A fire burned in a portable grate that had been set up in the middle of the lawn. Orange flames licked the darkness, sending up bright sparks that danced and whirled in the heat eddies. Tables had been set in a circle around the blaze. Each one held a pool of light, shed by a Tilley lamp placed at its centre. The glass casings were already hot, and the white tablecloths were faintly spattered with the bodies of winged insects that had flown too close. Near the lanterns, green tubes of mosquito repellent had been laid out, along with vases of flowers – blooms of red and gold, smouldering in the muted light.
Mara stood in the shadows at the far end of the verandah, watching the hut boys arranging chairs in clusters. She was wearing the full-length version of her hostess dress. It was loose on her body, and the fabric felt stiff and coarse after the silky softness of Maggie’s evening dress.
She had the red dress with her now, folded up in her arms, ready to be returned to Rudi. The faint smell of marsh-mint rose up to her from streaks of mud that stained the hem. She breathed it in, wanting to be carried back to the dreamlike interlude in which she’d walked beside Luke at the waterhole, as the sun sank towards the horizon, spreading fiery colour across the western sky.
They had strolled along the shore while Leonard called his directions. Mara had moved in a daze, focused only on Luke’s presence beside her. Her whole being was poised, waiting, for the touch of his hand, his shoulder – even the cloth of his shirt …
Mara held the dress closer to her face. Beyond the smell of the mud, she could pick out the fruity scent of champagne. She replayed in her mind the shot in which Luke had opened the bottle of champagne, not watching his hands as he worked, but fixing his gaze on Maggie’s face. She saw, again, how he’d prised the cork from the bottle, the loud pop rousing the birds from the rushes. The cork travelling in a long high arc against the sky before falling with a faint splash into the gold-painted water. White foam erupting, running down over his hand and splashing onto the dress. Their laughter ringing out through the air, bright and careless.
The sound of drumming broke into Mara’s thoughts. Near the fire, she saw one of the hut boys bent over a goatskin drum, pounding his palms against the stretched hide. As she watched the fluid movements, she was aware of figures appearing from the darkness, and taking their places at the tables: Brendan, the two Nicks and Rudi. The men wore their best evening suits and their faces were smooth and freshly shaved. Faceted wine glasses sparkled in their hands, the globes filled with jewel tones of gold, yellow and dark red. Daudi and the ranger joined them, along with a smiling Carlton; they all held tumblers of the pale local beer topped with white froth.
Mara did not need to scan her surroundings in search of Peter – she could feel his absence as clearly as she could hear the throb of the drum. She pictured Peter in his rondavel, abandoning Luke’s shirt and dinner jacket and changing back into his own clothes. She wondered if he’d been tempted – as she had been – to remain in costume. Part of her had wanted so badly to postpone the final separation from Maggie; but another part sensed the hostess dress would offer her a shield of safety. It would remind her of who she was, here in the real world.
But it wasn’t working. In spite of the familiarity of her clothes, Mara didn’t feel like herself. A strange vigour still flowed through her. She felt brave and reckless. But at the same time, raw and vulnerable – as though she’d been reborn into a body that was new and perfect, but which had yet to be tested and found strong.
Mara turned to see Leonard approaching, a glass of champagne in each hand. He still wore his red overalls, with the script tucked behind the bib, though he’d exchanged his muddy desert boots for a pair of slippers. Mara guessed he’d gone straight from the location to the bar: his face was red and his stance unsteady. But like his brother, he was beaming with pleasure.
‘I can’t believe it’s all over. Finished!’ Placing the glasses on a nearby table, Leonard dragged the script from his overalls. Holding it up for her to see, he flipped through the pages. Every scene had been slashed with a big red tick. ‘It’s always a great moment, when the shooting script looks like that!’ he said with a grin. ‘I can’t wait to see today’s rushes. You’re a natural, you know, in front of the camera. I’ve said that all along. But today there was something else …’ His voice petered out as he met Mara’s gaze. Then he nodded slowly, as if acknowledging something that, deep down, he had already understood: that what he’d filmed in the hut was neither professional nor amateur acting. It was not a performance of any kind. It was real.
Mara just looked at him in silence. She felt no need to respond; it would have been as superfluous as agreeing that day was day, and night was night.
Still watching Mara, Leonard reached for one of the glasses and took a long gulp of champagne. Then, as he lowered his glass, a look of uncertainty came over his face, a tentativeness that was at odds with his usual aura of complete belief in himself. It made him look softer, more ordinary. It was possible to imagine him doing his own shopping or holding hands with a small child.
