Where the elephants go to die.
The rumours about this place are many. Explorers search and never find, some search and never return. Either the place is too remote, like the deepest of the Yemen desert, where searchers die of dehydration and delirium, or there are protectors, guardians, that slaughter those who seek it. A few individual trackers have followed dying elephants, only to be led in circles until too disoriented to follow any more. A book of magical spells may exist in the graveyard, which contain either good or evil powers. Or there is the richness of a myriad ivory tusks. Or the elephants are actually entering a sacred ground, where peace and prosperity exist.
Two ideas of the origin of the elephant graveyard exist. The first is that a strong Savannah wind blows their bones together. The other is that the elephants gather around one watering hole, and a shortage of food causes them all to die at the same time. Discovery of collections of bones led to the belief of one large graveyard.
Whatever the reason, the thought of the elephant graveyard always fills me with sadness. The long trudge, the trek to the end, a search for a large group of peers, discovered dead and gleaming white under the moonlight, and finally settling down among them and coming apart.