Jackal's Dance (2 page)

Hate. Hate. Hate.
It was in her heart, an instinctive reaction to these two-legged creatures. Irrational and for no reason, but she was a wild thing who needed none.
Kill. Kill. Kill.

Agony exploded in her knee. She staggered, tried to keep going, then nearly fell as a shocking pain rushed up her leg.
Flee. Flee. Flee.
Confusion and fear swamped her senses, escape suddenly essential. The tuskless cow turned and hobbled away, each step agonising torture. The limb was useless, unable to support her great weight. It buckled, the lower half swinging crazily, and the elephant, incapable of reasoning why, trumpeted a pain-filled protest and kept moving. The safety and security of the herd were now a desperate need in her.

Her front right knee joint had been shattered by the single copper-jacketed bullet. Even as she stumbled in search of the herd, flies found the wound.

Man, her hated enemy, had just handed out a death sentence.

P
re-dawn in the African bush is a time of transition. In Etosha National Park, far up in the north of Namibia, it is a time when the hunters straggle home to sleep, the hunted relax their tense all-night vigil and scavengers gorge on the remains of the unfortunate. Vultures descend by the dozen at first light. It is the coolest hour of the day, the temperature hovering just below twenty degrees Celsius. The fickle breeze seems to hold its breath in awe of the wild dawn chorus. Zebra bark in hysterical alarm,
kwa-ha, kwa-ha
– something between a horse's whinny and the braying of a donkey. Wildebeest grunt agreement with each other. A small number of zebra mingle with a larger wildebeest herd for protection against predators, their combined concern filling the air, almost obliterating all other sounds.

Only a few penetrated the cacophony of noise. This particular morning, the story of life and death was clearly audible to those who knew the language. Some distance away a small pack of spotted hyena giggled and squabbled over the remains of a young giraffe from which they had successfully
driven a full-grown leopard. Relying on strength in numbers to fill their bellies, not many predatory animals would choose to defend a kill against the hyena's teeth and jaws which were capable of shredding and splintering the toughest bone and hide – alive or dead – in seconds. The chilling, sniggering chuckle from twelve feeding animals carried easily in the still air and could be heard up to four kilometres away.

The cause of the zebra and wildebeest's alarm, a solitary black-maned lion, strolled leisurely and unconcerned past the herd. He'd eaten well during the night. Now he called into the darkness, seeking out the rest of the pride, loud throaty grunting yawning – a self-satisfied sound of content – and a kudu responded with a hoarse bark of wariness,
bogh
, a dead giveaway as to the presence of predators. The velvet-black depth of dwindling night seemed poised between death and expectation.

Dawn broke like a whip cracking, sharp and crisp. One moment it was difficult to separate the shadow from real as they merged together, blurring into a formless, inky amorphia. The next, as shapes caught the first faint pledge of light, details leapt out in sharp contrast. There was very little messing around, no time for niceties in this harsh thorn-scrub land stubbled with sun-dried grasses which somehow clung to life in the shimmering mica-reflecting sand. A moment of softness, that was all, when the slight dampness of night rose from dust-laden leaves and briefly perfumed the early morning air with its distinctive scent of moisture.
A tantalising, seductive promise that nature would not keep. Even before the sun rose, bringing with it the suffocating, throat-burning heat of another parched day, the barely-there mantle would have evaporated, blasted away into nothing more than a memory.

Gary Fletcher – ‘Fletch' to all and sundry – hunkered down next to the blackened kettle that hissed to boiling over the rekindled coals of last night's fire. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he switched off the torch to savour the momentary gentleness of a rapidly lightening day. Seven enamel mugs, three with tea bags, the rest with coffee, stood on a rickety table nearby. As drops of boiling water spluttered from the kettle, Fletch rose and bent over the fire. Using the end of his T-shirt as protection, he picked up the steaming vessel and dumped it roughly onto the table. The thin material didn't quite do it, he knew it wouldn't, but the pot holder had fallen victim to that mysterious camp occurrence dubbed by everyone as AWE syndrome, or absent without explanation, and despite an intensive search of the camp and surrounding bush, the elusive device had never been seen again. Speculation over its fate ranged from the ‘all things are collected by something' theory to that of serving as a snack for a passing hyena. Whatever, its disappearance caused some inconvenience and remained a mystery. Fletch's hand smarted from the heat and steam as he hastily dropped the kettle, causing the lid to fly off. The noise startled something nearby. He heard a rustle and caught the
shadowy flash of a fleeing yellow mongoose as it bounded away.