After a long quiet moment, a smile returned to Leonard’s face. ‘Those scenes we shot today were more than good, you know – they’re groundbreaking cinema. Because I couldn’t show who you were, everything about the coverage was unusual. Critics are going to rave about them. Students are going to write essays about them.’ His eyes gleamed with excitement as he held up his glass. ‘Here’s to you and Peter,’ he said. ‘Here’s to us all.’
Mara raised her own glass in response, just as Peter stepped onto the lawn. Her fingers tightened around the stem of the glass. Seeing him there – no longer Luke, but a real person – she felt a sudden rush of doubt. A memory flashed into her head: watching Lillian kissing Peter down by the waterhole, the day of Bina’s visit. The passion had looked so real. Maybe what had happened inside the hut had been more of the same. Perhaps it had meant more to Mara, than it had to Peter.
Peter was surveying the scene, clearly looking for someone. When he found Mara, a smile lit up his whole face. Watching him, Mara felt pleasure flood through her, replacing doubt. She took a slow sip of her champagne. Then, licking the sweetness from her lips, she returned his smile.
As Peter walked towards her, Mara was dimly aware of Leonard excusing himself and wandering away. Her eyes were fixed on Peter. He wore his linen suit, with the tie already loosened at his neck. His hair was brushed back from his face. She sensed a faint nervousness in him; it made him seem young – as if he were, again, the surfer on Bondi beach, barely grown up. As he came close, his eyes travelled over Mara’s body – pausing on the red dress tucked under her arm – and then coming to rest on her face. Before they had time to greet one another, the kitchen boy approached them, bearing a tray that held two steaming enamel bowls.
‘We are serving dinner,’ he said in his singsong voice.
‘Thank you.’ Mara was puzzled as to why food was being carried to the tables in these plain, simple vessels, the kind the village women used, and not in Alice’s porcelain. But concerns about the running of the lodge felt distant to her, and unimportant.
‘Good!’ Peter said. ‘I’m starving.’
As he spoke, Mara watched his lips, tracing with her eyes the perfect bow of his mouth.
‘I suppose we should find somewhere to sit,’ she responded.
The phrases that passed between them seemed like encoded messages, standing in for all the things yet to be said.
Mara led the way towards the table where Leonard and Carlton were sitting. The brothers were gazing uncertainly at the large bowls of food in front of them.
‘There’s no cutlery. And no plates,’ Leonard said as Mara sat down.
She glanced over the three bowls. One was full of ugali – a stiff porridge made of corn meal. Another contained a meat stew; and the third held a dark green sauce, suggesting a potage of wild spinach.
‘It’s Udogo food,’ Mara said, ‘from the local tribe.’ For a moment she felt surprised by Menelik’s choice for the film crew’s last dinner, but then she saw how perfect it was. Now the film was successfully finished, after so much hard work and difficulty, everyone was in a light-hearted mood. And the hour was late, which contributed to a casual atmosphere. It all fitted well with eating food by hand from communal pots. She saw, also, that the circle of tables was wider than would have been needed for the usual number of guests. Over near the fire, she glimpsed the Somali construction workers sitting down with Brendan and Bwana Stimu. Tomba and Daudi were deep in conversation with Jamie, while the ranger looked on. And there were still places left for the boys and Kefa. Serving all the food at once, like this, meant even Menelik would be able to join in. Everyone at the lodge would share this last main meal together.
‘You eat with your fingers,’ Mara explained. ‘Like this.’ Her voice carried more loudly than she’d planned. People at the other tables stood up to watch her demonstration.
Using her right hand she picked up a small mound of the warm white porridge. After forming it into a ball, she pushed her thumb into the centre to make a little bowl. She dipped it into the spinach mboga, then lifted it to her lips. Too late, she remembered a flick of the wrist was needed as the hand left the pot in order to break off the soft stalks. She tried to catch the dangling spinach in her mouth, but instead felt it trailing over her chin. After a moment of embarrassment, she licked it away, and then just shrugged and laughed. Her gesture seemed to strike a chord with the gathering. Within seconds, hands were reaching boldly towards the bowls of ugali and an easy chatter filled the air.
As Mara leaned back in her chair, she met Peter’s gaze. She wondered if he could see how changed she was. Not long ago, she’d have been nervous and awkward about being the centre of attention, and mortified by making a mistake. Now, she felt relaxed and unconcerned.
