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DAYLIGHT CONSISTENTLY lasted twelve hours along the Equator. Other than the tent’s flickering lantern, everything was dark. Alexandra lifted her watch off the blanket. It read ten past six, with the evening or morning part remaining in question. She removed the cloth cooling her forehead and dipped it into a foldable canvas washbasin beside her cot. While freshening up, she hazily recalled the dead lion, taking photographs, and thereafter nothing more.
De Pauw breached the flap. “Good to see you up and about.”
“Did I get drunk last night?”
“Just too much sun. I’ve got coffee and biscuits at the ready!”
“You are a lifesaver, Jean-Luc.”
He headed off, giving Alexandra time to change out of her sweat-drenched shirt. She sniffed her armpits and cringed. Men could tolerate themselves without bathing for long stretches, but she could not stand it. She reflected on the canvas bathtub folded up in the lorry’s bed and yearned to become one with it. It was a struggle for her just to tie back her hair before tossing on her slouch hat.
Beyond the lake, a first glimmer of daybreak escaped the horizon. Bwanbale, the askari who’d spent the night route stepping the camp’s perimeter, looked ready for bed.
Alexandra claimed a campaign chair to await the sunrise with Jean-Luc. Birds were singing, and a breeze was kicking across the lake. A dragonfly zipped by in chase of a red and black butterfly. De Pauw passed over a mess tray holding a warm biscuit, a mug of strong coffee, and a scoop of local cornmeal called ugali. She thought it all so perfect.
“Did you serve in the war, Jean-Luc?”
“Stationed at Fort de Pontisse on the Meuse,” he replied. “The Schlieffen Plan called for the German Army to seize Liège, hug the coast, and take Paris from the west. We held them up. When the shelling stopped, the fort was destroyed, and I became a prisoner. I can still hear ‘Big Bertha’ ringing my ears.”
His perseverance humbled her. She had barely survived one hit from “Big Ursula.” Alexandra suspected her inquiry had stirred terrible memories. “I hope you’ve found peace here in Africa.”
“Best tonic for a man! Fresh air. Quiet, mostly. Good company from time to time.”
She smiled. “Is Big Jim sleeping in?”
“He’s out on the savannah. Set himself up with a wood blind amidst the trees. He’ll not forgive me until he claims one himself.”
The askaris were emerging from their tents. Alexandra waved good morning to Kizza and finished her tray. “I will miss Kizza on the walk and stalk. Any updates from your tracker?”
“He just left. Kept mumbling over a ‘fourth’ but my Dholuo is awful. We’ll stay in today. Rain is on the way.”
She could not see any clouds but trusted he knew better. “I feel revived. Thank you.”
Alexandra returned to her tent to claim her rifle, camera, and dwindling Vogue magazine. She popped out and De Pauw informed Big Jim was returning. They walked toward the vehicles to check into his success. Yesterday’s kill lay sprawled across the safari wagon. Its head dangled like a macabre hood ornament. It sickened her. Big Jim arrived. His sour look broadcasted failure.
“It’s a new day,” De Pauw shouted out. “How fared the goat?”
“Hyenas took it.” Big Jim called over the askaris who had aided De Pauw with the kill.
Alexandra said, “I appreciate the need to stop these lions but protest this fiendish display.”
“Are you a photographer or philosopher? Take some goddamn pictures!” When angry, Big Jim was petrifying. She climbed atop the hood of the second wagon as the men posed aside the mounted carcass. Big Jim held up the lion’s head by its shabby mane.
Click.
He yelled, “Breakfast. Now!”
Alexandra hopped down, offering him a sneer as he passed. Twenty biscuits and a bucket of ugali were about to meet their maker. Suddenly, her abdominal region let out a tumultuous grumble. It was the worst sound in the world and an instant eyeball dilator.
Kizza escorted her toward a tall Boscia tree that she had claimed as her latrine. Her digestive tract was in rebellion. She tried to reclaim mastery, slowing her pace from long strides to a loose-stool shuffle of brisk choppy steps. It was meant to portray that everything remained fine but never failed to trumpet someone was near shiting themselves.
Alexandra feigned a smile to her escort, who looked on with concern to the deep inhales and exhales of her panic breathing. She had learned while down with dysentery in Java that discipline was key. If she started loosening her clothing prematurely, the battle would be lost. Kizza took a mindful stance a fair distance off while she attended to business. Alexandra sighed relief, knowing she was going to make it, and then the horror... Something had violated her private space.
