Heart of Africa (14 page)

The lion flipped before jumping backwards as agilely as a house cat, roaring hoarsely as her paws sought wildly to remove the thorns now embedded in her broken nose. She whirled and fought the stickers, half-blinded in the process as she frantically battled the unseen force that had nearly knocked her senseless. The cat staggered before running off in the opposite direction, crashing wildly through the deep bush, her yowls and intermittent roars expressing her acute agony.

Amazed, I watched the tawny feline disappear into the underbrush. The end of my makeshift weapon had splintered with the force and now tumbled from my numb fingers. I scurried over to the log to scoop up my walking stick just in case she returned. Peter had completely disappeared and I searched frantically for him. Two hundred meters away, perched in what he later informed me was a false thorn tree, he watched my approach. He had bounded into a tree, as agile as the cat that chased him. Peter rested upon his haunches, his mouth forming a perfect O. While the blood trickled from my punctured hands, his words reverberated through the trees.

“You crazy American! You could have been killed. Why didn’t you run to safety?”

“Didn’t feel like it,” I stated, staring defiantly at him in a mixture of anger and love.

Peter stiffly jumped down and slowly dusted his hands on his filthy trousers before lifting his eyes to mine. “That was the craziest, most spontaneous act of courage I have ever witnessed in my life and I will never, ever forget it.”

He moved forward to lift my bleeding hands to his lips. “What a pair we make,” he murmured, and for the longest while, neither of us spoke.

Later, as I thoughtfully followed Peter, placing my feet methodically inside his every footprint, I realized that no matter what happened, I would never be the same. That wimpy, trembling Mandy no longer existed, and a real man—warm, capable, and intelligent—respected and cared for me. It was an epiphany.

Cautiously, Peter pointed out the numerous round piles of Cape buffalo dung littering the area. It took us the better part of an hour to finally skirt the main herd. Once, I heard a couple of males snorting in the dense thicket not far from us, and Peter froze before forcing us to back up. He finally paused at some bushes covered in dense, hair-like strands of spider web. I was as breathless as if I’d run a race, my jeans streaked with blood from the countless times I’d tried to wipe my oozing hands clean.

“Unfortunately, we are now very far from the road. It will be dark soon and we must locate a safe place away from the lions and the Cape buffalo, but still close to water.”

I trusted him implicitly and this time did not whine about another night in the bush. “What do you suggest?”

“If my memory serves me correctly, there’s a water pump not that far from here that was built to generate water for the wildlife in the dry season. We’ll be lucky if we make it by dark. I’m concerned, however, that dangerous creatures use the water generated by the pump.” He glanced up at me. “Are you strong enough to hike three more kilometers?”

“I’m not tired,” I lied.

Peter stared up at me for a long moment. “You broke that lioness’s nose,” he stated quietly. “I suspect you could trudge all night if needed.”

“I could at that.”

“Then let’s move; we have little time.”

Chapter 15

As we tromped through the brush, occasional thorns
dragging at my jean-clad legs, I noted the clear air turning rapidly colder. I paused long enough to pull on my sweatshirt, though Peter never seemed to tire or grow cold. The khaki legs of his dirty trousers moved rapidly and methodically in front of me. Within ten minutes or so, we managed to merge with an animal trail and stuck to it, even though Peter mentioned it could be more dangerous. Strewn along the trail, small piles of nut-sized pellets littered the narrow path.

He smiled. “
Mhara
or impala walked this way.”

Twice we stopped abruptly. Once a huge male waterbuck, the bull’s-eye on his hairy rear providing a moving target, bounded skittishly away at our approach, its straight, grooved horns so sharp they were often lethal to a lion. Another time, Peter halted and grabbed my arm, clearly excited.

“Look,” he directed, “near the termite mound. There’s a sight you’ll rarely see.”

It was nearly dusk and I hesitated to stop, knowing how vulnerable we were on this heavily-traveled trail. At first I could discern nothing except for a flock of dark birds pecking at the mound. Before long, however, I distinguished a nearly hairless, humped figure with a short tail crouched in the short brown grass. It dug rapidly at the termite hill. The creature lifted its head, its dark eyes seemingly not noticing us. Possessing long, jack-rabbit ears and sharp claws, I was at a loss to identify it.

Peter leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “You are fortunate indeed, lass. That is an aardvark. He’s nocturnal, few ever notice him, though other animals like the hyena, porcupine, and jackal love to take ownership of his abandoned shelters. He is a famous digger. His presence warns us the sun is nearly set.”

“Shouldn’t we be there by now?” I suggested hopefully.

“Soon,” he reassured. “We must find enough wood to light a fire. The night animals are beginning to stir.”

“Isn’t the leopard a night animal?” I asked nervously.

“The best and the most beautiful. But he prefers riverine valleys. Quick, lass.”

We left the shy aardvark and continued upon the animal trail until, less than five minutes later, he pointed at something that made my heart leap. A windmill turned slowly in the faint breeze, pumping water to fill a two-meter long trough. The flat, dry area around the waterhole appeared vacant except for a small flock of guinea fowl, whose blue heads flashed and ducked as they hunted for insects in the short grass.

