Darting north through the forest, my stride was mad with sweat and sadness. With the help of my fit, fast legs, I found the path that led me where I needed to go.
I was sure Shumbuto would come for me. Sure as lion meat tastes like every dark color never drawn. I imagined his heavy breathing and his body barreling through the trees. He was coming for me, all right.
He’d be remorseful for having unwittingly chased me away, scared to death he might lose me. He’d want to explain further. He’d want me to come home. In my heart of hearts, I knew it was wrong to leave them — Shumbuto, Shandra-Namba, my soon-to-be-born brother, all of them. But I didn’t care. I tell you, I did not care! I was thirteen and ready to be forever alone. It would be easier that way.
Or so I thought.
I ran on while traitorous thoughts wrecked me.
This whole time, the Shakasantie had considered me a useful outsider — someone who could carry on their legacy long after they were gone. They kept me around only as long as was necessary to serve their purpose. I knew how that story went. Billy and Calliope taught me the rules of abandonment, all those years ago. I would not allow anyone to forsake me again.
I ran hard and rested short. It had been years since we made the journey, but my retentive quadriceps knew the way. I recalled how it took all day and a good chunk of the following one to travel with Shumbuto and Shandra-Namba from our first humble home to Shakasantie Village. Now, without sacks of lion meat weighing me down, I channeled a cougar’s speed and reached that old hut on desolate land in a trifling few hours. I allowed myself meager moments to soak in the warmth of the place before my body rattled with objection. I wasn’t interested in those perfect memories, those lies of love. I would not allow my gut to wrench itself for phony sentiment. I had better things to do. A better person to be. A man to become.
I ran on.
I ran into the night, stopping only a handful of times for stray puddled water, then once to kill and eat a frog. It was so simple. I didn’t even pause to think before the act. He said, “Ribbit.” I croaked, “Bad move, frog,” and boom bam! My stomach acids were boiling him alive. To hell with Shumbuto’s considerable lack of morality lessons. I’d make up my own law of the jungle as I went along.
At long last, when the moon was full and directly overhead, I arrived at Shumbuto’s hunting shack. I wasn’t even out of breath.
I dug up the key (oh, Shumbuto) and unlocked the door to a stunner: The place was gutted clean. Empty, save for the magnificent weapon that was Shumbuto’s machete and a pitiful note lying on the floor. One vertical line down the center of the parchment paper conveyed the message clearly.
The sight of Shumbuto’s blade fastened to the wall would have been message enough, but the “1” on the page solidified it. My father had bested me, passed on his strength, and reinstated his firm belief in the Shakasantie prophecy, all without saying a word. He’d somehow arrived at the shack first, cleaned out all the weapons, and left only his blade. He left it there for me. The fact that he now had his own child on the way didn’t seem to shake his belief. He still believed I was the one.
I dislodged Shumbuto’s machete from the wall. Unprepared for its tremendous weight, I boggled and dropped it. I jump–skirted out of the way, so close to lopping off several of my toes. I hefted the machete again as best I could and dragged it behind me. Back outside, I tried to raise the weapon over my head. I fell over backward for my effort. It became clear that although my will was strong, my body was in no way up to the task. In order to brandish this weapon in any menacing manner, I would have to bulk up.
I made camp by a quaint little stream about half a mile north of Shumbuto’s hunting shack. I cleared a small area to lay my head on, built a fire pit to cook my amphibians and mondo snails in, and found some downed tree limbs that worked well as training weights. My goal was simple: build up my arms, carry my father’s blade. That was all.
It didn’t take long. When you set your mind to accomplishing just one thing, you can get good at it right quick. After a month of lifting those mighty tree limbs, throwing them haphazardly around the camp, and even jogging with them, I was massive. If I’d worn shirts, my hulking muscles would have torn them to shreds. In other words, mission accomplished. Not only could I hoist Shumbuto’s machete high over my head, but I could also wield it, and wield it well.
Before departing the campsite, I spent a few days learning the machete’s power and maneuverability. Standing still as a baobab tree in a windless fog, I would elevate the blade to a ninety-degree angle, imagining a terrible foe before me. Were I to drop my eyes or my weapon, my make-believe enemy would pounce. And that would be the end of me.
I remained in that stasis pose for hours before the deadweight finally outdid me.
But of course, not all adversaries will retreat simply because you stare them down and hold a threatening pose. With dutiful practice, I became skilled at swinging, slicing, and stabbing with the hefty machete, just like this! And this! And how about a little of this?
