He stands proud. He has no fear of any of those around him, from the mighty elephant to the charging rhino and thundering, ground-shaking hippo. His coat is the yellow of the landscape and hides him from those who fear him; a lapse in vigilance spells death for them. Long strands of hair are twisted and knotted, yet it is still a prized coat, forever coveted by the trophy hunter or the young warrior seeking his manhood, his only weapon a spear, his driving force the fear of ridicule from tribal elders should he not become a man this day and take his first lion.
To the casual onlooker he looks bored and half-asleep, but he fools us all for his eyes are always watching, flickering here and there. He sees the dust upon the horizon. It may only be a small patch against the blue but he knows it tells that the advancing herd is large. He feels the vibrations from the earth through his paws. While sitting doing nothing, his heartbeat had slowed down, but now there is an immediate shift into a rapid thumping that brings the adrenalin to every part of his body. He is tense and alert as he lifts his head to smell the scents about him.
The raw energy that he sends out is subdued for here the King of Beasts is all about the pride itself and as the other lions glide quietly into the long grass, all appears to be tranquil and desolate. He himself is the last to move forward to his chosen spot, a small hilltop overlooking the plains below. It is a place that dominates the cliff edge and the whole valley. It is his command post to direct the pride against the moving mass of wildebeest.
He smells them now. He salivates and his whole being trembles with the anticipation of the chase and the meal to follow although of the two, the chase is the greater prize. He lowers his body so that his ears are below the level of the grasses, and through the dry stems with their seedpods swaying in the breeze he views the mass as it approaches. It looks like a black line travelling across the plains, throwing up enough dust to create a cloud two miles high that extends for a further ten. He sees that the cloud of dust is his way into the herd without being seen by those he hunts. He waits until the herd passes, and in this way, slips in via the back door where no odour will be smelt or body seen. He is pleased with his choice. Lowering his head to his paws, he waits. The thundering, stamping noise of the passing herd is deafening and continues after the beasts have travelled beyond his hiding place. The atmosphere is thick with the dry dust that hangs in the air and disguises those on the move–Lion and wildebeest.
He slowly rises from the earth and, ears twitching to catch any other sounds above or below the level of the dominant noise; he picks up the sound of the stragglers; the sick, and those with small ones that would be crushed should they run with the herd. He sees easy pickings with these and goes for the kill. He is off through the grass; accelerating from his crouch below the grass line, muscles bunched and rippling as he pushes off and drives his body forward at an ever increasing speed. One would swear his paws never touched the dusty earth for he seems to glide above it. His ‘hit’ is the closest animal and before the poor creature can call her alarm to the others, he drags it down and sinks his teeth into its neck; life ceasing to be in the interests of this meal. He sees his pride bringing down their kills and then he himself is off to claim his next victim.
I have been watching the lions for some days now, sitting, legs cramped, throat dry and parched and eyes gritty and bloodshot from lack of sleep. The hunters are being hunted.
I sit hidden, an old lion skin wrapped around my small body. The skin is moth-eaten, the fur dry and cracked from seasons of wear. I shake with fright after seeing the lions bring down those mighty beasts so easily. The victims never knew what hit them; one after the other fell down without the predator once stopping to eat his fill, but killing repeatedly.
I can smell the acid odour of blood mingling with thick dust thrown into the air by thousands of hoofs ripping through the earth in terror. The sound of the mighty, speeding herd beats against my eardrums as they are driven this way then the other by the pride. The screams of the wounded wildebeest can be heard above the noise of the thundering hoofs and I screw my eyes tight and press my hands hard against my ears. I feel the warm flow of urine wetting my loincloth and running down my thighs; the smell of it joins the others heavy in my nostrils. My young, small body shakes so violently that the skin hiding me slides to the ground, exposing me to the chaos all around, but I act swiftly, prompted by the hot sun biting into my back.
Lifting the skin back over my head and looking through my spy holes, I start to crawl on all fours towards a nearby tree. The wet loincloth rubs against my groin and shame wells up inside me. A wildebeest close by shies away and leaps into the air, startled by my movements. It thinks I am one of the packs slaughtering his kin. Other wildebeest clear a path for me; the old skin is working on these animals. My shaking subsides and my confidence makes great leaps forward; this camouflage is a success. Feeling better than I did when I started this hunt, I soon reach the lone tree.
