The Herd

The herd ran in unison. Manes flew behind them as they stampeded in their panic. There was no way to tell where one animal began and another ended, the herd had become one. One large, frightened pack of animals that was unsure which way to turn. Which way to safety. Those in the lead took their best guess, but they had no real idea and they were oft overtaken by those whose terror was greater than their own. It was bedlam. Smaller and slower animals were being left behind. A fine example of the survival of the fittest. Those less fit may not last long enough to pass their genes on.

The invader moved closer. He could feel the ground shake with each crescendo in their symphony of flight. He got braver after seeing the herd’s response to the initial thrust. Now for the parry. He watched as the herd flowed back and forth across the field, unsure how to escape. Aware that they were trapped, like animals. Oh. Realizing they were trapped, their panic abated, mostly because they tired of running across the field, then wheeling and tearing back, only to do it all over again, with no well-defined goals.

The invader studied their pattern. Their anarchy. This should be an easy score. They are far too panicked to even try to defend themselves. Yet they could. If they had the appropriate leadership, they could use their strength of numbers to easily defend against the invader. Maybe an experienced animal, someone to serve as a coach to the rest, especially the flighty younger ones would help. A captain. But the invader wasn’t up for giving teambuilding advice to his prey.

The young ones, those who perceive and then propagate even a hint of a rumor to make it larger than life and thus scare the crap out of themselves and everyone else in the herd. They were the problem. Well, not for the invader. The elders in the herd still spooked, but not as readily and they were more likely to stand their ground. They were after all, veterans of at least a few campaigns and were much better at gathering and weighing evidence, as opposed to running willy-nilly around the enclosure for the next hour after someone got nervous.

One thing the herd members never learned in school about a stampede was that once it started, if you were anywhere near it, you had to run too, as though your life depended on it. It does. If you are staring up looking for a Sasquatch formation in the clouds when it starts, then you’ll be pavement after the concrete wall of the herd hits you. The old timers knew this, and thus tried to leave a safe distance between the spastic youth and themselves so they could avoid the false starts. But there were limits. If the spaces in the herd were too big, the invaders could start picking off individuals. This defeated the herd mentality entirely.

The elders have found, through trial, errors and more than a little attrition, that you had to try to contain the youngsters, keep them occupied, so that they weren’t reacting to every leaf that fell in their paths. They had to try to maintain order in the ranks. Easier said than done, but they had limited options out there on the battlefield.

The herd grew tired of the dance, so they stopped. Almost all at once. Except the littlest member. She had been running with her head down, determined to keep up with the others and she didn’t stop until she slammed full force into one of the biggest members, then bounced off and fell to the ground. She lay there for a moment stunned. No one came to her aid. With quiet cries, she picked herself back up and held her head high, as the rest of the herd averted their eyes. They could not bear to acknowledge weakness. Then they all melded together and she was lost in the sea of anonymity.

Now that they had stopped, and were tired, they took the time to reassess the threat. The invader was still there, and nowhere near as tired as they were. Apparently, the invader was better at planning. And waiting. They had taken the bait and fell for the feint, exhausting themselves before the game was even underway. The invader preferred a bit more sport than this, as he hardly had to do anything. Nevertheless, he had thoroughly enjoyed the show and pondered letting them rest up in order to do it again, but the clock was ticking and he was getting hungry. It was time to strike.

The invader started to run. Hard. The herd, too tired to stampede, scattered instead. Then, borne of a thousand generations, an ancient voice deep in their minds, told them to be proactive. To attack their attacker. To make his game plan their own. The plan was communicated telepathically between them and suddenly, the invader found himself surrounded by the herd. They were kicking at him. All of them at once. Ouch, that hurts.

He saw some daylight through the circle and he dashed for it. But as they were all still kicking him with their rubber tipped feet, they tripped him. As he fell, his life flashed before his eyes, certain that the end was as near as the feet whistling by his head.

He was surprised when the herd evaporated. The kicking stopped. He raised his head, sure that he couldn’t be dead, as there had been little pain.

And then he saw it, the ball had come loose when he fell, and the other team, both teams,
actually, had converged on the ball twenty feet away and it was another scrum of five year old future David Beckhams. Or not.


Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.