The goats horns were curved and sharp at the ends. His eyes were suspicious and baleful

as he stared down the aging man stepping gingerly over the woven fence that surrounded

the corral. The other few male goats kept well clear of the ornary patriarch of the

herd and so did most of the herders in the village. Carefully, without getting too close,

the man used his long stick and a few exaggerated gestures to get the old goat moving, driving

him out of the enclosure toward the low mud brick walls of the house's beyond.

The other goats in the flock followed him, driven onward by a few more herders. They

needed less encouragement. Deep bellowing and thumping hooves soon drowned out the goats

bleeding. The elderly man in the enclosure felt his heart leap when he saw the long horns

of the zebu projecting upwards and the hump behind it. One wrong move in the bull would

drive that horn right into his gut. He had caught the zebu as a calf down at the nearby

stream and raised it for the past decade but it wasn't tame. The man had no illusions

about that. Carefully, he thought carefully, opening the gate and keeping his eyes locked

onto the bull as one of his sons drove the big, angry creature into the enclosure with

a few flicks of a flexible branch. The zebu glared at the older man but complied, heading

for the basket full of fresh cut grass that had been left for him to eat.

The herder breathed the sigh of relief as he stepped out of the corral and closed the

gate behind it. He dropped his long stick and walked toward the mud brick walls. The

exterior plastered with mud and painted with red ochre. He waved a welcoming hand to

the group of hunters making their way into sight, carrying bloody hunks of meat carved

from a water buffalo and the whole corpse of a jackal.

Posing for a moment near his home, he inspected the flintwork one of his sons was doing, chipping

...