The Last Leopard

Table of Contents

 

 

 

DIAL BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS
A division of Penguin Young Readers Group
Published by The Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014, U.S.A.

 

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This book is published in partnership with Walden Media, LLC. Walden Media and the
Walden Media skipping stone logo are trademarks and registered trademarks of Walden
Media, LLC, 294 Washington Street, Boston, Massachusetts 02108.

 

First published in the United States by Dial Books for Young Readers
Published in Great Britain by Orion Children’s Books

Copyright © 2008 by Lauren St. John

 

All rights reserved

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility
for author or third-party websites or their content.

 

 

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
St. John, Lauren, date.
The last leopard / Lauren St. John.
p. cm.
Sequel to: Dolphin song.
Summary: A third prophecy, this time involving a leopard, comes true for eleven-year-old
Martine, an orphaned South African girl who has mystical healing powers over animals,
when she travels with her grandmother and best friend Ben to Zimbabwe.

eISBN : 978-1-101-01489-9

[1. Wildlife conservation—Fiction. 2. Human-animal relationships—Fiction.
3. Animals—Africa, Southern—Fiction. 4. Leopard—Fiction.
5. Prophecies—Fiction. 6. Orphans—Fiction.
7. Zimbabwe—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.S77435Las 2009 [Fic]—dc22 2008010003

 

D
awn was casting spun-gold threads across a rosy sky over Sawubona Game Reserve as Martine Allen took a last look around to ensure there weren’t any witnesses. She leaned forward like a jockey on the track, wound her fingers through a tangle of silver mane, and cried, “Go, Jemmy, go!”

The white giraffe sprang forward so suddenly that Martine was almost unseated, but she recovered quickly and, wrapping her arms around his neck, adjusted to the familiar rhythm of Jemmy’s rocking-horse stride. They swept past the dam and a herd of bubble-blowing hippos, past a flock of startled egrets lifting from the trees like white glitter, and out onto the open savannah plain. An early-morning African chorus of doves, crickets, and go-away birds provided a soundtrack.

For a long time Martine had only ever ridden Jemmy at night and in secret, but when her grandmother found out about their nocturnal adventures she’d promptly banned them, on the grounds that the game reserve’s deadliest animals were all in search of dinner after dark and there was nothing they’d like more than to feast on a giraffe-riding eleven-year-old. For a while Martine had defied her, but after several close calls and one terrible argument with her grandmother, she had come to accept that Gwyn Thomas was right. When lions were on the hunt, the game reserve was best avoided.

Another of Gwyn Thomas’s rules was that Martine ride sedately at all times. “No faster than a trot, and, in fact, I’d rather you stuck to a walk,” she’d counseled sternly.

Martine had paid almost no attention. The way she saw it, Jemmy was a wild animal and it was only fair that he should have the freedom to do what came naturally. And if that meant tearing across the savannah at a giraffe’s top speed of twenty-two miles per hour, well, there wasn’t a lot she could do about it. It wasn’t as if she had reins to stop him. Besides, what was the point of riding a giraffe if the most he was permitted to do was plod along like some arthritic pony from the local stables?

Jemmy clearly agreed. They flew across the grassy plain with the spring breeze singing in Martine’s ears. “Faster, Jemmy!” she yelled. “Run for your life.” And she laughed out loud at the heart-pounding thrill of it.

A streak of gray cut across her vision, accompanied by a furious, nasal squeal: “
Mmwheeeh!
”

Jemmy swerved. In the instant before her body parted company with the white giraffe’s, Martine caught a glimpse of a warthog charging from its burrow, yellow tusks thrust forward. Had her arms not been wrapped so tightly around the giraffe’s neck, she would have crashed ten feet to the ground. As it was, she just sort of swung under his chest like a human necklace. There she dangled while Jemmy pranced skittishly and the warthog, intent on defending her young, let out enraged squeals from below. Five baby warthogs milled around in bewilderment, spindly tails pointing heavenward.

The pain in Martine’s arms was nearly unbearable, but she dared not let go. She adored warthogs—warts, rough skin, pig ears, and all—but their Hollywood movie-star eyelashes didn’t fool her. In a blink of those lashes, their tusks could reduce her limbs to bloody ribbons.