Angela would bitch about the black stains on the dishcloth but that was her problem. Fletch picked it up and used it as protection while he replaced the lid. Sooty black marks immediately appeared on the cloth. Fletch shrugged. Better than a burnt hand. He wrapped it around the kettle's handle. The professor first. Boiling water splashed into a mug. Three teaspoons of sugar followed. He stirred it thoroughly and then quickly, before the enamel heated too much, made his way to the professor's tent.

Eben Kruger, Professor of Zoology at the University of the Witwatersrand in Johannesburg, or, as it was more commonly called, Wits, liked his coffee black, strong, sweet and on time. Four forty-five, to be precise. Many of his students were subjected to a stinging tongue-lashing for being late. Fletch had been in the field with the professor once before. An outstanding academic, Eben Kruger had the petulance of a child when it came to personal inconvenience. Fletch knew better than the others that late or early delivery of coffee meant a day of withering criticism and allocation of the worst possible jobs from the old boy.

‘Prof,' he called softly, standing outside the tent. Eben Kruger liked them to call him that.

‘Unnnnnhff.'

‘Coffee.'

Eben groaned, cleared his throat and replied, ‘Kom.'

Fletch pushed the tent flap aside and entered. The professor disdained the idea of zipping his canvas sleeping quarters shut, although he demanded that all his students secure themselves into theirs at night. As usual, the interior stank of stale socks and alcohol. ‘Good morning.'

In the gloomy half-light, Eben emerged like a wild thing from his sheet, blinking sleepily. He always reminded Fletch of someone who had stuck their finger into an electric socket. Long hair frizzed out in a thin grey mess, white stubble of beard which grew in erratic patches, matted curls covered his bony, almost concave chest.

Last year, Fletch had seen the professor completely naked as he emerged, quite unconcerned by his nudity, from the ablution tent. Nature had played a joke on Eben. His pubic hair was sparse but his buttocks had a lush covering of grey curls. The sight left his student with an indelible image of a tall, scrawny, furry thing, a memory which clothes did nothing to conceal. Fletch placed the steaming mug carefully on a battered leather suitcase and left the tent. Early morning conversations were not the study leader's thing – he tended to regard any attempt at communication with deep suspicion and a loathing second only to tardiness with his coffee. Besides, the vision of that unkempt face slack from recent sleep and devoid of badly fitting false teeth, the strangely blue, thin lips collapsed inwards, filled Fletch with an impression he knew was unfair. Eben Kruger had one of the sharpest minds he'd ever come across and it was
hardly the older man's fault that, in his sixties, the accompanying body was less than perfect.

The professor had the only personal tent that allowed him to stand. The students had to make do with one-man igloo types which gave them just enough room for a sleeping bag, a small carry-all, and a space for reference books, cameras and notepads.

Megan Ward was next. Strict protocol. Due respect to seniority. Megan, like Fletch, was a third-year student. He prepared her tea the way he knew she preferred and took it to her tent. She was already awake and unzipped the flap as she saw him approaching.

‘Morning.' Fletch liked the way she looked when her long brown hair had been let loose from the pigtails she normally wore. He especially liked the way her unbelievably large breasts strained against the thin material of her nightshirt. The cool morning air added a further dimension. With wavy hair flowing around her face and shoulders, Megan resembled a Madonna. Not especially pretty, her face was too round for beauty, but she had large brown eyes fringed by exceptionally thick lashes and a wide, friendly smile which attracted people to her. If anyone had a gripe or a problem they usually took it to Megan.

‘Hi.' Megan took the tea from him and flashed a smile. ‘Another hot one coming up.'

‘Going to be a scorcher.'

She pulled a face and withdrew into the tent.