Hunger stirred inside her, and she reached again for the pot. Peter followed her example, bending his head close to hers. Together, they dug their fingers into the ugali, their hands side by side and almost touching. To Mara, every sensation felt new and unexpected – the ugali so soft and warm, the gravy so smooth, the stew so spicy and rich.
After a while, she noticed that the drumming had stopped. In its place, gramophone music – the lilting beat of A Swingin’ Safari – drifted out to the guests from the sitting room.
Leonard turned towards Mara. ‘This is excellent,’ he said, licking his lips. ‘You’ve really spoiled us here. We’re not going to want to go home!’
Mara’s hand faltered, midway to her mouth. She nodded, but could not speak. All she could think of was the way he’d used the past tense – spoiled, not spoiling – as though the visit of the film company, and Peter’s presence here, had already slipped into history. A dull pain spread inside her, banishing her appetite. She fiddled with the lump of ugali, rolling it between her fingers. Then she tried to distract herself by watching Carlton eat. He frowned with concentration as he scooped up a load of meat and gravy, cramming it into his mouth, and then chewing with bulging cheeks. He seemed to be making up for all the stressful days when he had not been able to enjoy his meals. After disposing of several more mouthfuls, he turned to Mara, a dripping ball of ugali arrested in mid-air.
‘I’ve got a surprise for you,’ he said. ‘Now we’ve got the film in the can, I reckon I can afford to spend a bit of money.’
Mara looked at him in confusion. A few days earlier, he’d paid her the last instalment of the money she was due for accommodation, along with a royalty for the village and also a large bonus he had called her acting fee. She’d had the impression then that he was using up the very last of his resources.
A broad smile came onto Carlton’s face. ‘When I show the rushes around LA, everyone’s going to be calling us. They’ll be opening their wallets, just begging for a piece of the action. That means I can postpone paying a few other bills, and help you out instead.’ He waved towards the construction workers. ‘I’m going to leave these guys here to work for you for a month. They can finish the pool, and build a proper viewing deck out there where those chairs are. That way you’ll be ready for the rush.’
Mara frowned, still puzzled by what he was saying.
‘Raynor Lodge is going to become a world-famous destination,’ Carlton stated. ‘A bit like the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco.’ He raised his eyebrows enquiringly, but Mara shook her head.
‘I’ve never heard of it.’
‘Hitchcock shot bits of Vertigo there,’ Carlton explained. ‘It’s been packed out ever since. The owners must’ve made a fortune.’
‘He’s right.’ Leonard took over from his brother. ‘People love to visit the places where films were made.’ He pointed towards the verandah. ‘When people see Lillian Lane sitting there, sharing a sundowner with Peter Heath, they’ll be flocking to do the same.’
‘And they won’t be hunters, coming here to shoot,’ Carlton broke in. ‘They’ll be sightseers – families, honeymooners.’
He smiled proudly at Mara. She understood he was offering a solution to the problems she’d shared with him over dinner on that first evening. For a moment, she imagined how simple her future could be: all the visitors would depart; John would return from the Selous; the non-hunting safaris would begin. They’d live happily ever after. But even as she tried to form the vision in her mind, she felt remote from it, as if she now existed in a different realm.
‘And of course,’ Leonard continued, ‘we’ll be telling everyone we meet about this place – the food, the service, the setting. Especially the food!’ He turned to Peter. ‘You will, too, won’t you? People always take notice of actors.’ A rueful note entered his voice. ‘They know who they are.’
‘Sure, I’ll spread the word, when I get back,’ Peter said.
There was a hollow tone in his voice. Mara clasped her hands in her lap. If only they could be left alone together, lost in thoughts of what had happened that day, instead of being dragged towards the future.
‘I’ll be sending you some production stills to hang on your photo wall,’ Carlton added. ‘We’ll take some more pictures tonight. We need shots of staff and crew together – and lots with Peter, of course.
‘We could leave behind a few props,’ suggested Leonard. ‘A copy of the script.’ He pointed towards Maggie’s evening dress, a red mound at the far end of the table. ‘Some pieces of wardrobe.’
‘And there’s one more thing,’ Carlton announced, pausing to make sure he had Mara’s attention. ‘You can keep the generator and the two big lights.’ He spread both hands in a flourish, like a conjurer showing off his skills. ‘Raynor Lodge will now have a flood-lit waterhole.’
