Zambezi Seduction (8 page)

SEVEN

The twin beams caught the lion in mid-stride. He was an adult male ten yards from the car, directly head-on so that only his forequarters were visible. The dark shaggy mane which covered the top of his head, his neck and throat, gave him a ruffed, bloated appearance. In the middle of the great head the eyes were bright as Christmas tree lights.

Kerry sat frozen with shock. Chad woke and struggled into a sitting position, confused by the glow of the headlights.

“What the . . . ? Jesus!”

The lion’s mouth hung open; he was panting gently from his exertions. Blinded by the light, he blinked and stood without moving for half a minute. Then, with a flick of his tail, he bounded away – and there was only the long yellow tunnel of light where the lion had stood and the Mopani scrub beyond.

Kerry recovered quickly. She turned, determined to have her moment.

“Well, Chad, was I right or was I right? That didn’t look like a pussycat to me.”

***

He praised her powers of detection and coolness, and apologized for doubting her, admitting the car problem had left him drained.

“You were right about the fight,” he told her. “You see the blood on him?”

“Where? I couldn’t drag my eyes from his massive head.”

“A bloody gash – right shoulder.”

Kerry aired the question which, she imagined, was on his mind too.

“Why was he creeping up on us?”

“Hunger, I expect,” Chad said simply.

From the outset he had been honest with her about Africa – and that was the only way she wanted it.

“Will anyone believe us?” Kerry asked. “They’ll think we made it up.”

The South African agreed. “People see old Tarzan movies and clips of George Adamson, our hero embracing and playfully wrestling with lions, and think that
’s the way it is. It’s
not
the way it is. Lions kill and eat a fair number of people annually. Rarely mentioned in the papers.”

“Bad for the tourist trade.
Jaws
– on land.”

“Snakebite kills plenty too, and crocs and hippos.
Mosquitoes most of all.”

While he spoke, Kerry located the
Dewer’s bottle. She poured them each a stiff drink into plastic cups.

“The thought of being eaten is utterly incomprehensible to Europeans.” She shuddered, her body showing its revulsion at the
very thought.

“Cannibalism still happens in African war zones.”

“Chad, for God’s sake! I wasn’t talking about human cannibalism. You’re making me feel sick.”

He grinned and then turned serious once again.

“Here in Africa the women of tribes living by rivers continue to wash and draw water from spots where crocodiles have taken their sisters and friends. That’s a fact. They have a different attitude to death than we have. They’re fatalists. It’s
Que sera sera
– whatever will be will be. They’re closer to death, for in Africa it’s never far away.”

“Thank you, Professor Lindsay,” Kerry said. “You
’ve really cheered me up.”

“You
’re welcome. Drink up and pour us another. Sleep’s over for tonight.”

They fell silent, each staring out into the blackness. The whisky had made Kerry light-headed, its effect heightened by their having eaten no substantial meal for close to thirty-six hours.

She whirled round to face Chad.

“I
’ve thought how we can make it real – the lion. Those moments when it was there before our eyes.”

“Real? – I don
’t follow.”

“
Paint
it! Can’t you see it? The aftermath of a storm, a segment of night sky lit by a lightning bolt . . . capturing a big male lion, rain soaked, mouth open showing the wicked canines –”

Chad cut in. “The bloody shoulder wound.”

“Yes! Oh, do it, please. You could call it: After the Fight.”

The South African considered for only a moment.

“Hmm, you’re quite right – I
must
do it. Be a challenge to get the correct balance of light and dark.” He added appreciatively, “I like your title.”

***

Kerry was overcome by exhaustion. She felt close to sleep. She wanted to snuggle up to Chad, hold him and be held, feel his warmth and reassuring strength. Was it just an instinctive female need when danger threatened, or were her feelings for him changing? She could take the lead, but that would be sending out the wrong message. He would view it as surrender – which was certainly not in her mind. Anyway, by his own admission, Chad was preoccupied by the car breakdown. She no longer topped his priorities – unlike their first night in camp. Leave it, she told herself, feeling sleep snatching at her.