The only other third-year student, Troy
Trevaskis, accepted his coffee through the haze of his first-of-the-day cigarette. As usual, he had slept naked, something he took no pains to cover up, irrespective of whoever was on early morning duty. A tall, well-built young man with brooding good looks and a body he worked hard to keep fit, Troy seemed to go by the ‘if you've got it, flaunt it' creed. Fletch was no slouch in the body department but there was something almost confrontational in the way Troy strutted around half-naked most of the time. He waved the wafting blue smoke away from his face. ‘Morning.'

‘Hi.' Fletch noticed that the sleeping bag only came up to Troy's thighs. ‘Megan is on early morning tomorrow. I suggest you cover up a bit for her. Josie complained about you yesterday.'

Surprised, since sleeping naked was something he'd done from the time he was eleven, and he was so used to his own body that it never crossed his mind that someone would actually object, Troy glanced down at himself, then back at Fletch. ‘Right.' Some coffee slopped over the rim of the mug as smoke caught in his throat, causing a spasm of coughing.

Fletch found himself hoping that the scalding liquid would splash into the boy's lap. As he went back to the fire he was honest enough to admit to himself that the uncharitable thought might have something to do with Troy's physical attributes.

Josie Leah, a second-year student, was burrowed into her sleeping bag. Fletch left the steaming coffee outside on the ground, calling out to wake her.
He'd made the mistake of unzipping the flap the first time he'd been on wake-up duty and she'd practically brought the camp down with her yelling at him. She was a strange girl and Fletch, who got along well with most people, still didn't quite know how to handle Josie. There was no doubting that she was intelligent and dedicated with a passion for environmental issues. She was also almost defiantly Jewish, as if she felt her religion needed justification. When he first met her Troy had jokingly used the derogatory expression
Kugel
, a word that described a savoury pudding in Jewish cuisine but, in South Africa, was also used to put down yuppie Johannesburg Jewish women. Josie had gone ballistic. She still maintained a frosty distance, never speaking to him directly, never looking straight at him, her dark eyes registering dislike whenever they were thrown together.

Josie had not responded to Fletch's wake-up call. ‘You awake?'

‘Yes.' The word was muffled by a yawn.

‘Don't drop off again, will you?'

‘No.' Irritable.

Fletch shrugged and went back for the next cup.

Angela Gibbs, like Megan, was awake. She was dressed and attending to her long blonde hair when Fletch arrived. Outside, facing the tent, bent at the waist and brushing with vigorous strokes towards the ground. Fletch admired the way her long legs disappeared into torn-off jeans just before the swell of perfectly proportioned buttocks. ‘Coffee,' he said quietly.

Angela bent lower and smiled at him from between her legs. Even upside down, she was breathtakingly beautiful. Bubbly and friendly, without knowing it she flirted with every man she encountered. Fletch was no exception. ‘Ta. Just plonk it anywhere.' She'd ripped the sleeves off a khaki cotton bush shirt and wore the garment tied loosely around her midriff. As far as Fletch could see, she hadn't bothered to button it and wore no bra. The effect was stunning. Angela gathered her hair in one hand and secured it with a scrunchy on top of her head. The style would have looked ridiculous on all but a few. Satisfied, she straightened, turned towards Fletch and tugged at the shirt until it was to her liking. Yep. Just as he'd thought. No bra.

‘I'm not going out with the rest of you today. I'm staying in camp.'

‘Some hope. The old man will make you come.'

Angela pulled a face. ‘I hate it out there. It's so hot.'

‘What did you expect when you signed up?'

Angela worried a fingernail. It was her only imperfection – nails bitten to the quick. ‘I wish I hadn't,' she said finally, not answering the question. ‘I didn't think it would be such hard work.'

‘It's not hard, Angela,' Fletch spoke quietly. ‘Boring sometimes, yes. Hot, most certainly, but never hard.'

Fletch often found it necessary to refocus Angela's easily distracted attention. Fieldwork at the best of times required dedication. Recording
animal behaviour meant a lot of sitting around, waiting for them to do something. Jackals, the subject of this particular study, spent a lot of time sleeping but, once they became active, it was often hard to keep up with them. On more than one occasion Angela had missed something vital as a result of her wandering and bored mind.