From this vantage point, the whole scene is clearly laid out before me, although the dust is thicker – the herd is running around in circles trying to break through the pack. They are being driven closer and closer to the edge of the cliff. I look on, and as the scene before me unfolds; I start to understand what is happening. The lions have driven a number of the wildebeest off from the main herd and are in the process of panicking them and driving them over the cliff face. The rest of the herd are miles away, creating the illusion of a great sand storm on the horizon. Buzzards are already circling the area and others are tearing at the flesh of the dead. Hyenas and other scavengers are also on the march, sneaking in quickly to avoid missing the free meals that are suddenly strewn everywhere.
My attention is drawn to a cloud of flies swarming over a deal calf. The body has been badly trampled; only the head appears untouched, caressed by a tussock of grass where it lies. My eyes fill with tears; they roll down my dust-covered face and inside, I feel an emotion so strong that it frightens me. I shiver. My body seems to expand, driven by this unknown emotion and I abandon my crouched position and stand.
Grasping the old skin about my thin, bony shoulders, I clutch the spear Grandfather made for me on my birth date so long ago. It was made from a sword blade that had broken in two when an Arab slaver had tried to remove Grandfather’s head, hitting the iron collar that was shackled around his neck instead. He had used the broken blade as a dagger and had won his freedom that day, along with the rest of the slaves. He had found a long straight tree limb and set the blade into the thickest part, wrapping copper wire from the talking wires around it and honing the blade both sides until it could cut a hair into two. Although the blade was two measures long, I had always been surprised by its lightness. I had no problem throwing it great distances and my accuracy drew the envy of the elders.
Most boys my age of sixteen summers are six measures tall and muscular, but I have always been short and skinny. Grandfather always said I was a gift from the great gods. At my birth, they took my beautiful mother, jealous that mortals should have such a beauty among them. In exchange, they gave me to the clan. I soon stopped telling this story after enduring the ridicule it brought. Other clan members shunned me, so I became quiet about what I could see inside. Grandfather always taught me to be as one with the land I use, to help protect its animals and life, to know my plants and to respect others. I push these thought from my head; damn, why am I thinking about them now when I have to hunt my lion and bring home its coat and become a man? The alternative is to be eaten and sent back for my re-birth to try yet again to become a man.
I start forward, trotting towards the bunched creatures that bolt ahead to try and break through the line. They are driven back repeatedly. Panic feeds my nostrils; the air is charged, almost electrifying. The tip of my spear is releasing blue sparks and I am in wonder: how can this be? But I have no answer to tell myself.
I hide my head below the skin and slowly walk forward. My heart is pumping so loudly that I am sure everything around can hear me coming. I try to relax and control my breathing, yet the strength inside wants to bust out and I feel anger at the deaths all around me. There is so much waste! The lions could have lived for days on a few beasts – even the leftovers could have fed the scavengers for weeks. My kin of the tribe never slaughter more than they can eat; we dry excess meat in the sun or freely give it to others who live close by.
High up on a rock overlooking the ravine, there is a male wildebeest with wide, curved horns that look very sharp and strong. Several females prance about nervously nearby. He calls to others and the sound is loud above the general noise; some hear his call and spring away in his direction. Still more follow, and in a short time there is a chain of them. Almost immediately, these confused creatures who a moment ago only sensed death and destruction leap towards the chance of survival, their will to live rekindled, their spirits recharging their weary bodies with untapped strength.
I know the layout of this land and see that the leader of the herd has found a way to the bottom of the cliff and possible freedom for his charges. There is a small passage wide enough for a single animal to pass through and then off to freedom; their leader knows it is a chance worth taking. They are many and these will bunch together at the entrance; some will fall to the lions, but many will live. With one long jump, the leader descends the rock, landing so lightly that dust is seen hardly to rise in the air. Other males join him and they move out from the entrance. Side by side, they push forward. A line is created; others join it and the line becomes a barrier. When those being driven by the lions reach the line, they are allowed to pass through. With more and more turning to join their leader, the lions soon come face to face with a wall of long sharp horns.
I’m close to the high rock now, and I climb it nimbly. On sighting me at the top, the fe pport to the wildebeests as sun strikes the blade, sending a flash of light to strike the floor between the advancing lions and the line of their prey.