My fictitious attackers fled for their lives. Knowing they were no match for the likes of me, they scurried away with their droopy faces between their legs to exist another day.
My feet trained themselves to complement my upper body exercises. They parried and shuffled in small, concentric circles to and fro. My limbs, separate from each other, did their own thing while all the while aware they were cogs in a precise mechanism greater than themselves.
Shumbuto’s blade and I became one. I could lean on it, raise it high, cut it low, jab it, stick it, and hold it steady. During the hours I kept it at eye level and parallel to the ground, fantasizing some unimaginable danger (be it man or beast), I often fell into what I can only describe as a zen-like trance. There were times when I was so tuned in that I would stare down a hallucination, never blinking, back hunched and ready to pounce. I’d trained myself to stop breathing. At times, I even believe my heart would cease beating. In the face of these nonexistent predators, I, myself, became an unseen shadow to them.
I know how it sounds. But my technique worked. I owned a special kind of madness. I was comfortable with it. I could control it. This super-evolved understanding of how to reach my ultimate potential molded me into a perfect specimen.
I trusted my arm only as far as my outstretched fingers. My appendages had their limits. However, Shumbuto’s blade extended my reach. It became a part of me; my own flesh and blood lengthened another four feet into space. I had learned to use (become) the blade so well that I forgot where I ended and it began.
When I was ready to vacate Shumbuto’s hunting shack, I left strong.
I was in no hurry. I had nowhere to go but inward, evermore. I wandered north with no intention other than to hunt, be hunted, live, or die. I’d already mastered the art of frog and toad poaching. These menial adversaries never put up a fight, and there were plenty of them everywhere to sustain my diet. But every great hunter worth his salt must challenge himself or risk becoming obsolete. So, with the final warty-skinned land hopper’s juices still fresh on my lips, I began calling to the birds.
Maybe you don’t want to hear about this. Are you the squeamish type? Tell you what, you can go ahead and avert your ears if it gets to be too much for you. I’ll understand. But I’m not about to edit my past by omitting the nasty bits. And it only gets more appalling from here on out.
I will never pretend to be someone I am not. Stay or go, I proceed.
As I’m sure you are aware, birds of all kinds of feathers are tricky to catch — they have quite an obvious advantage over man: flight. If it had been in my power to soar, I would have done so, all the time. But alas, it was not meant to be. The closest I ever came to flirting with flight was when I plummeted into the Zambezi. That can hardly count for much.
The birds, they squawk and they squeal. They give themselves away so easily. One can hear a finch or a wood thrush from a great distance. Making up that distance before the animal flutters away is the key to this elusive game.
Creeping. The world has never known a better creeper than me.
Hush now, little songbird. I crept along the forest floor and navigated a jumble of motivational inner dialogue. Your time has come. The grey-headed bushshrike hopped from branch to branch among the low brambles. He buried his beak under a wing and pecked at something — an insect or a parasite, perhaps. I allowed him his last feast. Having stalked so silently, I was as unknown to him as the existence of God to a water slug.
The chirper sensed me. He looked up. Horror flashed in his eyes. He foresaw his own death in the reflection of my father’s blade. It was the last panic-free thought he ever knew.
WICKERTHUNK.
The airbeast went down, crashing violently in a heap of his former self.
I inspected the crime scene, for it could be called nothing else. My first aviary kill was sloppy, amateurish. I’d sliced only halfway through its head and needlessly severed one of its wings. His bird blood rushed out of his skull and corroded his feathers. Blinded by his own sticky juices, he made a few last pathetic attempts to take to the air. His good wing beat the dirt, causing his body to turn in a terrible, limping death circle. Around and around he went. His face shrouded in a terror mask. His tiny heart beating to explode. I could stand by no longer. I delivered mercy.
The next will be cleaner, I vowed.
I must admit: As I recall these events to you now, these stepping-stones that eventually would lead to my mastery, I am wholeheartedly disgusted by my early, primitive skills. I never desired to cause any animal (save for the villainous lion) to suffer. I reviewed that first kill a hundred thousand times before heading back into the fray. Weeks passed. I went over and over it. The answer at last blindsided me in the middle of a hike. The revelation came from out of fucking nowhere, as revelations sometimes will.
I’d hesitated.
It was only a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a second, but the pause between commitment and action had been real.
