It had been inconvenient at first. The river’s curve where his family, for generations, had come to fish had been overtaken by—there was no nice way to say it—a fat mountain. He’d watched in aggravation as it refused to move and only laughed when he’d threatened to remove him. (He cursed for the rest of the day and his stomach rumbled in utter starvation.)
Then it had been his favorite tree—a swarm of bees lived in a hive, up high and often it dripped down into crevices he could reach—that the unwelcome intruder had knocked over! As if it could’ve done anything to the stupid brute. (He raged when the hive was discovered mashed to pieces; he snuck a few pieces and promised the damn totoma would be dealt with.)
He took to dragging his hooves into dirt and bark, deep angry marks that said in bold symbols: mine. (They were mostly scratches that were made up on the spot.) He began to roam, with narrowed eyes and a loud growl, his most favorite haunts. And yet, every time he returned to one he’d only left half a day before, he found his marks transformed into claims not his own. He seethed. (Teeth bit down and loosed blood on his tongue.)
Petulant, he began to scratch out the marks. He made the dirt and bark flat, erased the grooves left by another. Two could play at the trespasser’s game. And when he’d managed to clear that imposter’s presence from his lands, he slept. (He dreamed of death and hungered.)
He woke to the shaggy pelt of a totoma. Sleep fled in fear as blood raged, hot, and he leapt to his feet. He could see near his feet the same marking that had overtaken his own and he threw himself at it. His hooves dug two harsh ruts at slight angles until a looming X voided the claimant’s mark.
The totoma’s gaze was perplexed but unmoved and the acha, he rose with venom on his breath.
“X means not yours; this land is mine! It’s mine and you can’t be here!”
When no words came from the fat mountain, the acha reared and fell upon it. Once, twice, over and over again until the eyes were void of life, he beat down. Breathing ragged, he stilled and watched as blood seeped into the vicious X. His.
“Not yours,” the acha heaved, “mine.” And the crushing rage ceased. Anger abated. It was his, forever his, and everyone would know. He’d paint it red all over the swamp. That blazing X would be his name, his symbol. It would shout his ownership to everyone who ever saw it.