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Four weeks later...
The sun was rising; he knew that spring was fast approaching. The days were lengthening and the sun reached higher every day. And every day the chill seemed less harsh; less bitter on his lips. Nights had been the hardest so far, with some biting frosts and flurries of snow, even on the beach. He had even seen some drifting sea ice on occasion; its blue bobbing whiteness seemed clean and discordant against the dirty grey-green of the sea.
He sat watching the sky begin to brighten; a pink tinge glistening along the gently lapping wave tops in the distance. From the platform he could see his shelter on the beach and he could view both the forest and the heath. He had chosen a stout wide old pine to build the vantage point; near the edge of the forest, but with mainly uninterrupted 360 degree views.
It was like a tree house. It had a roughly hewn floor, sturdy but uneven balustrades, and a branch and foliage roof, to protect from the rain and snow. Knotted vine ropes allowed to him climb up to the platform, high enough, he hoped, to be safe. At the beach he tried to maintain a fire for the same purpose, and he divided his time between the two places.
Jones had built the tree platform to protect himself from predators; not that he had witnessed any of those so far, and he used it to hunt from. He had explored the area around the crash site, but didn't want to move too far from the beach where the rescue drone would perhaps be able to detect his sunken space ship.
He sat cross-legged and still on the wood, still dressed in his tight fitting space suit, looking towards the interior of the forest and the large track winding through the trees. Several types of animal used this track at different times of the day, and he had a mind to do some hunting.
Food was obviously a priority, although so far he hadn't gone hungry; fish and shell fish had been easy to harvest from the sea, despite the freezing water, and he had set traps for small mammals. Seaweeds that clung to nearby rocks had supplemented his diet; when boiled their sharp salty taste was refreshing. He was strangely enjoying the solitude and self-sufficiency of the lone hunter-gatherer.
From a small curved piece of wood by his feet he picked a plump red berry from the pile he had gathered and crunched into it. Its bittersweet juice burst on his tongue and he smiled to himself. Today he was interested in bigger game.
The mammoths announced their presence with sound long before he could see them; the smallest trumpeting and rumbling coupled with the tramp of their feet on the well trodden path signalled the coming of the herd. Jones had observed their movements before. They took this track down to the stream, where a small pond or water hole served as a drinking and bathing site for them. At least once a day they gathered here, along with a plethora of other smaller mammals.
The infant mammoths seemed to relish playing in the water, and were growing bigger and stronger by the day. He found it almost comforting the way the mothers fussed over their charges; constantly entwining their trunks together affectionately. He wondered if the herd would migrate northwards before the heat of summer became too oppressive for their densely fur covered frames. Some seemed to be moulting already as the days became warmer; great clumps of matted fur littered the edge of the path and the pool. Occasionally a pair of them would stop and one would rub its hide against the other's tusks, as if they needed grooming or had an impossible itch that needed scratching. Or they would simply grind their enormous rumps against the rough bark of a tree. He hoped they would never choose his tree to do this.
A small smile crossed his face as he spied the lead animal wandering through the trees. A large imposing male; probably some kind of pack leader. Its head was massive and lumpy; big bony twin humps adorned the top of its proud skull. It sported huge, uneven curling tusks that crossed each other in front of its trunk. Chips had been lost from these tusks over the years, perhaps in duels with younger male mammoths. The second male, perhaps a younger, more deferential animal, soon followed.
Although the lead mammoth was big, Jones decided against this one being his target. It paused and shook its head, as if to move its long straggly hair out of its eyes. Jones checked the direction of the wind; the last thing he wanted was this huge mammoth trying to knock down the tree he was in, or rubbing its hind quarters against the bark.
The breeze was light and blowing inshore, so hopefully the animals would be oblivious to his position. About fifteen to twenty more mammoths of varying sizes strode into view: infants trailing their mothers, some still small enough to walk under the bellies of older beasts; larger males flanking the group and bringing up the rear. Gentle snorts and encouraging grumbling noises were made to the younger animals as they began to shuffle out from the tree cover of the forest.
Jones silently took out the black pistol from his suit, wiping dirt from its small barrel. He checked the clip of micro-projectiles and switched on its precious power supply as the herd began to pass beneath his tree; the ground, and his platform, shaking slightly at the passing of their marching feet. Licking his finger, he checked the wind again, noting that some of the mammoths were raising their trunks as if to smell for danger. Slowing his breathing to enforce relaxation, he leant on the balustrade of his platform and took visual aim on a largish male towards the back of the herd. He knew the gun would be silent and not disturb the rest of the herd and hoped for a quick one-shot kill. Aiming the gun's virtual laser sighting system at the centre of the mammoth's imposing head he gently squeezed the trigger.
A volley of six micro-projectiles ripped through the skull of the mammoth between its eyes with the dullest of a repeated thwacking sound. The smallest dark dots of blood splattered its fur. For an instant it paused; it's trunk beginning to rise, mouth open as if to call out but then its legs began to buckle and wobble beneath it. Its front legs knelt slowly in the dust, knees thumping and raising swirling little clouds of the fine dry earth. It began to fall as if in slow motion. Like a falling house of cards it slumped downwards as the life quickly drained out of its hulking frame. More small clouds of dry dust rose like mini explosions as its massive body thumped majestically into the ground.
Jones sighed quietly as he watched it die. He was well used to death but took no pleasure in killing such a dignified and innocent part of nature and the past.
"Needs must..." he whispered to himself.
It was not something he had bargained for, but shooting his first mammoth so close to his treehouse had been a mistake. For the next two days Jones was trapped in the tree with little water or food.
Below him, mourning mammoths had surrounded the body, stamping in the dust and pushing the large carcass with their feet and trunks. They hooted occasionally as if trying to wake the dead, and continued a deep rumbling noise for many hours. Then, inexplicably, they fell silent.
Jones thought at this point they might leave, and some did go off for a while to fetch food, but the vigil by the body was maintained. Eventually the adult mammoths began collecting nearby branches, sticks and foliage, which they placed carefully on the body. Effectively as they could they buried it. Put it to rest.
Jones was taken aback; he marvelled at the emotion they seemed to show for their dead comrade. In all his long years he had never witnessed non-human animals perform such a death ritual. Even he was moved as he saw what appeared to be greasy tears fall from their big black eyes. It was perhaps the saddest thing Jones had ever seen.
When they finally departed, Jones quickly clambered down the tree, stood in the dust and flexed his aching muscles. Despite the dehydration of two days up in the tree he knew he had to act fast. He quickly thrust the branches aside as best he could and began to cut into the thick hairy flesh of the dead beast with his knife, before any of its family members returned...