She was Jane. Tarzan had Chad
’s face and body. They had outrun the pursuing lion but found themselves now with a wide river to cross. They dived in, bravely striking out for the far bank. Looking back she saw a croc, steel-trap jaws half open, launching itself into the river. From somewhere, she and Tarzan found another gear. They hit dry land and scrambled up, snapping jaws at their heels.

Then she heard a great roaring
. How had the lion crossed the river? They could not see the lion but the noise was almost deafening. The picture faded . . .

Kerry found herself awake with a stiff neck, longing for the comfort of a soft bed.

The next moment something hit the car a heavy thump. The Fiat dipped at the front and rocked from side to side.

What the hell was going on
?

A heavy rasping cough deepen
ed into a blood-curdling roar that literally caused her hair to stand on end.

***

Kerry had experienced some scary moments in the air: electric storms, a few dicey landings. Never had she been as frightened as she was now. Chad came awake with an oath. He switched on the headlights creating a nightmare silhouette. The lion was back – that much Kerry had already worked out. Now the hungry killer’s head was pressed right against the glass, like an immense bloated blood-sucking monster in a horror movie.

The big cat ignored the headlights. Chad tried the horn. It, too, had little effect. This time the lion did not flee.

Chad reached under his seat. When he straightened up there was a knife in his hand. Kerry had seen the bone-handled hunting knife before. On the drive north he had used it to cut slivers of
biltong
, bought at a roadside store. What the hell was he thinking? Did Chad intend to turn gladiator, man against beast?

The
last thing she had expected was for the knife to be thrust unceremoniously into
her
hand.

“While I keep him confused with the lights and horn,” Chad explained, “you
’re going to stick this into his rear.”

“But . . . can
’t
you
do it?”

“Kerry, the mouth is my side. Would you rather swap places and sit here looking down his throat?”

“Where . . . where shall I hit him?”

“Listen to me – you aren
’t going to hit him. You’re going to stick it in hard. Give him a dose of his own medicine.”

Kerry unsheathed the knife. She felt its fine-honed sharpness. As she wound down her window, the lion roared – the sound chilled her to the very marrow of her bones and she almost dropped the knife.

Reaching out holding the knife in her left hand, Kerry took a deep breath and plunged the knife forward.

At the moment it struck, she smelled the lion – a rank animal odour that made her think of a friend
’s home where cats had the run of the house. The lion became a snarling, snapping fury, terrible to hear. He tried to whirl around to face what had attacked him from behind, overbalanced, and rolled off the car.

Still snarling in pain and anger he streaked away into the night.

EIGHT

A Land-Rover appeared on the track across the river.

With the heat already building, Chad and Kerry had found shade under a fever tree. They faced in different directions and kept the car doors open in case the lion returned and they needed to dash for it. Chad was about to set off for the road. Kerry was watching some guinea fowl along the riverbank when
she heard the hum of an engine and swung the binoculars and picked out the open-topped vehicle. It held two men – one white, driving, and one black.

The Land-Rover stopped at the river. The black man got out; he carried a rifle which he propped against his seat; then he tested the water’s depth with a stick. Satisfied, the driver edged the vehicle into the muddy stream.

Kerry watched the African. He wore the green-shorts-and-shirt Parks’ uniform and a tan wide-brimmed bush hat. There was something familiar about his tall rangy frame. The Land-Rover bumped off the track and pulled up beside Chad’s car. The black game warden jumped out, grinning. His missing teeth were the giveaway.

They had met the first day at camp after Chad had come to the ridge to tell her the lodge was cleared of
spiders. The African had strolled past with his wife and young daughter aged four or five. There was a sleeping baby on the woman’s back, held by a knotted blanket. In response to Kerry’s proffered gift of a chocolate bar, the young girl had looked to her father for approval before accepting with a flash of white teeth, clapping her hands in the African gesture of thanks. That was when Kerry had first seen the man’s grin and wondered at his missing teeth.

Now Chad, too, seemed glad to see a familiar face.

“
Sawubona, induna
,” he called out.

“
Sawubona, nkosi
.” The African’s face became serious. He looked towards the car. “You have trouble?”

Chad nodded. Waving a hand at the car he said something in Zulu, which to Kerry sounded less than complimentary. She remembered that the
Matabele were of Zulu stock. The two tribes might be separated geographically, but not linguistically.