“Jemmy,” she said through gritted teeth, “walk on. Good boy.”

Confused, the white giraffe started to lower his neck as he backed away from the warthog.

“No, Jemmy!” shrieked Martine as the warthog nipped at the toe of one of her boots. “Walk! Walk on!”

Jemmy snatched his head up to evade the warthog’s sharp tusks, and Martine was able to use the momentum to hook her legs around his neck. From there, she was able to haul herself onto his back and urge him into a sprint. Soon the warthog family was a gray blur in the distance, although the mother’s grunts of triumph took longer to fade.

Martine rode the rest of the way home at a gentle walk, a rueful smile on her lips. That would teach her to show off—even if it was only to an audience of hippos. At the game reserve gate, Jemmy dipped his head and Martine slid down his silvery neck as though she were shooting down a waterslide. That too wasn’t the safest way of dismounting, but it was fun. She gave the white giraffe a parting hug, and strolled through the mango trees to the thatched house.

In the kitchen, brown sugar-dusted tomatoes were turning to caramel in the frying pan. Martine’s nose wrinkled appreciatively. She was starving. Her grandmother served up boiled eggs and toast for breakfast six days a week, with the occasional bowl of cornflakes as light relief. But on Sundays and special days like this she made up for it by cooking delicious brunches or roasts or allowing Martine to go for a campfire breakfast on the escarpment with Tendai, the Zulu game warden.

Martine took off her boots on the back
stoep
and stepped inside barefoot. “Morning, Grandmother,” she said.

“Hello, Martine,” Gwyn Thomas said, closing the oven and standing upright. She wore a red-striped apron over a denim shirt. “Wash your hands and come take a seat. Did you have a nice ride? Did Jemmy behave himself today?”

“Jemmy was an angel,” Martine responded loyally, thinking: When does he ever
not
behave himself? It wasn’t his fault if the warthog had woken up on the wrong side of her burrow.

There was a polite knock at the door.

“Ah, Ben,” said Gwyn Thomas with a smile, “good timing. Breakfast is almost ready. Come and join us.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said a clear young voice.

Martine turned to see a half-Zulu, half-Indian boy entering the kitchen a little shyly. He wore an army-green vest, heavy brown boots, and ragged jeans. Though very slim— some might even say thin—he was sinewy and strong, with glossy black hair and skin the color of burnt honey.

He rinsed his hands at the sink and sat down at the table. “Have a bit of trouble with a warthog this morning, Martine?” he teased. “You and Jemmy left skid marks all over the bush. The ground was so torn up it looked like the starting grid of the East Africa Safari car rally.”

“What happened?” demanded Gwyn Thomas. “Were you going too fast, Martine? You know very well that you’re expressly forbidden to gallop Jemmy. I won’t have you breaking your neck on my watch. Ben, did the tracks show that she was going very fast?”

Martine glanced quickly at Ben. She knew that he knew she’d be in big trouble if she was caught racing the white giraffe, but she was also aware that he never lied about anything. Nor would she expect him to. She braced herself for a scolding and a temporary ban on riding Jemmy. Just her luck. And on the first day of the school vacation too.

“I think . . .” Ben shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

Her grandmother put her hands on her hips. “You think what? Out with it, Ben.”

“ . . . I think the toast is burning,” Ben said brightly.

Gwyn Thomas jumped up and seized the smoking grill pan, blowing on it to put out the flames licking at the four bits of charcoal that had once been bread. Just then the oven timer started beeping to indicate that the mushrooms were done, and Martine noticed the tomatoes were starting to smoke. By the time they’d managed to rescue their charred breakfast, make more toast and hastily scramble a few eggs to go with it, her grandmother appeared to have forgotten about Martine’s dangerous riding.

Ben distracted her further by relaying a warthog story Tendai had told him that morning, about an apprentice hunter he’d met during his game ranger studies. One afternoon the young hunter decided to entertain the other apprentices and demonstrate his bravery by tormenting a warthog in a game enclosure just for the fun of seeing her riled. He planned to hop over the fence if she came after him.