The Last Leopard (3 page)

Grace sank down onto the bench beside her. Usually she wore traditional dress, but today she was in a vivid pink skirt and top with a purple headscarf and matching purple shoes, an outfit made all the more eye-catching because Grace was a woman who’d indulged in many of her own pancakes. She looked at Martine expectantly.

Martine explained about her grandmother’s Zimbabwe trip, ending with a heartfelt, “Grace, I wanted to ask you a favor. Is there any chance I might be able to stay with you for a month?”

Grace was silent for so long that butterflies started to flutter around Martine’s stomach. Surely Grace wasn’t going to reject her? Finally the
sangoma
said, “You can stay wit’ me any time, chile, but not
this
time.”

Martine was taken aback and a little hurt, but having come up with the perfect plan, she was not about to give up on it. “I know four weeks is a long time, but I’ll be as good as gold,” she promised. “You’ll hardly notice I’m there. I don’t even need a bed. I can sleep on your sofa or your grass mat.”

But Grace’s next words stopped her in her tracks. “And what about the message from the forefathers. Ya goin’ ta ignore that?”

“What message?” Martine began, and then it came back to her. In June she had been walking along a beach with her grandmother, Ben, and his mum and dad, when she’d seen a leopard drawn in the sand. The image was so crisp and detailed, with even the whiskers and spots meticulously drawn, that it could only have been there a matter of minutes. And yet apart from a couple of fishermen unloading their catch in the distance and her friends, who’d gone on ahead, the beach was empty. She’d called Ben to come and see it, but in the split second her back was turned a wave washed the sand smooth.

Martine could still remember the chill that had come over her when she realized the drawing had vanished, almost as if it had been meant for her eyes only.

The same chill went through her now. “How could you possibly know about the leopard? I was the only person who saw it.”

“You must go to Zimbabwe,” Grace continued as if Martine hadn’t spoken. “What will be is already written. It is your destiny.”

Martine tried to decide whether the knowledge that none of the morning’s events had been random—not the phone call, Sadie’s accident, Grace’s sudden appearance, not even, in all probability, the incident with the warthog—that it was all connected in some way, was comforting or infinitely creepy.

A gust of wind blew and two feathers floated out of the owl’s cage. They twisted in the breeze and came to rest beside the bench, one lying across the other in the shape of the letter X. Oddly enough, they were not spotted and tawny like the owl himself, but jet-black and gleaming. Almost, Martine thought later, like the feathers of an eagle.

At the sight of the feathers Grace became extremely agitated. She seized Martine’s arm. “That boy,” she said urgently. “The quiet boy, the Buddhist.”

Martine was startled. “Ben?”

“Yes, yes, that one. You know now he is part of your story. You are bound together. When you journey to Zimbabwe, arl the time you must stay together. Any time you be separated, danger will follow you.”

Martine was used to finding Grace’s predictions and warnings difficult to fathom, but this request struck her as both unreasonable and unrealistic. “It’s impossible for us always to be in the same place,” she told Grace. “Ben likes to spend lots of time on his own, and he’s always going off tracking. And anyway, his parents might not even allow him to come to Zimbabwe.”

But Grace was adamant. “You
must
stay together,” she insisted. “You must.”

Martine leaned back against the bench and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, Grace was putting the feathers into the leather pouch she wore around her neck.

“What does all this mean, Grace? Will I ever be able to have a normal life? I mean, I’m glad I have my gift, even if I don’t exactly know what it’s for, and I want to be able to heal as many animals as I can, but it would be nice if I could have just one school vacation where I could relax and read books and ride Jemmy and do the things that other kids do.”

Grace put a warm arm around her shoulders. “How many kids have you seen ridin’ white giraffes? Hmm? We don’t always get to choose the paths of our lives, chile, and the path that be chosen for you is not an easy one. Trust in your gift. Your gift will keep you safe.”

The caracals began to fight over their food then, and Martine had to open their run and separate them. It only took a minute, but Grace was already a splash of pink in the dusty distance, swishing away down the track without so much as a good-bye. As Martine watched, she lifted her hand and waved without turning her head.

Martine sat down on the bench again and stared unseeingly at the sanctuary animals: the caracals with their fur-tipped ears, the owl, Shaka the little elephant, and his new companion, a zebra foal who’d been rejected by his mother and was being bottle-fed by Tendai. She was thinking about the leopard in the sand. It had seemed an extra-large leopard. It had been crouched, as if it was on the verge of pouncing. She could still remember its claws and the way its lips curled back over its teeth in a snarl.

The caracals started pacing around their run again, alerting her to footsteps. She looked up, expecting to see Grace returning, but it was Ben. A huge grin lit up his face.

“I’ve spoken to my mum and dad,” he said. “I’m coming with you. I’m coming to Zimbabwe.”

So softly that only the caracal kittens heard her, Martine replied, “So am I.”

M
artine put down the book that she’d been attempting to read for the past hundred miles and hauled herself wearily into a sitting position. She was cramped, tired, and slightly carsick, and her eardrums throbbed with the endless noisy hum of the Land Rover. They had already been on the road for a day and a half and they’d shortly be arriving at Rainbow Ridge, where they were staying the night. Martine couldn’t wait. Traveling was fun when there were fields of wildflowers or quaint historic towns to admire, but when there was nothing in view except a long, tapering ribbon of black asphalt, it was the most boring experience on earth.

“Is it far now? How long until we get there?” she kept asking Gwyn Thomas on the first day, until her grandmother threatened to play really loud opera music if she brought up the subject again.

They’d spent the first night at an ostrich farm midway between Cape Town and Johannesburg. Most ostrich farms bred the birds for their pocked, leathery skin, popular for belts and handbags, and also for their meat, but this one was a sanctuary for mistreated ostriches or those rescued from the slaughterhouse.