The black warden laughed. Kerry guessed it was part pleasure at finding that the white man spoke his language fluently.

“Maybe can fix him,” the African said, walking towards the car.

Chad shook his head.
“Big job. Garage job.”

Just then the white warden climbed out of the Land-Rover where he had been speaking over the radio. He strode across to Chad and Kerry.

“You people are in big trouble,” he said gruffly, without any preliminary greeting.

Kerry was shocked. With their rescue imminent, she was excited, her spirits
high. On catching sight of the approaching Land-Rover, she had envisaged a modern version of the Stanley and Livingstone meeting, full of poignancy and emotion – not this.

“Yeah, we’ve had a breakdown,” Chad said coldly.

The warden was about thirty-five, fair and deeply tanned. Shorter than the South African, he carried too much weight around his middle, leaving his chest and limbs appearing to lack strength. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot, and his clothing – an identical uniform to his black colleague – was creased, looking as if he had slept in it.

“You’re on an unauthorised road,” the game warden accused.
“Closed to tourists. We’ve been searching the whole bloody park.”

“Unauthorised road?”
Chad gave an Oscar-worthy performance of being shocked. “We got caught in yesterday’s storm. Thunder, lightning, rain – the lot. Crap visibility. We might have taken a wrong turn. Now, if you’ll be good enough to tow us to Main Camp, we’ll explain everything to the chief warden.”

“What’s the trouble?” The warden’s voice had lost none of its belligerence.

Chad explained about the rubber timing-belt coming loose as the car hit the dip in the river bed.

“I know these engines,” the warden said confidently. “Valves will be buggered and you’ll be lucky if Bulawayo has spares.”

“We’ll see,” Chad said.

Kerry knew that her companion was battling to control his feelings.

The warden managed to chuckle, chew at a finger nail, and nod his head, all at the same time.

“You’re looking at railing it home to South Africa.”

Kerry’s opinion of him plunged even lower.

“We’ll get your mechanic’s opinion,” Chad told him.

The African warden was standing by the car. He called his colleague over and pointed to the muddy paw marks and scratches on the bonnet.

“You have a problem lion hereabouts,” Chad told them. “Likes to view visitors close up.”

“Scary, hey?” the white warden said, grinning again. “And the blood?”

“He fought with another lion. We heard it all.” Chad gave Kerry a warning glance. He had told her not to mention the knife. Park management took a dim view of visitors interfering with the animals – even possible man-eaters.

Kerry kept quiet. Chad was handling things all right.

“Whole bloody park’s been out looking,” the white warden said. “Why didn’t you call, give us your position?”

“We tried,” Chad opened his hands in a show of frustration. “No signal.”

“My day off.
Could have used the rest.”

Looking at the crumpled clothes, the bloodshot eyes screwed up against the sun, Kerry had a vision of how the warden spent his free days: lounging in an untidy room somewhere, a bottle close to hand.

“Next time we break down, we’ll try not to do it on your day off,” Chad said.

Had Kerry not been so weary she would have laughed. Chad was not afraid to show his dislike of the warden, which Kerry shared. They’d had a long tiring ordeal. What they wanted was to be at Main Camp where they had accommodation booked for the next
few days, and where they could get advice from a qualified mechanic.

The two white men stared stonily at one another. The warden came a poor second in physique. There was no question of them coming to blows
. Kerry knew what was going on was just a show of silly male pride – neither man wanting to be the one to back down.

“Please,” she pleaded. “Can we just get out of here?”

The white warden turned on his heels and walked back to the Land-Rover.

“
Sipho,” he snapped. “Fix the tow rope. Hurry man! I have things to do at home.”

The black man’s eyes hardened. Kerry saw the warmth drain away. A scowling fierceness, inherited from warrior ancestors, took over. The African walked sullenly to the Land-Rover, found the tow-cable, and began fixing it to the two vehicles. Kerry and Chad got into the Fiat and waited.

Chad was still fuming. “That bastard had better start treating Africans in a more civil manner, or one day he’ll find one has taken his job.”

***

Slowly and steadily, with the Land-Rover humming in first gear, they climbed out of the valley. Kerry almost cried out through sheer relief; yet at the top of the hill she could not resist twisting round to look back. There was the river snaking through the bush, there the open area where they had broken down. She raised her camera and got off a quick shot just before it was lost from view.