“Now that we made it, I’m not sure I’m partial to this place,” said Peter after a while.

“Why not?” I asked, quite relieved to see the manmade pump.

“It’s too open and unsheltered. It makes us vulnerable. Keep a sharp lookout and stay by the trees over there. I’ll fetch some fresh water and search for dry wood.”

He moved briskly, grabbing my water bottle before hurrying to the trough. Bending, Peter rapidly filled it, his head jerking nervously to each side. I started. Not far to the right of him, a large pile of bones stank in the sun. A partial ribcage, skinny leg bone, and hairy skull were all that remained of some unfortunate antelope. From where I stood, I noticed small pieces of dried skin clinging to the joints, though the rest of the carcass was picked amazingly clean.

Peter hurried back. “There’s been a lion kill here, not more than twenty-four hours ago.” He pointed to the skeleton I’d noted. Twenty-four hours! That was all it had taken to reduce a living creature to that?

“Because we’re inland and away from the Limpopo, this waterhole is used by many animals in the evening hours during the dry season. It’s best we find shelter and make a fire where we can watch the waterhole from a distance.”

“Is there a road close by?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Not now. Many of these tracks have been abandoned as Kruger Park officials seek more and more to not damage the environment. Pity.”

We spent the better part of a quarter-hour searching for a sheltered place until Peter finally found a spot that satisfied him. A rock outcropping with the roots of a dead old tree hanging overhead extended eerily toward us. Using his spear-stick, Peter poked into the soft soil beneath to reveal an old burrow. He sniffed and prodded the opening before giving it his seal of approval.

“Whatever lived here before is long gone. We should be safe. If we build a fire, our backs will be protected.”

The dusk rapidly approached and I shivered. Without being told, I quickly gathered small sticks and kindling and then handed Peter my matches. There were only twelve left. I could only hope he was better at starting a fire than I. His tinder caught alight with the first match and I heaved a huge sigh of relief before cautiously gathering up some dry grass to soften our bed.

“You always do that,” said Peter, leaning upon his spear to watch me work. “You make sure the bed is cozy for us. I like that.”

“And I like your fire.”

The fire soon blazed and I settled down upon a log Peter had dragged over, stretching my chilled fingers toward the blaze. Already the temperature had dropped by at least five degrees Celsius since he’d filled my water bottle.

“My fire smoked and one log reeked,” I said.

“You probably found some stinkwood. It is most foul when burned. Mandy, after I leave, if you hear anything, stand up and do your best to make yourself appear big, swinging the stick. I’ll be back soon.”

“Where are you going?” I said, the idea of him straying more than twenty feet away suddenly terrifying.

“I figured my lady might be hungry.”

I nodded guiltily. It had been a long time since the wonderful lunch of yams and muskrat. Peter swooped up his spear and bent over me, giving me a husbandly peck on the cheek, as if he were only just running to the local grocery store, before disappearing into the trees. I knew better than to beg him to stay. My new Mandy was not clingy or demanding.

I sat by the fire for over an hour. The sun abruptly vanished and the night dropped like a curtain. Suddenly every shadow, every rustle in the bush seemed a threat. Where could he be? What was taking him so long? My gnawing hunger soon transformed into blatant concern. What if something had happened to him? What if he’d been attacked by a lion or bitten by a snake or fallen down and broke his leg? Where would
I
be without Peter?

Little more than an hour after he’d disappeared into the scrub, a monstrous shadow loomed from behind the fire. I shrieked and leaped up, my stick held ready.

“That’s my girl! Always on guard!” Peter laughed. “I’ve brought us back some supper; a little suni.”

The small antelope’s neck tilted at an odd angle. The beautiful little buck possessed miniature horns and couldn’t have weighed more than ten pounds. My stomach churned in revulsion or, more likely, sympathy as Peter dropped the tiny, beige creature upon the ground.

“Mandy, why don’t you rustle me up some sharp, dry sticks so we can roast the meat?” He said quietly, eyeing my stricken face.

I lingered on the edges of the campsite for nearly ten minutes before returning. Thankfully, Peter had made short work of cutting the carcass into three sections. He reached for the long, sharp stick I handed him and thrust three big pieces of meat upon it.

“Lean it at an angle over the fire to start roasting the meat. I must dispose of the rest of the carcass.”

“But won’t we need some… some of the rest for breakfast?”

Peter shook his head slightly and once again I realized my idiocy.

“If we leave the carcass here,” he explained, “the hyena, jackal, or even lion might haunt the fringes of our fire, hoping to scavenge some meat. I must remove the remains to a distant area and let the scavengers have their dessert.”

He was gone in an instant, lugging the suni’s remains inside the poor beast’s skin while I pretended not to look. I made a show of planting the stick with our dinner at an angle, in an effort to prop it up securely. Within a matter of minutes the heavy chunks started to roast, dripping fat onto the hot fire which spat viciously at me, forcing me to dodge. Peter returned in a matter of minutes, his hands and face wet.