Mara nodded slowly as she took in his words. It had been John’s dream to find a way to light the waterhole, so that guests could watch the game coming to drink after dark even when there was no moon. But the generator was brand new. And the large lights looked very expensive. ‘You’ve paid me too much already,’ she protested.
‘It’s nothing,’ Carlton insisted, ‘compared with what you’ve done.’ He looked from Mara to Peter. ‘What you’ve both done.’
What you’ve both done.
A sudden quiet at the table left the words hanging in the air like an electric charge. Mara searched Carlton’s face, trying to tell if he understood what had really taken place between her and Peter. If he did, why was he speaking about her future here as if it lay ahead of her, unchanged? Perhaps he was trying to tell her something by focusing on the bright prospects of the lodge …
Mara turned her gaze to Peter. She saw tension in the set of his mouth, and a lost look in his eyes, as if, without direction, he was unsure what he should do, or who he should be. Watching his face, Mara felt the new strength that flowed within her rising up and reaching towards him. Peter had always been such a sure and steady presence, but now, Mara sensed, he needed her to be clear and strong.
‘I was glad to do it,’ she told Carlton, still looking at Peter. ‘It was something I’ll never forget.’
Peter smiled, his features softening. ‘It was the same for me.’
After dinner, the photography session began. Leonard asked each member of the crew to pose in turn, holding the pieces of equipment relevant to their profession: Brendan with a lamp; Jamie with his headphones and recorder; Bwana Boom with his pole; and Nick, holding the big black camera like a baby in his arms.
Time after time, Peter was summoned to take his place in the picture. Showing no hint of impatience, he rested his hands on people’s shoulders as asked, and smiled when he was told to. Watching him, Mara felt a fresh pang of pain. It occurred to her that he probably believed he was doing something for her: for her future at the lodge. She looked at him in despair, as he smiled into the camera. Was there no way to escape thoughts like these? She longed to be alone with Peter – not talking or thinking or making plans, just losing themselves in the softness of the lamplight, and the beauty of the night sky above.
‘Your turn, Mara,’ Leonard called. ‘Come up here with Peter. This time you’re not Maggie, standing with Luke – you’re the Memsahib of Raynor Lodge enjoying the company of movie star Peter Heath.’
He made them stand so close together that their hips and shoulders were touching. Mara felt her whole body reaching towards Peter’s, her flesh and bones and blood still holding the memory of the freedom they had experienced inside the hut.
‘Put your arm over her shoulders,’ Leonard called to Peter. ‘Move your faces close, almost cheek to cheek. I’m doing a tight shot. Now, smile.’
A second later, it was over. Peter’s arm withdrew from her, and their faces moved apart. Then Kefa was brought into the scene and told to stand beside Mara.
‘This will be a good one,’ Leonard commented. ‘We’ve got the two of you in your lodge uniforms, standing right next to Peter.’ The shutter clicked faintly and he rolled on the film. Then he pointed at Mara. ‘Now, you step out. Let’s get the cook.’
In the moment of turning away, Mara breathed in Peter’s smell, drawing it deep into her lungs as if she could hold it captive there. Then she began walking back towards her chair. With each step, she could feel the distance between her body and his growing greater; an image came to her of her soul being dragged out from inside her, and left behind. Somehow, she managed to smile her hostess smile as she passed between her guests. Then suddenly, she could bear it no longer. Weaving a path around the tables, she stumbled away, out of the oasis of light and into the darkness.
The twisted old branch of the fig tree seemed to offer itself as a sturdy barrier that would keep her safe from harm. Mara rested her arms on it and stared into the shadowy distance. The moon was only half-grown, but the sky was clear, allowing a faint light to fall over the land. Her gaze drifted beyond the grey waste of the grassland – broken by the dark circle of the waterhole – towards the rocky outcrop. She traced its outline, thinking, as she always did, how impossible it was to view the shape as a crouching lion once its other name was known. The idea seemed to hold some special meaning for her, tonight. It meant, after all, that reality was not fixed; it could change, according to how one approached it. Perhaps, then – Mara told herself – it wasn’t always possible to tell what was real and what was not. Or what was right and what was wrong. And where lay the line between truth and a lie.
Perhaps it was simply a matter of choice, how you looked at things.
Perhaps whatever you wanted, could be yours …
Mara closed her eyes, breathing in the fragrance of frangipani and the green smell of the woodland trees that pressed in around her, dense and dark. She imagined silent footsteps made by creeping velvet feet. Watching eyes, yellow and unblinking. She knew it was dangerous to be out here without a gun – not even a cattle stick – and torch. But she didn’t care. She felt reckless, as though the new strength inside her made her invincible.