At dusk, Martine and Ben had sat on the rails of a corral and watched the birds strut around their paddock in clouds of sunset-tinted dust, their wrinkly necks gliding up and down like periscopes. The farmer told Martine that the great birds could be quite bad-tempered at times, and wouldn’t hesitate to use their powerful toes to kick anything or anybody they disliked. They had an air of being very pleased with themselves, as if they thought everyone else at the farm was beneath them. They didn’t seem at all grateful to have been rescued.

Martine’s ears popped, and she became aware that the Land Rover was climbing sharply. The mountains that had been a mauve outline for so long were all around them. Forested slopes gave way to sheer cliffs and crags and, just beneath them, a knife-edge ridge. Curlicues of smoke rose from it.

As they drew nearer they saw that the smoke was actually mist caused by spray, and that a perfect rainbow arched over it.

“Rainbow Ridge!” said Ben, hanging out of the window with excitement. “You can’t see it from here, but beyond it is one of the highest waterfalls in Southern Africa. That’s where we’re going this afternoon, Martine. That’s what we’re going to climb.”

In the front seat of the Land Rover, Martine, who wasn’t a fan of heights or strenuous activity—not unless it involved giraffes—gave an involuntary shudder.

The campsite they were staying in was situated in a secluded valley well off the beaten track, so they were surprised to find a buzzing throng of people around the reception desk. A photographer was snapping away and autograph hunters were circling. Gradually the crowd cleared to reveal two bearded young men in climbing gear. They had the healthy suntanned skin of outdoorsmen. A whispered inquiry revealed that they were Red West and Jeff Grant, famous Canadian mountaineers, who were on a tour of South Africa.

After a lengthy delay, the climbers moved off and their fans dispersed. A flustered receptionist checked Gwyn Thomas and the two children in and gave them keys to the log cabin where they’d be spending the night. She seemed quite overwhelmed by her celebrity guests. “They’re such gentlemen,” she said dreamily, “and so handsome.”

Gwyn Thomas had difficulty getting her attention again. When she did, the receptionist had bad news. The campsite guides were all booked and there were no more tours to Rainbow Ridge until the following day.

“But it’s an easy walk and very well signposted,” she said. “As long as they’re sensible, they’ll be fine on their own.”

“I might be old-fashioned, but I really wouldn’t feel comfortable allowing them to do a three-hour hike through forests and mountains with which I’m not in the least familiar,” was Gwyn Thomas’s tart response. “Unfortunately I’ve been driving for hours and don’t have the energy to accompany them. Martine and Ben, I’m so sorry. Once again, I’m going to have to disappoint you.”

Martine was about to protest, not for her own sake but for Ben’s, when the receptionist became all starry-eyed again.

“Excuse me, ma’am.”

They turned to see the taller of the two mountaineers. He introduced himself as Red.

“Forgive me for butting in,” he said to Gwyn Thomas in a Canadian accent, “but I couldn’t help overhearing your dilemma and I wonder if my climbing partner Jeff and I might be able to offer our services. If Vicky here would be kind enough to vouch for us, we’d be glad to accompany these young people to Rainbow Ridge. We’re on our way to the summit of the mountain range above it, so it’s on our way. We won’t be able to walk back with them, but we’ll be able to show them the route.”

Vicky blushed furiously and was not able to give a coherent response, but a journalist who’d interviewed the climbers earlier assured Gwyn Thomas that Red and Jeff were men of impeccable character. He and the campsite manager persuaded her that Martine and Ben would be in safe hands.

Soon Martine and Ben were hiking through a pine forest with two of the world’s most accomplished mountaineers, listening openmouthed as Red and Jeff told stories about their epic climbs of the highest summits on seven continents.

“Which was the hardest?” asked Ben.

“Denali in Alaska,” Red replied without hesitation. “There is something about hanging off an ice cliff in a minus-forty-degree wind that is uniquely terrifying.”

The track to Rainbow Ridge was, as the receptionist had promised, a straightforward and well-signposted one, but after an hour of trying to keep up with the long strides of the mountaineers, Martine’s leg muscles were screaming. She was thankful when they passed a picnic spot and Jeff declared himself starving.

“And I could do with a cup of coffee,” Red agreed. Martine suspected that they were only stopping for her and Ben, but she was not about to complain.

While Jeff fired up his miniature gas stove, Red dug out a kettle, coffee, and sandwiches. Martine sat on a log, glad of a chance to rest and take in the scenery. Ben waited politely but they were within sight of the ridge and Martine noticed that he couldn’t take his eyes off it. His eagerness made her smile. Ben always came alive in nature.

“You can go on ahead if you like,” she told him. “I’ll catch up with you.”

“Would that be all right?” Ben asked Red and Jeff.

“No problem,” said Red. “We’re almost there anyway. Watch yourself, now.”

“Sure?” Ben bounced to his feet. “Great, I’ll see you in a few minutes.” He jogged off up the steep track.

The climbers were impressed.

“He’s very fit, your friend,” commented Red. He switched off the gas stove and poured the coffee. Jeff munched on a sandwich and rummaged through his backpack. He wanted to show Martine a photograph of his children.

Ben grew smaller and smaller. He reached the top of the ridge and stood outlined against the rainbow and the hazy gray sky, mist roiling up all around him. As Martine watched, he leaned over the smoking void as if he was trying to see into the very heart of it.

Ben was the least annoying boy Martine knew, but she suddenly felt very irritated with him. What was he thinking, doing something so risky? His mum and dad would have a fit if they saw him teetering so precariously on the brink of a waterfall. Her heart began to thud in her chest.

“Sugar?” queried Red.