The massive pile of turd under her tree was the product of a once constipated elephant... or Big Jim. She moaned. Her eyes darted to her backup tree, which stood further from camp. She made a desperate dash for it, tossing off her belt and freeing her shirt as she ran. Upon reaching the trunk, she tossed her rifle, attacked the buttons on her breeches, squatted... Victory!
Her world made sense again. Something hit her in the head.
Alexandra looked up at four colobus monkeys prancing in the branches. Their white faces stood out amidst their black bodies, giving them the appearance of tiny old men sporting chin curtains. They were eating the tree’s globose fruit and spitting out the waste. Another seed hit her. It was not the type of safari advertisement included in picturesque magazine ads sent to better castles and mansions.
She cleaned off and rejoined Kizza.
The sky was clouding over and rain was not far off.
Alexandra asked, “When you’re on the watch tonight, how do you know if whatever is approaching is a threat or not?”
“The glow of eyes in moonlight,” he said. “If eats plant, they are green. If seek meat, red.”
Alexandra heard a spine-chilling roar. Shouts and the discharge of firearms followed. She ripped her camera out of its case and ran in agile strides toward the fracas. As the camp came into view, she could see two tents collapsed and an askari running in terror across the grass. She focused her lens, and to her shock emerged the big cat. Click.
It chased down the askari, leaped, and toppled the man. The soldier gave out one cry as blood splattered everywhere.
The beast dragged him into the high grass.
Reaching for her rifle, Alexandra heard a scream behind her. Her mind cursed I’ve abandoned Kizza!
She had outrun him by a good stretch. A second lion had him by the leg. Terror filled Kizza’s eyes as the beast pulled him away and the yellow sea devoured him. She gave chase. The sound of his cries and a bloody trail kept her on track. Alexandra almost stepped on him once catching up.
He grasped desperate hold of her boot.
Rifle lifted, Alexandra screamed and pulled the trigger.
A backsplash of blood and gun fumes soiled her face as the shot tore off one of the lion’s ears. It released Kizza and postured to leap at her. Alexandra fired right down its red-stained snout. The potent kick of the Holland & Holland tumbled her back.
She crashed onto the ground. Ears ringing, she sat up.
A horrid tranquility set in.
The lion was dead. An oozing crater had replaced much of its face. Kizza looked at her with rapidly blinking eyes. His leg dangled, mauled below the knee. She ripped off her hair tie and used it as a tourniquet to slow the blood gushing from his wounds.
“Good lord!” De Pauw arrived with reinforcements. Two askaris lifted Kizza and carried him off. He asked, “Are you injured?”
“Irreparably, I fear. Just give me a moment.”
She eventually took her eyes off the dead lion and rose to her feet. They headed for camp.
The men were rushing about, prepping one wagon for departure. De Pauw tended to Kizza before loading him aboard. The dead askari lay wrapped in a soiled blanket; his head barely attached to his body. Big Jim appeared from the brush, his rifle resting over a shoulder. He had gone after the first lion, wounding it, but was left empty-handed. Alexandra suspected thus far he looked upon her as a shapely-arsed annoyance and knew his ire would swell once learning she had taken down the second lion.
“Bwanbale is dead, Big Jim.” De Pauw peered up from his crouch. “I’m a hunter, dammit, not a doctor! I’m taking Kizza to Kampala. Good hunting to you!”
Big Jim nodded and walked away without a word.
They loaded Kizza and the dead soldier aboard. The old cook jumped into a front seat, terrified. An askari started the wagon on its race against the storm before the trail became an impassable quagmire. Alexandra waved farewell. It was now just her, Big Jim, one askari, and the enigmatic tracker left to finish the bloody business.
The clouds were growing dark and turbulent.
Distant thunder rumbled.
She knew they’d head out to track the fresh scent of their wounded adversary. She left for her tent to wash off the blood and muck splattered upon her face.
The day was young and more killing remained for the taking.
—‡—
THE RAIN, ONCE IT CAME, fell hard. An entire afternoon tracking the lion had come and passed, with traces of its paw prints undetectable under the downpour. The beast had withdrawn to the highlands, ending the hunt aboard the safari wagon and rendering the need to pursue it on foot. The last askari was held back to guard the camp. Alexandra hunted alone with Big Jim. They were soaked. A reprise of lightning bolts crackled across the sky and the showers mercifully subsided.