All eyes divert to me; I shout once again. In one blink of an eye, the lions attack together, trying to break the nerves of those in the line so that panic flows through the herd yet again. Nevertheless, the wildebeest hold their ground, horns bared; the line looks like a thousand warriors with their spears held high. The lions know better than to allow those long sharp horns to pierce their flesh. Roars and groans can be heard across the hills as the lions use all their cunning to break the line, but the line holds and even yet moves forward.
Several lions break rank, amble over to dead carcases and start to eat. More challenges are thrown by their leader and a snarl are increased with startling speed as one lion rushes in and brings down a beast, only to have several others take his place in the line. More and more wildebeest move forward to keep the line formidable. As those behind proceed through the pass the line steps back, allowing others in, yet the ground given up only strengthens the line. As the entrance to the pass funnels out, where hundreds were needed, less are now required as each step back allows the line to decrease without losing strength. I contribute to the fight. I take my slingshot, find some pebbles in my pouch that I found in a bubbling riverbed and sends missiles at the lions, scoring hit after hit. This is successful. It sends the lions further back from the line. Perhaps it also makes them wary of getting too close to the human at the top of the rock.
After many hours, just a few wildebeest wait to pass through the entrance and my heart leaps: this is their critical time. I feel my senses stretch to full alert. I must help the last remaining creatures; they have fought so valiantly for the survival of the others. Discarding my lion skin, I jump down and land closes to the last two, one of whom is their leader. He shies away.
‘Hush mighty warrior,’ I say, ‘only kings can defend their subjects so bravely.’ I break into a chant, a song from long ago, when the weak rose up and defeated the mighty. ‘Go. Allow me to hold the pass while you join your herd.’
At this point, the lion rushes forward. Only the last wildebeest and I remain. Thrusting my spear at the lion, I move forward, only to have the lion lash out with his paw, yanking the spear from my grip and hurling me to the ground. A paw with claws as sharp as my spear rakes my side; only my own speed causes the paw to tear my shirt off, making a thin line of four marks across my side. Once I’m floored, the lion pounces and I know my life is over but at that moment, the wildebeest strikes. It drives its horns through the lions chest with such force that both creatures come crashing to the ground.
Within a second I am up and retrieving my spear. I drive it through the lion’s heart, killing him instantly. The wildebeest is down on its knees, jammed together with the dead lion, so I use my spear blade to cut the creature free. His face is covered with blood; the long eyelashes are closed tight with the congealing fluid. Retrieving my shredded shirt, I wipe the blood from the animals face and reveal the most beautiful clear pair of blue eyes I have ever seen.
‘You are beautiful,’ I whisper, and the creature lowers his head and licks the blood that is oozing from my side. He hears the call of the last of his charges leaving the pass and rises to his knees. My heart stands still. Standing, he turns and bounds away to follow those in his care, only to turn again and return to me. My breath leaves my body in gasps of awe as he stands in front of me, lifts his head high and let’s out a cry that echoes across the land. I smile. I know what this is: this creature is saluting me. In turn, I raise my spear high and call out one of the songs of ages past, a chant that speaks of freedom, of how a few strong hearts defied the might of a great empire and brought slavery to an end and peace to the oppressed.
The lions turn away, moving with speed to kills close by. They drag the bodies to a safe distance where they can lie undisturbed and feed to their heart’s delight. All across the killing fields, feeding is at its height.
I pat the wildebeest, feeling its coat – so soft! – feeling the breath from its nostrils fanning my face with its moistness. Again, those sparkling blue eyes seem to reach into my very soul and I know I have made a friend for all life. The creature then turns bounds through the opening and is gone.
I look around me, sensing the feeding frenzy, hearing the squabbling, and screeching of creatures defending their food. The weaker ones are driven away, only to form gangs with others of their kind that then return to force the issue. Many fights break out and the noise is ugly and nasty. I know that the lions will be at their food for many hours. They will eat more than their bellies can hold, then fall asleep. On awakening, they will eat yet more, forcing themselves to consume yet another meal in remembrance of times when food was short and their bellies shrank and turned sour with the berries and skinny monkeys, hair and all, that they had to eat to survive.