She heard him coming – his footsteps, the snapping twigs, the swish of leaves being brushed aside. She glimpsed the light of a torch beam briefly, before it was snuffed out. Then, he was beside her, a dark shape in the shadows, lit here and there by the glancing touch of the moon.
‘I guessed you’d be here,’ Peter said.
‘I had to get away from everyone,’ Mara said, adding quickly, ‘Not you.’
He smiled, but only briefly.
‘I don’t want to leave tomorrow.’ He spoke as if they’d already been deep in conversation about his departure, and all that was needed was this final remark.
Mara nodded, silent. Out here on this rocky ledge, wrapped in shadows, they seemed cut off from the whole world. It was possible to imagine they could stay here, in a timeless place, hiding from everything that awaited them. The thought danced before her, holding itself up like a vision.
An image came to her then, a memory of a simple wooden hut with a tin roof, set beside a lake. She saw the smoke rising from a cooking fire. A pair of matching kitenges fluttering from a clothesline outside. And a guitar. There had been a guitar, leaning up against one of the doorposts …
As she prepared to speak, her heart began to beat faster. ‘Once John and I were on safari, a long way from here. We came across a German couple in the middle of nowhere. They were sitting together, drinking tea outside a hut. They weren’t missionaries, or zoologists, they were just living there, doing nothing. In the next town, the man who sold us petrol told us they’d gone there just to be alone together. They’d left their old lives behind.’
They ran away together. That was how the man had put it. But Mara didn’t want to use these words – they held a hint of panic, and cowardice. Of things that mattered being left behind.
‘Their clothes were all worn out,’ she pressed on with her story. ‘And they only had two cups. We had to get ours from the Land Rover to join them for tea.’
‘How did they live?’ Peter asked.
‘They ate food from their garden. They had all kinds of things planted. Paw paw. Beans. Sweet potatoes. Peanuts.’ She smiled. ‘I like growing peanuts. I love the way when you dig them up you find all those nutshells clinging to the roots. It feels like a miracle.’
‘I’d like to try growing pineapples,’ Peter said. ‘I’ve heard that if you cut off the leafy part at the top you can just push it into the earth a little way, and it will live.’
‘It’s true,’ Mara said. ‘It’s the same with paw paw. You just cut off a branch and plant it in the ground. Everything wants to grow here, in the rainy season, that is.’
‘I wish we could do that,’ Peter said in a low voice. ‘I wish we could just disappear together.’
Mara could hear the agony in his voice, as he was torn between this world and the one he’d left behind. She thought of the photograph of him with his family. The happy, innocent faces of the children. Peter’s arm resting on his wife’s shoulder. She took a deep breath, her hands tightening on the branch.
‘You know we can’t.’ Her voice was barely more than a whisper. But once the words had left her mouth, she could feel the truth that they held. The solution to a complex puzzle seemed to have been evolving deep inside her, and now it had emerged, clear and definite.
Peter nodded, the pain shifting in his eyes.
Mara took another breath. Now it was John’s face she pictured. Not the distant, angry, defeated man of recent months, but the one who had greeted her with such joy when she’d arrived here. The one who had gently bathed her face when she had malaria; who had patiently taught her so many things about life in Africa. The one who had stood with her outside the cave, asking her to promise she would never leave him. She felt as though the land that had witnessed her reply was watching her now. ‘Even if you were free, I couldn’t be with you.’
‘I know,’ Peter said.
The note of finality in his voice cut Mara’s heart. She felt an impulse to take back all she had said. To insist there was another way. She bit her lip, letting the words of denial pass her by unspoken. For a long moment, she did not trust herself to speak. When she did, her voice sounded light, as if she’d left some large, heavy part of herself behind.
‘If only we’d met in some other time – some other place. When we were younger …’
‘Bondi beach.’ Peter’s tone seemed pitched to match her own. ‘I can see you now, your nose all pink from sunburn, a towel over your shoulders, wearing your new bikini.’
‘I didn’t have a bikini,’ Mara said. ‘I wore one of those swimsuits with a little skirt. Anyway, I never went to Bondi, I lived in Tasmania, remember? But even if I had, you probably wouldn’t have noticed me.’