I eased myself onto a rock and reined in my thoughts. Now that I knew what had occurred, the new mind scrambler was: Why? I’d been intently focused on the bird. I’d envisioned my movements clearly prior to the strike. I’d unleashed Shumbuto’s blade, strong and true, with precision and purpose. I’d done everything I could to bring the bird a clean death. So why the split-second delay?
My brain was slow to teach itself, but soon enough, it came around to the hidden culprit, buried in a rusty well of cruddy emotion: I still possessed empathy for living creatures.
Bah! I would just have to overcome sentiment, then! I would grind my feelings down and squash them cold. The slim compassion I’d felt for the damned songbird was the flaw, so I would just have to practice on something blacker — something as undemonstrative as night.
I stood and jogged the rest of the way to the top of the hill I’d currently been ascending. At its peak, I awaited darkness. When it came, flaring out from beneath night’s celestial blanket, the bats arrived.
I don’t know how many bloodthirsty hell suckers dove near, flew by, and swooped round me — had to be thousands — but I can tell you exactly how many lost their lives. By the light of the moon, I counted 235 carcasses littering the mountaintop, not one of them left twitching. Pristine kills, all.
I now refer to this, my first true battle, as the “Slaughter on Satan’s Hill.” It transformed me into a no-holds-barred, callous killing machine. When you can take that many lives in that short a time, you’re bound to harden.
On the other side of my pride was Shumbuto’s voice, nagging my perceptions, as it was prone to do: “There are but two acceptable kills, Marcus: the kill for food, and the kill for revenge.”
Though it is true a person must practice to become good at a thing, I wondered if I had crossed some line? There was no vengeance nor supper upon that hill. Only a greedy heaping of malevolent rehearsal.
I lay with the dead for hours, until dawn. Nauseating though it was, I ate as much bony flesh as I could stomach. Dozens of leftovers remained for the buzzards, but by morning, I was overstuffed with what was probably tainted meat (it wasn’t) that would surely infect me with rampant rabies (it didn’t).
I emerged from that lofty battleground covered from head to toe in the sticky black blood of my winged enemies. My own blood was pumping on newfound adrenaline. Fueled by fury and flutterstruck bat energy, I imagined my insides were deliquescing into magma. I harnessed the bizarre power. Held it. Became it. This lone beast.
I was something else entirely now — a thing without a name.
I’d mastered the fine art of precision, yes. My aim was true. Good for me. I had honed my mental acuity and eradicated my empathy. I was hesitant no more. Bravo. I’d taken the necessary first steps toward becoming something great, something worthy.
But one can’t simply go about taking down insignificant vermin. It was high time to up the ante.
In Zambia, there are untold numbers of animal species. Some you may know, perhaps, and some you surely will have never heard of. From the slow, shell-shocked pangolin to the speedy spotted cheetah, a hunter’s options are boundless. The way to best your prey varies from animal to animal. If there is some unwritten Shakasantie knowledge passed down from generation to generation, I wouldn’t know. In my younger years, my Zambian father deliberately withheld information. This was a matter of contention for me (as I have faithfully recorded); but in pursuing my own education, I wound up being grateful for Shumbuto’s slight. To be taught a trade is one thing, but to learn by your own trial and error is a wondrous achievement — it is a gift that never stops giving.
Now, it would be rather ridiculous to say there is any danger in hunting our good friend the pangolin (who resembles the equally harmless armadillo, though they are, as far as I know, unrelated). About the worst he might deal is a nasty jolt to your ankle with a whip of his spiny tail. Beyond that, there is not much fight in him. Flip him over and you will find unprotected muscle beneath his keratin scales. Pangolin meat is chewy.
The one learning curve I faced with this guy was how to overcome a shortcoming in Shumbuto’s blade. The pangolin taught me that my sharpened steel was not the end-all, be-all, superpowered instrument of destruction I originally imagined it to be. Its sharpened tip was so far from the hilt that to pierce the pangolin’s underside, I had to lean on the blade’s handle from an undesirable, awkward height. Using my full weight to push down on it was not much trouble, and the pangolin suffered not at all.
One of the utmost qualities a hunter can possess is that of grace during the chaos of conflict. I knew I would pit myself against larger beasts later in my adventures. I was consciously working my way up the food chain, so to speak. In building toward grander conquests, I would need to kill not only with swiftness but as much fluidity and elegance as possible. There was nothing fluid about plunging your blade into a pangolin’s underbelly. It became clear that I would need to fashion other weapons.