Only the skull and scraps of skin remained of the zebra. What the lions had left, the hyenas, jackals and carrion-eating birds had eaten. A few vultures were in
the dead tree. The pride of lions was nowhere to be seen.

Once back on the main road the Land-Rover picked up speed, its tyres cutting twin channels in the rain-softened surface. The Fiat’s windscreen was soon splattered with mud. A grim-faced Chad was forced to use the wipers and water jets to see ahead.

“How far to camp?” Kerry asked.

“Roughly a hundred
k’s. Two and a half hours at the park’s speed limit – but he’s in a hurry.”

At the limit of the storm’s range, the mud ceased flying. But their relief was short-lived. Now they found themselves engulfed in the Land-Rover’s dust cloud. With the outside temperature in the nineties, they were forced to close all the car’s windows. The heat inside became stifling, barely tolerable. To heighten their misery and discomfort even more, dust still found its way into the car, irritating their eyes, throats and nostrils.

“He’s doing double the speed limit – and him a bloody warden,” Chad fumed. “If he has to stop suddenly, I’ll plough right into his arse.”

Kerry looked up from
the map. “The good news is we’re approaching a tarred stretch.”

In less than five minutes they hit the tarred road. The dust cloud disappeared. The temperature in the car was over a hundred degrees and they rolled down their windows with all speed, immediately feeling the benefit of the air-flow. The strain of steering through the
poor visibility showed on Chad’s face. Kerry dampened a wad of tissues and passes it to him. He grunted his thanks and wiped the grit and dust from his eyes and the perspiration from his forehead. She opened a bottle of beer and poured it into paper cups. It was warm but in two gulps it was gone and they felt better for it.

“First thing I’
m going to soak in a long hot bath,” Kerry announced dreamily. “I’ve never felt so dirty –”

“Shower,” Chad corrected.

“Hello, what’s
he
doing?”

The
Matabele’s arm pointed to the side. Kerry and Chad looked and saw four sable – Africa’s handsomest antelope – conspicuously black, walking in single file through the Mopani trees. Their leader, a big buck, blacker than the rest, had a wonderful set of horns arcing up from his proud head like a pair of deadly scimitar swords.

Chad waved their thanks to the African.

“Not much longer, thank God. I wish he’d slow down.”

Kerry shared his concern over the speed factor. Chad had performed heroically through the mud and dust and heat to keep them from hitting the Land-Rover.

The South African pointed to a plastic bag on the back seat. “Take a look.”

At first Kerry thought he was playing a joke. There was nothing in the bag but a lump of soft reddish-brown mud. Then she saw the imprint.

“The lion’s pawprint?”

“I have a potter friend. She’
ll fire it up in her oven.”

“A memento?
A souvenir ashtray?”

“Whatever.” Chad shrugged and concentrated on steering once again.

Kerry marvelled that he could have thought of such a thing after all they had been through. But then she remembered he was an artist.

“I’d like a copy,” she said. “You’
ll be painting our lion. I’ll have nothing.”

Chad took his eyes off the Land-Rover and looked at her for a moment. He said nothing.

And still their ordeal went on, mile after mile, kilometre after kilometre.

The sun was a fierce molten ball in a sky of deep blue. Sometimes at bends Kerry could see ahead of the towing vehicle. Shimmering mirages danced on the road, or was it all in her mind? She began to fantasi
ze about swimming pools and cool Jacuzzis and resting her tired body on a soft bed. Never had the prospect of a cold beer been more inviting.

Chad pointed to
mangled trees. Most of the broken trunks and branches had been stripped clean of bark, leaving them raw and naked – the scene looking like the testing ground for a fearsome new weapon of war. Amidst the carnage, great piles of droppings littered the ground.

He looked around nervously. Everywhere in the surrounding bush there was evidence of elephants.

“I wish the bastard would slow down,” he said for the fifth or sixth time.

But the pace didn’
t slacken. The warden driving the Land-Rover had to be aware of the signs, but he appeared to have only one thought in mind: reaching camp in the shortest possible time.

It happened just as Chad had feared.