pinch of salt.