I was beginning to also appreciate the valuable lessons I’d learned by staying behind with Shandra-Namba when Shumbuto took the other children hunting. I knew to locate stone quarries by following the river’s lead. When I came to them, I sifted through the shallow waters for shale rock. Shale rock, you see, holds three excellent qualities for forging a respectable knife: (1) The rock is thin, (2) it is agreeable, and (3) much like myself, it is sharp as a motherfucker. Extracting the shale from the riverbed can be difficult, as it can be buried rather deep. But once you pry it out, it’s quite easy to break down to whatever shape you want (within reason).
Using Shumbuto’s blade to carve the first shale knife was an arduous task, like shucking bamboo with a giraffe’s leg. I’ve never done that, of course, but you get the idea.
With the initial stab-jabber sharpened, the next ones came easier and easier still. I assigned them numbers based on their size and deadliness. After a few strict, focused days of bobbing for shale and shaping my cutters to perfection, I had myself a halfway decent arsenal — all lined up perfectly, glistening in the late afternoon sun. I leaned in to better heed the whisper of the blades; they made solemn promises of blood and carnage, food and triumph, peace and pain.
As I was minding my own business there in the Zambezi shallows, a suicidal catfish swam up and brushed his ghastly whiskers against my defenseless big toe. Ba-boom! Zero hesitation! I defended the honor of my left foot’s general and flung blade #3 at the water harpy. It pierced his eye and he died ugly, bubbling some nonsensical fish-speak. “Fup-oo ant oor muffer,” it could have been.
That night, stewing over catfish stew, I admired my knives. There were thirty-three in all, not counting Shumbuto’s machete. As content as I was with my collection, a realization reared its ugly head.
How the devil will I carry them all?
I surveyed the open land and realized it was, in actuality, a nonissue. This would be my new home. Here, where the Zambezi could touch my feet every morning, noon, and night. Here, where I had both the quiet I desired and the solitude I deserved.
I made camp one hundred paces from the river in the hollow of a mountain cave. I traversed what I now figure was probably around a ten-mile (sixteen-kilometer) perimeter around what I considered to be my territory, and (oh yes!) I marked it well. Any animal who dared enter my home circle would get a whiff of my powerful urine blasts and know who was king of this domain.
There were wolves that barked and howled when the night gave birth to more vile night in the dead of night. There were lunatic, drooling hyenas scavenging, always scavenging for their next meal. If the unscrupulous vultures didn’t pick off the rotting carcasses of beasts who met their maker by way of natural causes or foul play, the hyenas sure as hell did.
Truth be told, I can’t say how many long hours I spent meandering, you know, inside my head. But I can relate at least one time when I nearly succumbed to a rare form of, for lack of a better term, isolation mania.
The heat was beyond oppressive on this particular day in question. My skin was melting like slow sap. I don’t know what I was doing when I witnessed a curious pair of aardvarks doddering from one anthill to another, just a stone’s throw from my cave-home. (Come to think of it, my hair, if I remember correctly, was getting long. I may have been busy braiding it.)
Hundreds, nay, thousands of army ants scattered, with no sanctuary to go to. The aforementioned aardvarks, strangely enough, were roaming during their normal sleeping hours, throwing the harried insects for a loop.
Baring their grotesque proboscis teeth and flicking their lizard tongues in my general direction, the aardvarks reminded me very much of the departed pangolin, minus the armor. I responded to their war grimaces by boiling my own eyes up and firing fair warning.
“Don’t mess with me, boys,” I articulated. “I’ll take you to town. I’ll take you to town and I’ll drown you down.” But there is no reasoning with insane beasts. That is a fact I know all too well.
By this time, I’d spread my thirty-three blades at random intervals within my piss-radius domain. I knew (as well as I knew the lines on my palms) where each of the thirty-three lay hidden. During this unreal fight, #17 was nearby. I could reach it, if need be. I did not believe it would be necessary.
The mad aardvarks rushed me from either side. Such was their folly. Had they charged head-on, they would have acquired the advantage of driving at my center of gravity. With two of them gnashing my gut, I don’t know whether my arms could have bashed both of them with sufficient force. But as fate would have it, they chose instead to flank me. With each mighty unclenched fist, I grabbed them by their silly snouts and smashed their aardvark noggins together.
CA-CHUNK.
The sound, whether imagined or real, was satisfying.
I dropped the beasts to the ground and then, for a laugh, tied their snouts together in an impossible knot and launched them into the stratosphere. So much for Shumbuto’s snooty rules.
