"The Waterbuck (Kobus ellipsiprymnus) is, as its name suggests, an antelope that is never far from water — it must drink daily and its home range is always centred on a reliable water source. The male carries long, heavily ridged horns and can reach two hundred and seventy kilograms. The rump bears a distinctive white ring, perfectly circular, of unknown precise function — the author's provisional assessment is that it serves as a following signal for calves. The animal produces a strong, oily musk from sebaceous glands throughout the skin. This is the first thing one notices at close range. The author notes it as a characteristic of the species."
He smelled it before he saw it.
The wind had been from the north all morning, which was why he had approached from the south, which was why the encounter had proceeded in an orderly fashion for nearly forty minutes before the wind shifted. The shift was minor — a quarter turn, nothing the Colonel would have noted under ordinary circumstances — and then the smell arrived.
It was not a smell he had encountered before. It had the quality of something organic and determined — not decay, not simply musk, but a specific compound that occupied the available air with considerable thoroughness. The Colonel stopped. He looked at the bush around him. He looked at the drainage line. He wrote in his notebook: Unusual odour in vicinity. Source: unclear. Investigating.
He investigated. He found the herd forty metres further on — a group of females with two young and a large male standing slightly apart, all of them regarding him with the expression of animals that have been watching his approach since he was still upwind and have formed their opinion.
He wrote: Source identified. Waterbuck. Strong musk confirmed at proximity. More pronounced than previous entry suggested.
He added: Considerably more pronounced.
He moved to a better position, which was any position the wind did not connect directly to the herd. He settled and began his observation notes.
The rump marking was extraordinary at close range. A perfect white circle, precisely bordered, the hair within it white and the hair outside it a reddish-brown that carried no trace of ambiguity about the distinction. The Colonel had seen it before at distance and had written it off as an identification marking. At forty metres it was something else — not subtle, not approximate, not the kind of thing that had arrived by accident. He thought about calves following in long grass. He thought about species recognition at dawn. He thought about communication systems he had not yet mapped. He wrote three paragraphs about the rump marking and crossed out two of them because they did not contain enough certainty to justify the space.
He wrote: Rump marking: white ring, complete, precise, function disputed. Provisional: following signal, calves, high grass. Not confirmed.
He left it at that, which he found less satisfying than he would have liked.
The bull entered the water at half past ten.
Not because a predator had appeared — the morning was quiet — but in the manner of an animal conducting routine business. He waded in to knee depth, then further, then stood in water to his chest, head above the surface, surveying the bank with the composed attention of something that has found a position it considers defensible.
The Colonel watched the angles. The water limited the approach routes. A predator entering from the bank would be slowed, would be visible, would have to commit to the water's resistance. From the bank, the predator would have to calculate the crocodile risk before the waterbuck did. The bull had not panicked into the water. He had chosen it.
Tactical use of water, the Colonel wrote. Deliberately entered on available threat assessment. Not flight. Positioning.
He looked at this with some satisfaction. Then he noticed the smell was still reaching him, carried on the water's surface. He noted this too.