“There were no animals at the waterhole, so I washed myself in hopes of removing the smell of dead flesh.” His eyes crinkled as he critically observed my efforts.

“If we leave the meat so low over the flames, it will probably scorch.  If we could somehow move it higher. Let’s see . . .”

Peter loped into the bush and returned with two stout V-shaped sticks. He propped the heavy skewer, laden with the meat, atop the Vs to make a spit. The cut-up carcass now hissed a good foot above the flames.

“Just keep turning the stick slowly and soon we’ll have roast suni.”

It was a Spartan meal that night, consisting only of the half-cooked flesh of the tiny deer, followed by tepid water. It was, however, enough to remove the dreadful ache in my innards.

“You’re tired, my lady,” Peter said gently as I leaned back against the rock, my stomach now full.

“Very,” I admitted. I pointed to the stars. “Those make a lovely ceiling.”

He glanced upward. “Indeed they do. No stars like this where you live?”

“Sometimes. But I live inside the city limits and its lights dim the brilliance of the stars. Here, there is nothing to interfere with their beauty.”

I searched for the big dipper before it occurred to me that it might only be discernable from the Northern Hemisphere. Nevertheless, the stars warmed me. I felt so much more comfortable this night than the previous.

“Come here,” urged Peter and I moved closer to him so he could once again drape his warm, comforting arm around my shoulders. I leaned my head into his shoulder and felt almost content. Suddenly I stiffened. From not far off came the deep, low roar of the lion, followed by an answering call. My fingers drifted to my walking staff where it leaned against our log.

“Will the lion find us here?”

“I buried the suni’s entrails far enough away from the watering hole that scavengers should leave us alone. If we keep the fire burning high, we should be fine. It’s crucial we sleep between the rock and the fire so no animal can approach us without first braving the flames. Are you frightened, my lady?”

“Yes,” I admitted honestly. “But more relaxed this night than last. When I was a child, my grandfather and I would lie out and gaze at the stars. I’ve never seen quite so many before.” A mosquito buzzed near my ear and I swatted at it, laughing. “It’s hard to believe that there are still mosquitoes this time of the year, when it’s so chilly at night.”

Peter smiled and poked at the dancing fire. “They are generally gone, so luckily for us, the scourge of malaria has died out by winter.”

I shivered and hugged my arms to my chest, staring moodily into the fire. The mosquito remained persistent and I slapped fruitlessly at him between my hands. The nimble insect took warning and instead buzzed around Peter’s head. A wave of depression settled over me.

Peter must have noted my mood, for he said lightly. “My father was a great storyteller. I remember one tale in particular regarding this whining mosquito. Would you like to hear it?”

“Alright.” It was better than brooding about what dangers the night concealed. Once again, the lion bellowed her low, searching roar and I shivered instinctively.

Peter didn’t begin until he’d given the fire another vigorous poke. “In the old days there were no electric fences to keep the lion away, and the people shivered at night just like you do. We told stories in the dancing flames to keep those things we didn’t understand or that frightened us at bay. Take that mosquito who buzzes in your ear. He has always been very annoying—since the beginning of time—and do you want to know why?”

I nodded like a rapt child.

“Mosquito whines in your ear, even in the winter when he should have been frozen and dead, because he is trying to make you understand his side of the story.”

I laughed. “He has a story to tell, then?”

“But of course. All creatures do. We just don’t want to listen.”

I smiled as Peter launched into his campfire tale.

“Long ago, the mosquito was whining and buzzing as usual. This time he picked upon the poor iguana. Iguana was busy changing colors, you see, and became annoyed at the mosquito’s constant buzzing. Finally, fed up, he put sticks in his ears so he’d not have to hear the mosquito’s constant whining. Iguana shuffled away, thankful that he could not hear mosquito anymore.”

Peter peeled some bark off a dry stick and tossed the pieces into the fire, taking his own sweet time to relay the story.

“Unfortunately, however, the iguana didn’t realize he couldn’t hear anything. Now, the python who rules the ground said ‘Good morning’ to his friend the iguana. He had always admired the lizard for his brilliant colors. But because of the sticks in his ears, Iguana could not hear the python and walked right on, mumbling to himself. The python was upset at being ignored, so he angrily slithered into the ground.

“The burrow he entered was a rabbit’s hole. The rabbit knew that whenever a snake entered its burrow, death soon followed, so the rabbit quickly bounded out of the other exit, frightened and shaking. He ran through the reeds, scared out of his wits. A shiny black crow witnessed the rabbit running and was certain something horrible chased the hare. He squawked out a loud
caw-caw-caw
that echoed through the jungle. Vervet Monkey sat in the trees, grooming himself. At the frightful cawing of the crow, he scrambled up the old thorn tree and jumped onto a thin branch. Sadly the branch broke, knocking into an owl’s nest where a baby owlet slept, killing her instantly. Mama Owl became so sad, it was dreadful. It’s a dangerous thing to make an owl sad, you see, because she has the most important responsibility of all the animals. Do you know what that is?”