I was right about one thing at least. I had not needed blade #17.
As the days bled into one another, individual rites of passage continually presented themselves. My skills and kills progressed. Though I can’t pinpoint exactly how each new achievement contributed to my rock-solid character, I can edge close. I do revere the animals I hunted — I know their names. Every one is forever a part of me.
Being alone for that extended period of my life did great wonders for my strength, growth, and cunning, though it may arguably have done some damage to the way in which I perceive the world.
Case in point: The quagga doesn’t exist. Not now nor when I was traipsing my way around southern Africa. They say he went and got himself extinct during the late 19th century. Heck of a thing for a species to do. Not that the poor guy had much say in the matter. If he had his druthers, he’d have opted to carry on the simple life of grazing the peaceful plains and not being eaten. But, much to his disappointment, he was hunted to extinction by Dutch settlers and Africans. That was history’s story anyway. So imagine my surprise when I came upon the gentle creature while going about my daily activities.
You’re shaking your head like you don’t know what a quagga is. The quagga, for your information, looks like a zebra from the neck up, though his stripes are white and brown. The bottom half of his body is all brown, and that’s where he most resembles a horse.
Not much is officially known about the quagga’s social behaviors because I guess folks back before the 1900s didn’t keep very good notes. But, having encountered a group of them for sure, I’ll let you in on the scoop.
The quagga were a bunch of sluggish, careless lazybones — at least, the pack I came across were. When I learned later in life they’d gone extinct, I wasn’t at all surprised. Any species that lollygags out in the open like that is just asking for someone to come up from behind and KA-BOP.
Sorry, quagga. Sorry, world. If I’d known he was already extinct, I might have spared him. But then, would I have been sparing a ghost? That’s crazy talk, right? You ever heard of a ghost quagga? No, of course not, how could you? Before now, you’d never even heard of a quagga quagga! I’ll tell you what, though, the animal I ate that night had more meat on his lazybones than any ghost would. And even when I was roasting the dumb son of a bitch over my fire, his mates were still loping about, munching leaves and occasionally bumping into each other. Don’t mind us. We’re just here.
I swear, if a pack of lions charged ’em, they might’ve mustered the energy to blink and raise their necks for slaughter. How did these numbskull, nature defiers survive? If they were real (and, like I said, the quagga I ate certainly tasted real), then they were right smarter than anyone ever gave them credit for, including me.
You want to hear about leopards? Here’s an animal everyone can agree is very real and very dangerous. Little known fact: They are also a traitorous bunch. To hunt a leopard, all you have to do is pit them against one another. To cause this great distraction, you simply throw the carcass of any lesser animal into a leopard circle. Any old carcass will do. I used to favor rabbits as bait. Leopards go particularly apeshit for a bunny’s fluffy purities.
If you can get two leopards to tussle each other, the others will either watch in earnest, or, if they themselves are also hungry (which is likely), they will join the fight with gusto. The lot of them will rip the carcass limb from limb, scratching, clawing, and gnawing each other all the while. When the free meal is gone, spent and exhausted, they will count their numbers, and before long it will dawn on them: Wait a tic … has anyone seen Leopold?
By the time they realize he’s no longer among them, hapless Leopold the leopard will be roasting on my spit.
Wild dogs and wolves are the most sinister among this middle-range class of animal that I classify as fast food. Feral canines are impressive creatures, howling at the moon and whatnot. I’ve often tried the bare-naked moon yelp myself and, to be fair, it does a dose of good to the soul.
In the taking of any undomesticated animal’s life, you have to be merciless. This is what I was getting at earlier. In many ways, a great hunter must become stoic, emotionless; nothing can faze him. Not even those great big puppy dog eyes. You know what? I’m not in the mood. Let’s skip that one.
You know the old joke: How does a man take down a monarch elephant? It’s certainly a humor I never understood. The punch line is: Very carefully.
Well, no shit! A monarch elephant weighs several tons! You’re not going to approach something that large without careful planning.
I crafted a mighty bow out of bamboo. I skinned the barks off trees and made shafts. I carved more shale into arrowheads and fashioned fletching from various birds’ wings. I practiced my burgeoning archery skills daily with the goal of taking aim at nature’s biggest game.