Using my spear blade, I attempt to skin the old lion. The skin was badly slashed when I freed the wildebeest and will never make a trophy to return with, so I decide to remove the tail and head. The mane is long and the head is heavier than I can carry, so I remove the mane separately. I knock out the teeth with a rock and my blade; I want to make two necklaces – one for my grandfather and one for myself. The teeth are hard to remove from the jawbone and a lot of time is spent on the task. The stench of the lion’s breath is overpowering; I have to stop and move away from time to time…
When I’m finished and all of my trophies are gathered, the sun is well below the horizon. It is dangerous to walk around in the night, so I decide to build a fire close to the passage to the lowlands nearby. Collecting wood quickly and keeping well away from the gorging lions and the ever-increasing numbers of snarling hyenas, I use my flint on the steel blade of my spear to make sparks. They soon catch to the dry grass that I crush between my palms for tinder. I place the smoking material under small dry twigs and in no time, I have a fire going.
My throat is dry and parched. I have not drunk for the better part of two days and my stomach is knotted with hunger cramps. With the threat of death always close at hand, I have not felt these things all day; they come to life only now that I am more secure. My spear is covered with dried blood and stained a deep red. Picking it up, I return to the closest dead wildebeest which has no creatures around it – aside from the thousands of flies and ants that swarm over its open wounds and move in and out of its nostrils. The eyes are dulled; the blueness has gone, leaving them lifeless. The flies suck at the moisture from around the open eyelids, but I feel no revulsion from this spectacle, for all creatures, great and small, have a place in this land and each plays a part in keeping life running for the greater design.
I cut off the wildebeest’s back leg and blood flows freely. I suck on the flesh, feeling the blood fill my mouth and enter my stomach. I heave as the salty fluid builds up and have to black my thoughts out, for I know I will empty my stomach if they continue. More flies swarm over the freshly cut area and I see that they are also thirsty. Their noise is like a humming beehive high in a tree that has been angered by boys throwing stones.
Now the landscape is full of shadows that dance and move. Solid rocks that have sat in the hot sunshine come alive and shimmer and one gets the idea that they could be dancing in the twilight. My fire is the beacon for my return and I run to it swiftly for I have the feeling I am being watched. I shudder; I could be another’s supper tonight if I let my guard down. I feel the heat, as I get closer to the fire; the sun’s heat will be no more tonight and soon the cold will come.
I scamper to the top of the large boulder and retrieve my old skin, pausing for a moment to survey the landscape. It is beautiful. The distant sky is red, streaked with orange tinges that set the clouds alight. I feel warmth inside me and know how lucky I am to stand here today, alive and breathing in this sight. I look to the heavens and see the beginning of the silver stars that will light up the sky tonight and I feel so proud that I live, for I know that many others who walked out to make their first kill will be looking down on this land and not walking it for a while.
Dragging my old skin behind me, I descend to the floor and tend my fire. I spear my meat on a wooden spit and place it in the flames to cook, brushing away yet more flies that have sought a free meal. The night arrives so fast. I hear the noises that only come with sundown. I walk to the edge of the light thrown out by my fire and collect still more of the wood that is close to hand. When all is done and no further wood is seen, I return to the warmth of the hearth and the skin that I have erected over some long sticks as shelter from the night’s dew.
My meat smells so good. I slice off a thin cooked piece and with fingers covered in soot, grease and dried blood; I chew with a speed that astonishes me. Yet again, more is sliced and soon there are no longer any cooked pieces left on the spit, so I have to sit back on my haunches and stare into the fire and wait. Blood drips into the coals. The hissing sound takes over, putting the crackling of the fire and the noises of the veldt into the background. I think of my grandfather. I know that he thinks I am lost to a lion, gobbled up with bones stripped white by vultures, then cracked, broken and eaten by hyenas. My shirt and loin cloth are covered with ants and flies that suck out the last of the blood that has been soaked up in the kill and focusing on them, I try to still my thoughts. I know he hurts a great deal. He has been the only family I have known; I reach out to him with my mind: your son has made you proud, my grandfather. I raise my eyes to the skies as a warm feeling comes over me, he comes looking for me, and I know it. I feel him a great distance away. He looks to the stars that are now shining brightly and follows a path of my prints in the sand made visible by a moon that has come to life and bathed the land in a silver glow.
