In the Wild

      Rose de Fer

      The zebra inched forward, nibbling lazily at the grass and flicking its short tail. From time to time it shook its head to banish flies, flicking its bristle-brush of a mane back and forth. The rest of the herd was scattered across the grass, their heads down as they focused on their sole occupation – eating.

      Nancy sat back in the grass and raised her knees, using them like a tripod to steady the camera. She twisted the ring of the lens, zooming in on the nearest zebra’s face. His eyes were huge and dark, ringed with black markings like goth eyeliner. She pressed the shutter several times, getting closeups of the limpid chocolatey eyes, the black nose and mouth, the large square teeth.

      Then she zoomed out slightly to reveal the animal’s whole head. She loved the way he flicked his ears and twitched his mane. The eyes might be goth, but the hair was full-on 80s punk – a stripy Mohican that seemed a little at odds with the animal’s placid demeanour. What a crazy designer Mother Nature was, painting lavish black stripes on a white horse. Or were they white stripes on a black horse?

      The zebra’s mouth never seemed to stop. He munched tirelessly, cutting a path through the grass. Nancy wondered if English grass tasted different to him than the grass where he was originally from. For that matter, what did he make of the weather here? It was a balmy summer day, pleasant enough for the UK, but it was likely many degrees cooler than Africa at this time of year.

      As if in response to her thought, the zebra lifted his head and gave a loud snort. He looked around for a few moments, gifting Nancy with some great shots before dipping his head again and returning to his meal.

      She checked the camera’s digital display, happy to see that she had plenty of room left on the memory card. She’d already taken hundreds of photos of the herd and various individuals, but this one had proved the most photogenic. It was so peaceful sitting here watching him. She was far enough away that he probably wasn’t even aware of her. He might be startled if she were to reveal herself, but he might also just stare at her with those wide, inquisitive eyes, like a pet horse expecting treats. Maybe she could walk right up to him and feed him apples or sugar lumps.

      As a child she’d once seen an old Victorian photo of a man driving a carriage pulled by zebras. Like most little girls, Nancy had been mad about horses, endlessly begging her parents for one of her own. But once she saw the picture, she decided she wanted a zebra instead. She wouldn’t be convinced that they were wild animals that lived far away, that you couldn’t simply go and buy one from the local stable. Her parents had taken her to the zoo to see them instead, where a friendly keeper had told her all about them and even let her stroke one’s soft, velvety muzzle.

      The memory made her smile and she snapped some more closeups of the zebra’s head in profile, the grass stalks creating an interesting pattern where they crossed the stripes of his face.

      Her mind began to wander and she couldn’t help but think about the last time she’d ridden a horse – a bareback ride