After weeks of tedious bow time, I had my skill down to a perfect science and shifted my focus to speed. You can’t best the monarch elephant with one arrow alone. You need many. They are slow runners, yes, but that doesn’t change the fact that they can trample you to death. As soon as your first arrow pierces his coarse skin, you can be damned sure he is going to immediately turn his massive body your way, stare you down, and charge. At that point, you’re going to be looking down the barrel of a crushing death and your only escape will be to let loose as many arrows as possible.
Voom! Voomvoomvoomvoomvoomvoomvoomvoom!
Nine arrows off with no hesitation and the bastard kept coming. From my crouched position behind some shrubbery, I had been aiming at the fleshiest part of his neck. All nine had gone in. I was a hell of a shot. But the mighty lepidopteran pachyderm was unfazed and enraged. He punished the earth with his heavy hooves. For the first time in my education as a great white hunter, I had failed by a massive degree. Mere arrows were not going to take this creature down.
I bolted. I don’t like to admit it, but I did. (If I’d stayed my ground, I would not be here today to tell you the story.) I looked back to discover the elephant was, unbelievably, still following. And not only that, but he was gaining on me.
There was a stone-covered embankment within reach. I dashed up it with the beast at my heels. I turned to see him try and climb, but he fell backward with each heavy step. His incredible weight was too much for the unyielding incline. I was safe. I recovered as my prey (turned predator) below me panted and panted. The difference between us was that I alone could catch my breath. With the thrill of the chase now over, he seemed to resign himself to his coming demise. The arrows were having their impact.
Looking down, I pitied him. This emotion could not be allowed — never allowed. I pushed it aside. From my carry-on holster strapped to my back, I retrieved another arrow. I fastened the weapon to my well-strung bow and took aim. This would surely end him. I pulled back with such incredible force that the sinews in my forearm throbbed. The sun beat down and I tried to ignore the sweat building on my brow.
Focus, Marcus. Focus.
The monster’s eyes were heavy. He was slipping away. This final arrow would alleviate his suffering. I could picture it penetrating his great skull from close range and exploding out the other side. It would be a quick death. Or rather, it would have been a quick death, had it not been for the lions.
There were two of them driving hard toward us. The epitome of stealth, they seemed to have materialized from some unknown universe where sound has no sound. They moved in slow motion and regular time all at once. Their mad sprint was regal. Their golden beards danced in the light. They sniffed the air. They owned it.
Entranced, I let loose the tension on my bow. It fell to the rock under my feet. I hardly noticed.
The monarch elephant moaned. He could not know his fate was coming as the lions approached noiselessly from behind. Surely, he was aware he was dying. He now lay at the foot of the rocks with blood oozing out of his nine fresh piercings. Nine wounds — each deeper than the last. Yet he was stubborn about dying and determined to continue staring into my very soul for eternity, or at least until the lions reached him, whichever came first.
I was done admiring their game, their stealth, their hunt. What I first misdiagnosed as respect for the lions’ cunning prowess was now pure and untainted hate. I would kill these princes of hell and I would do it not for the dying elephant before me, but for the sake of the endangered Shakasantie I’d left behind.
I thought I moved forward, slid down the rocks a little. But I did not.
I thought I unsheathed Shumbuto’s blade. I thought I held it in my hand. I thought I heard myself scream a warrior cry and leap down to meet them. But I did not and I did not and I did not.
What I did do was freeze in place and watch as those two wildcats pounced. They dug in with their teeth and their claws. The sound of leathery rawhide being ripped to shreds filled my ears. The monarch elephant let out a final cry and expired as the first vulture circled over our heads. I noted, in my sad, sorry state of immobility, how these two lions did not even glance my way. Not at first. As they mauled the wounded animal, they were either oblivious to my presence or considered me such a non-threat that they didn’t deign to acknowledge me. I imagine they were right to ignore me. I am embarrassed to say that I was as worthless and unimportant in that moment as a wingless fly on shit.
When the horror show ended, when the lions had their fill, they stayed and rested their big, furry heads. Once I perceived them to be napping, I made my move to go. As soon as I stood from my crouched position, the alpha lion perked up and shot me a soundless snarl. His blood-soaked jaw formed into what could only be described as a maniac’s grin. He put his head back down, rested it on his brother’s leg, and closed his eyes. That lion knew I was nothing, and he wanted me to know he knew it.
And I did know it. I know it still.
Very well, lion. I will wait till you go deeper.
Night fell and they slept hard. I escaped with my life and my limbs intact.
Ashamed of the things I’d done and not done that day, I walked away. This humbling hunting lesson was over.