Bagus.

Bagus is the male who at some point left the herd, the way males of his species do — they don't stay. In his story, every so often an old restlessness he can't fully name rises up inside him again: he gets short-tempered, takes just what he needs and heads off alone, up the mountain, for a few days. Nobody asks him where. He comes back calmer, like someone who's gone off to leave a weight somewhere far away and comes back light. For someone like that, a backpack isn't a whim: it's the way of hoisting his life onto his shoulders and walking until it passes.

In his story, Bagus keeps little jars on the back shelf, labeled in small handwriting: inside are the seeds of the trees that are almost gone from up there now, the ones leaving the mountain at the same pace the mountain is shrinking. He started keeping them one dry summer and hasn't stopped; he says it like it's nothing much, "just in case, you never know." You've got the rest of the story in his biography. A backpack with this elephant on it carries exactly that: a handful of seeds he refuses to let disappear.