They watched as he regained consciousness. He lifted his head slowly, very aware of the humans to his rear, but unconcerned as they made no movement. He lay there for fifteen, thirty, sixty minutes, slowly leaving the haze that had encircled his head, lifting it now and then in an attempt to shake off the awful disorientation. Seventy-five minutes, ninety minutes. They approached. He was aware of every footfall. Close, close, closer they came. He forced his muscles to relax.
Five feet away, he turned and leaped at them, roaring his displeasure. They fell away from his sharp claws and gaping maw. He rounded on one of them and stared him down, muscles tensing once again. This man was frightened; his smell clearly said so. It would be easy, so easy, to spring and rip out his throat. But he wasn’t hungry. After a few minutes, he turned and left the humans to their petty instruments and words. They were beneath him. The magnificent jaguar walked off into the jungle and left them in the forgettable past.
He was unaware of it, but these men, these scientists, had named him Mapi. Mapi was one of ten jaguars to be caught and tagged for the purposes of research but all Mapi cared for was the sore, itchy spot on his neck. Young and strong, he prowled through the dense forest like he owned the world. He was the top predator; birds that squawked loudly were silenced by his presence and the entire jungle knew to fear and respect him and to leave him alone, yet the tiny, sore, annoying itch on his neck was driving him mad. Mapi stopped and rubbed his lean, compact body around a tree.
He was...content with the world. Content was a good word. It meant that all the little things that annoyed him were less so than other days. His disdain for the earsplitting howler monkeys, for the colorful toucans, for the absentminded butterflies was less apparent today. He suspected that this had something to do with the haziness of that morning but refused to think back to that humiliating moment in which he allowed himself to be cornered, not once but twice, and finally caught by those damn scientists’ hunting hounds no less. Yappy, useless creatures. He could make one bite out of them. Well, no, he actually couldn’t. But some of the thicker ones might make a decent meal... Suddenly, the yappy hunting dogs seemed a better idea.
Mapi approached his river. Fish were swimming along stupidly inside it, clustering together in fear every time his tongue broke the surface. The silly creatures had no mind at all. He gazed out across the water as he drank. A snake was lazily balancing in a tree. Mapi didn’t mind snakes. They kept to themselves. A sloth was, as usual, asleep on a high branch across the river. Sloths were alright, too. They didn’t make much of a meal, but they would do during the hard rainy seasons when he could find them. Somehow, they were remarkably fast at disappearing whenever he was hungry.
His gaze struck an alligator basking on the opposite bank. The alligator had seen him as well and was giving him a look of cool appraisal. Of all the animals in the jungle, only the alligator was equal to Mapi. Mapi had once, long ago when he was just a kitten, studied a hunting alligator. Using little energy and endless patience, it had camouflaged itself into the mud and struck quickly and silently when prey strayed too close. His mother, who had stood by him as he watched the alligator swallow an unfortunate monkey, had made him understand the importance of never going too close to an alligator. Their strength was comparable to that of an adult jaguar, but it would eat him and other kittens if given half a chance. Mapi lifted his head and slowly broke eye contact, parting as equals on disputed territory. It could stay for now.
Mapi had wandered almost fifteen miles that day. He had seen everything, missed nothing, and remembered most of it. The day was slowly dimming and darkness set in heavily in the undergrowth. Mapi still wasn’t hungry. He wandered some more, eventually coming to the ruins of some ancient town of some ancient tribe. He climbed a stone Mayan temple in pitch darkness. He liked this spot. He could see everything from here. Here, he felt like a god.
He could still see a little. His eyes were nearly used to the pressing darkness, his ears nearly used to the roaring stillness, his fur nearly used to the unprecedented chill of the rain forest night. In the stone work, he could make out raised carvings. While he couldn’t tell all of the details, he had seen them enough before to know that they were of broad, feline faces that were covered in spots. These faces were dancing with prey, prowling the outer edge of the temple, glaring at the world in disdain. They were carvings of himself and of his mother. This shrine, covered in ancient and dusty blood, was dedicated to his kind, his glorious, elegant kind.
Mapi stretched leisurely on the cold stone and lay his head down on his paws but did not sleep. He rarely slept. He was needed to watch his domain. It demanded his protection. The next male was always haunting nearby, an irascible presence waiting to establish its core territory somewhere within his own.. Yes, their territories often intersected, but Mapi stayed well away from his rival, for his rival’s personal safety of course. And sometimes his kingdom needed protection from itself. The stupid creatures would create such a disturbance sometimes that it was left to him to tidy up the mess. He would pounce in the middle of their crisis and bite either the slowest or the loudest of the bunch, depending on how irritated he was with these lesser nuisances.
How pathetic these creatures were. Mapi almost pitied them. Almost. He felt no pity as he raised his head and focused his vision on a small patch of ferns that were swaying against the breeze. A young tapir emerged, all spotted and apparently lost. It did not realize the danger it was in as Mapi unsheathed his claws and slowly crouched away. He slunk down the side of the temple, keeping his eyes trained always on some part of the small but plump animal. His paws touched the ground silently and the end of his tail twitched back and forth. Mapi was hungry now.
It was over quickly. Mapi was a little disappointed as the adrenaline cleared from his eyes. The hunt, the feel of his body slowly compacting just before the giant spring, the precise angle at which to jump so that he would land right on top of the miserable, pathetic creature with his claws out and his jaws wide, was so enjoyable that, at times, he would regret not going after larger, more exciting prey. But the large cattle and goats on the nearby ranchos and plantaciones were protected by men. These men were not the same men with shiny instruments and fear, but these were men with anger and loud guns. Then Mapi remembered that he didn’t need that kind of trouble and he would silently enjoy the meal sitting in front of him. Mapi had dragged off the tapir to a nearby tree that was tall and sturdy. Climbing to a low branch, he began to gorge himself on the carcass, devouring all but the bones and parts of the skin. He left a few organs as well, as a show of his benevolence to even the scavengers of his forest.
Mapi climbed back up the temple, much more slowly this time, and hid himself in a little ceremonial chamber that peeked out from inside. He lay himself down once again among the sacrificial idols and closed his eyes. He could envision his mother, his domain, his prey, his whole world. He let out a huff of air and with that was asleep. It would all be there, assuredly, when he woke up.