The fire needs banking up, and logs that I have dragged to my camp are now once again brought from their pile to the fires edge. I use the big logs at the back of the campfire; this way, the light will shine back on me and throw its warmth into the shelter of the hide and will keep alight all night long. I hang the leg of cooked meat on the sticks holding up the shelter. I had collected leaves with the wood and now I take these from the pouch around my waist and add them to the fat I had collected from the dripping meat as it cooked. I place the mixture in a hollowed out section of bark. Using two stones left over from my sling, I crush the leaves until a sticky green sap builds up. I add this to the bowl and then use the sharp blade of the spear to mix the mass into a green gooey slop.
I look down at the deep scratches from the lion’s claws. They have been bothering me since the attack, but the urge to give them attention has been overridden by more important things. The blade is cold on my side as I lay it close to the wounds. I need to push off the thin, dark building scab and apply the mixture to the open bleeding wounds for it to be of most benefit. Grandfather told me the scratches of animals carry many unhealthy things and need to be given attention. The breath hisses between my teeth as the blade slides over the wounds. I feel the heat. Water bursts from my forehead and runs down my face. I want to stop and cry out, but it is as though someone else is doing this to me and the blade continues to move from one wound to the next until the last one is done.
I feel the trickle of warm blood down my side. My fingers are grimy with dried blood, dirt from the logs and many other unrecognisable things and I have no idea if touching my wounds with this germ-carrying appendage will cause more problems than it solves. I slide the blood-covered blade into the fire and it soon glows a golden red. Although I have seen others put a hot blade onto their wounds, I have no guts for this so I allow it to cool. Stirring the mixture, and scooping it up with the blade, I then smear it onto my wounds. I whistle as the mixture touches the open wounds, for it stings like nothing I have felt before. Soon the bark bowl is empty and the mixture over my side is one gooey, slimy mess. I retrieve my shirt. Sections of it are covered in dried blood and parts of the rest are shredded. I tear off the cleanest section and place it over the wound, using the remainder to tie this in place around my body. The stinging has stopped and now the area feels numb. I just accept these things and with the heat from the fire and my belly full, I wish to sleep, just like any other creature that has filled it belly. I smile at these thoughts. I look over at the mane of the lion and see it is covered with ants. That is a good thing; I think they will eat the flesh that is stuck to the hide and it will make less stench when the sun comes up. I fall into a restful sleep and dream of the great things that only the young can dream.
The boy’s grandfather comes to the place where the boy had sat for many days. His heart misses a beat on seeing the dried yellow patch, for he knows what fright can do to one so young – and to one so old too, he thinks. Scouting around, he finds the lion’s tracks but they are soon lost, along with the ones of his grandson, for the imprint of the wildebeest wipes everything out. All night long, he searches but his searching takes him further away from the boy’s location, and as the sun comes creeping up in the distance, the old one returns to his village.
Most of the elders who had sons that had left days ago have returned with sadness; most have returned with an article of clothing or a broken spear. Twenty young boys had left three moons ago, and none had returned. Ten of them had been found and their fathers and mothers would shed countless tears for many days to come. Of the others, there is no trace and so a search party will look for them this day. The tribe is growing smaller each season as their boys leave on quests and the girls are left with no men to father the next generation. The younger boys show great fear at this season when their elder playmates leave for the hunt. Their chief sat with bowed head, for it has been many seasons since a boy had become a man and returned to claim his seat as head of the tribe. A large party are gathered for the search, children of all ages, mothers, fathers and grandfathers, even the young strapped to their mother’s backs are present.
The chief directs each individual into a group. Each group has a mixture of young and old, warriors and nursing mothers, until the whole tribe is placed, leaving out only the very old, or sick. Each group is directed to search a certain section of the countryside and report back at sunset. Each set offs with head bowed and rather than long strides, there is only shuffling heard. No children are playing; no laughing heard as one usually does on such large trips.
The boy’s grandfather waters and feeds himself and with strength renewed, sets out again with the goal of returning to the last place where he had found tracks. The sun is very hot on his back as he ambles along at a good trot. His spear is in one hand and there is a skin full of water thrown over his shoulder. Great distances are eaten up speedily with his rolling gate. He knows his grandson has no water and that should he be alive he will soon die of thirst, and with these thoughts, he increases his speed even more.