“We’ll return to the wagon and camp there. Once night falls, the odds favor the lion.”
Alexandra nodded, and they backtracked down the foliaged hillside. Big Jim had taken time to load the wagon with blankets, kindling, and foodstuffs. Once a campfire was ablaze, he told her to sit and dry off. He set a coffee percolator on a grill and opened two cans of peaches. A dozen biscuits completed the meal.
He seemed drained of all malice.
Alexandra asked, “How long have you been in Africa?”
“Eight years. I landed in Egypt while an Anzac. That was after we abandoned Gallipoli.”
She knew that soldiers from Australia and New Zealand were scandalously sacrificed during the disastrous campaign to seize the Dardanelles from the Turks. It had been British leadership at its worst.
Alexandra said, “I would think surviving the horrors of war would leave one with more reverence for life?”
He shook his head. “By day, we would fortify our bunkers and set wire, hoping not to get plugged by a sniper. At night, cower in our holes praying not to be buried alive by the artillery. It was a relief when orders came to fix bayonets and rush the Turk trenches.” He sipped his coffee and chuckled. “And me, the biggest lug of them all, never hit by a bullet! Africa is a good place to hide from high-minded dictators, so casually ordering me to shuck my mortal coil. It has left me dead inside.”
Alexandra could see Big Jim was struggling to stay awake, and that he was not so much a born lout, but more a victim of the war. She was less interested in lecturing him than in offering him solace. “You might read the works of Doctor Albert Schweitzer. It doesn’t need to be all dark.”
“I congratulate you on saving Kizza and killing that lion. Now stop talking, please.”
All kinds of howls, cries, and calls filled the darkness, but among them, not a single roar. It would be a long night. Not even the wagon would provide safety. Alexandra had heard a tale of a watchman who had fallen asleep in an idle carriage along the Lunatic Line. A lion had wandered in during the height of the day and dragged him off.
Alert, gun at the ready, was the only way to be.
Big Jim looked at her across the flames. “Would you finally like to meet ‘Little Jim?’”
“Is that his name, your tracker? We could use shoring up.”
He gave her a queer look. “His name is Kavidi. I was speaking of us warming up together... You know?” He rubbed two sticks of wood and then tossed them into the fire.
Alexandra said, “Who’ll shoot the lion if you’re on top of me?”
“It would be an awfully pleasant way to go.”
“You must think me a loose woman to ask in such a forward manner, but I’ve very little sexual experience,” she retorted. “The gentleman in Jerusalem needed to save my life... twice! You’re well behind the curve, Mister Gustin, and lest I remind you, I’m handy with a knife. You have been awake for two days and should retire. I’ll see to it the fire stays up and wake you in six hours.”
Big Jim was asleep before she finished.
Alexandra got up to cover him with her blanket. She fed the fire and took up position atop the wagon’s hood.
She did not take kindly to his presumption that she was a harlot. Such innuendos had plagued her college years for one drunken misstep. She had left a speakeasy with two men. They had gloated loud and often over their dual conquest, rendering an insufferable blow to her reputation. As occasionally afflicts reprobates, both were soon found murdered in a most grisly fashion. Alexandra remained grateful the police inquiry had never made its way to her doorstep.
No one knew her, or any of it, in Africa.
The night passed.
They were the longest and most fearful of hours. Roaming green eyes, occasional red eyes, and thoughts of Thomas took turns keeping her alert. Alexandra recalled his letters from the trenches. He had written how he loathed the watch. Terrifying noises filled No-Man’s-Land after dark—occasionally from German sappers crawling forward to cut the wire, raid the trench, and slit some throats.
Despite its strain, she let Big Jim sleep the entire night. Memories of her brother had provided fine company, and she whispered them goodbye once sunlight colored the hills a luminous shade of orange.
Big Jim woke, rubbed his face, and nodded out a good morning.
As Alexandra got out of her crouch on the hood, she spotted it. The lion was not far off; just resting in the grass, panting heavily. Perhaps its wounds had drained it of all fight, or as king of the beasts, it wished to die facing down its executioners.
“Mister Gustin... there!”
He was tall enough to see it from ground level. He raised his rifle and waited. “Take him!”
Alexandra lowered her weapon. “I have killed my last lion in this lifetime. He is yours.”