‘You’re right,’ Peter agreed. ‘I always liked blondes.’ He smiled to show he was joking, his teeth showing white in the dimness.
Mara laughed, reaching to push him playfully away. As her hand met his shoulder, he turned towards her. Then he froze, staring into her eyes. Mara looked back at him, her heart pounding in her chest. She withdrew her hand, holding it at her side. She could feel the magnetic pull of his body. But she refused to be drawn by it. Instead, she clung to the branch – both hands wrapped around it, as if it were her only hope of rescue.
In the tense quiet that followed, the sounds of the night – the rustlings of insects, the call of night birds, the distant scream of monkeys in the depths of the forest – seemed to press in close around them.
‘I won’t write to you.’ Peter’s words broke into the stillness. ‘I’d have to write the kind of letter anyone could read, even if I knew they never would. A friendly letter. I don’t want that. I want to remember us as we were today.’ He looked in the direction of the grass hut. The small dark shape was barely traceable amongst the matching trees and rocks.
‘So do I,’ Mara said. She imagined the memory of their love like a seed, smooth and perfect, hidden deep inside a piece of fruit. Safe and secret.
‘We mustn’t hope for anything more,’ she said. Her voice surprised her with its certainty. She felt some deep wisdom was guiding her, giving her words she only half wanted to say, but which she knew to be true. ‘We could ruin our lives, always wondering, wishing, hoping, waiting. We could come to hate each other for that.’ She turned to face Peter, feeling a sudden urgency, a sense that it was deeply important they understood one another properly; that all was made clear. ‘We have to say, now, that we’ll never see one another again. It’s the only way to keep what we’ve had.’
‘We’ll never see one another again,’ Peter said. His voice cracked. ‘But right now – here – I love you. I can’t help it. I do.’
Mara saw the shine of tears in his eyes. ‘I love you, too. Deep inside, I always will.’
‘I didn’t mean for it to happen,’ Peter said. ‘I should’ve known from the start it would be different, working with you, because you’re not an actress. There wasn’t going to be that barrier.’ He shook his head. ‘But it wasn’t just that. It’s who you are. I’ve never met anyone like you before, Mara. I love everything about you.’
A long quiet followed his words. Mara felt a deep sadness wash over her. When she finally spoke, her voice was thin and frail. ‘I don’t know how I’ll survive without you.’
Peter looked into her eyes. ‘You will. You’re stronger than you think. I’ve seen it in you all along. I can see it now. You are a strong person.’
Mara drank in his words. She wanted to store them up: a source of power she could call upon when needed.
Suddenly, a beam of light appeared over the waterhole. The swathe of black water was transformed into a shining plain, its surface rippling faintly with the night breeze. Lit from the side, the marsh-reeds threw long dark shadows over the mud banks. Everything seemed painted with silver, like a scene from a dream.
From the direction of the lodge came a distant smattering of applause. A moment later, a second beam came on. Two zebras, drinking in the shallows, were caught in the light, their black and white hides showing starkly against the backdrop of silver. They looked around in alarm, before returning to what they’d been doing. On the far shore, a hippo waddled across the mud. Then a gazelle, delicate and timorous, crept through the light towards the glistening mound of a salt rock, its head bobbing rhythmically as it began to lick.
‘They don’t seem afraid,’ Peter whispered.
‘They think it’s moonlight,’ Mara said.
For a long time the two stood there, watching the animals as they strolled in and out of the floodlight like actors playing their parts on a stage. There seemed no shape to the time that was passing; it could have been minutes, it could have been hours. Then, while Mara followed the path of a waterbuck as it walked towards the edge of the light, she noticed something happening in the shadows beyond. Huge chunks of grey, like pieces of the land itself, were on the move. As they came closer to the light, they became more solid, their shapes clearer. Mara’s body tensed with surprise as she picked out swinging trunks, thick round legs, little tails, gleaming tusks. She had never seen so many elephants this close to the lodge. Logic told her that the dry season was nearly at an end, and sources of water were now very scarce. But as she watched the mothers and babies walking deep into the waterhole to drink and play together, and the old bulls standing at the edges, waving their heavy heads as though in amazement at the sight, Mara found it possible to believe that the herd had been sent here, especially. That their presence was a sign of hope.
She turned to Peter, wanting to share the emotions that welled up inside her. As his eyes met hers, warmth flowed between them, deep and strong. In that moment, Mara felt certain all would be well. The seed of love would endure for them – a source of strength that would nourish them both, through all the years to come.