The Last Leopard (8 page)

“Even so, it seems wrong that he would tell them something that might tempt them to go out and kill the leopard,” Martine said.

“I agree,” was Ngwenya’s response. “But not all witch doctors do things for the right reasons.”

Riding beside Ben now, Martine scanned the hills for any sign of the treasure seekers, the leopard, or even a leopard spirit. She hadn’t been able to think about the Matobo Hills in quite the same way since discovering that they were riddled with shrines created by the early Mashona tribesmen, who had worshipped Mwali, the High God. Each shrine had its own guardian and they were looked after to this day.

Ngwenya had many stories about ghostly goings-on amid the rocks and hills, which he said were full of spirits. He claimed that Lobengula had regularly visited the Umlimo Cave on Mount Injelele, the Hill of Slippery Sides, to consult a spirit that could “bark like a dog, crow like a cock, or roar like a lion.”

“The pilgrims who visit the shrines often say they hear the voice of Mwali coming from the rocks,” Ngwenya said. “You might even hear it yourself. But don’t worry; the ‘Voices of the Rocks’ also has a scientific explanation. The boulders expand in the sun and shrink at night when it is cool. When they get smaller, they moan or growl like thunder.”

Martine listened hard but could hear nothing except the faint whistle of the wind through the rocks and crags.

Ngwenya explained that each shrine had its own guardian or messenger who was in communication with Mwali or the cave spirit, and that one famous shrine messenger, a seven-year-old girl, had lived underwater at Dzilo shrine for four years “just like crocodiles do.” The spirit had taught her good manners, how to be humble and kind-hearted, and how to teach others to live in harmony with nature.

Martine could think of quite a few pupils at Caracal School who would benefit from the teachings of such a spirit, but she found it hard to credit that an intelligent man like the horse wrangler could actually imagine that a young girl could spend four years underwater like a crocodile.

“But surely you don’t believe that?” she pressed Ngwenya. “Surely you don’t believe in the supernatural?”

He looked at her in surprise. “These things are not supernatural,” he said. “These are our truths and the truths of our ancestors.”

On their sixth day in the Matopos, Ngwenya and Sadie decided that Martine and Ben were familiar enough with the landscape around the retreat to be trusted to go out alone. Gwyn Thomas was concerned but Sadie assured her that as long as they stayed on Black Eagle land and didn’t venture into the national park, they were unlikely to run into anything more deadly than an antelope.

“Provided,” she cautioned them, “that you don’t go near the northern boundary fence. Rex Ratcliffe runs a hunting and safari operation on his ranch, the Lazy J, just the other side of it. They’re a trigger-happy lot and I wouldn’t want you getting shot by mistake.”

Martine could tell that her grandmother didn’t appreciate her friend’s humor. It wasn’t until later that it struck her that perhaps Sadie hadn’t been joking.

It was Tempest’s turn to be exercised that day, so Martine rode the gray Arab colt while Ben tried to coax some life into Mambo. It wasn’t an easy task. The pony had a fat stomach and a plump rump, and was both greedy and lazy. His nature was sweet enough, but he did everything in his own time and would not be hurried. Martine was sure that a charging elephant couldn’t persuade Mambo to do anything more energetic than swish his tail.

“He’s the perfect horse for a beginner,” Sadie told poor Ben, as it took the combined efforts of him and Ngwenya to drag the pony away from the feed trough.

Once they were on their way, Mambo’s behavior improved, but the fastest he ever went was a trot. On this particular afternoon, that suited Martine and Ben fine, because Ben wanted to demonstrate some of the tracking skills he’d learned from Tendai. Sadie had lent them her binoculars and she asked them to report back if they saw any unusual birds or wildlife.

“Tendai says that anyone can learn the basic principles of tracking,” Ben told Martine as they rode across a plain about an hour away from the lodge. “But the best trackers understand that it isn’t just about reading ‘sign,’ which is things like broken twigs or whatever, but about trying to think like the animal or person you’re following. It’s a mind game. See this . . .” He leaned down and pointed at some torn leaves lying in the long grass.

“These are crushed but they haven’t wilted yet, which means that a large animal passed this way within the last hour or so. That’s called ‘sign,’ and it’s obvious to an experienced tracker. The hard part comes if whatever you’re following crosses an area where it leaves little or no trace, like a river or bare rock. That’s when you have to use psychology. Tendai says that people crossing a stretch of water unconsciously walk in the direction they intend to travel, even if they’re trying not to.”

Martine listened in admiration. Until a couple of years ago when his sailor father moved the family to Storm Crossing, Ben had grown up in one of Cape Town’s roughest inner-city areas. Dumisani Khumalo had taken his son fishing or out on boats whenever he could, but before Martine had invited Ben to Sawubona, he’d never had an opportunity to be close to wild animals or out in the bush. And yet to see him now, anyone would think that he’d been having wilderness adventures all his life.

Martine supposed that in that way, at least, they were the same—kids from the suburbs, delivered by fate to Sawubona, where they’d fallen totally in love with nature. That’s why they connected. That’s why they understood each other. That’s why Ben was her best friend.

The afternoon sun lit the top of the waving grasses so they shone blond against the blue sky. Ben stood in his stirrups, holding on to Mambo’s shaggy white mane for balance. “Hey, Martine, look over there. The way the shadows fall on the bent grass shows us the path the animal has taken.”

Martine shaded her eyes and saw that he was right. A wiggly line of shadow gave away the creature’s route across the plain as surely as if it had been advertised with neon lights. A little farther on they found a heap of fresh dung. Ben identified it as being from a rhino.

“Rhino?” said Martine, pulling up Tempest. “What’s a rhino doing here? Didn’t Sadie tell us that, snakes aside, there’s nothing scarier than antelope on Black Eagle land?”

“She did,” agreed Ben, giving up his attempt to stop Mambo guzzling grass. “A rhino shouldn’t be here. That probably means it’s either broken through a fence or walked through a fence that’s been cut by poachers. We’d better follow it.”

Martine looked at him uncertainly. “Ben, if we carry on past that
kopje
, we’ll reach the northern boundary fence. Remember what Sadie said about us not going near it in case we’re accidentally shot.” Ever since her argument with Gwyn Thomas about riding Jemmy at night—an argument that had gone unresolved for weeks because it happened hours before Martine left Sawubona for a school trip—she’d been trying very hard to do the right thing.

“Oh.” Ben was crestfallen.

Martine’s resolve weakened. After a moment’s hesitation, she continued, “Mind you, we’d feel really bad if we went back without doing anything and the rhino was shot by mistake. We know we have to be careful if we’re anywhere near the Lazy J, but the rhino doesn’t.”

“I agree,” Ben said, “but how are we going to keep it away from the boundary fence? Rhinos are incredibly lethal. We can’t just herd it away as though we’re rounding up a cow.”

Martine gathered up Tempest’s reins. “Let’s stop when we reach the other side of the
kopje
, check out the situation with binoculars, and decide what to do next. My grandmother will kill me if I end up getting shot.”

They both laughed at that. After a brief battle with Mambo, who was so determined to eat his fill of grass that Martine had to reattach his lead rope and tie it to the back of Tempest’s saddle, they continued on their way.

As soon as they rounded the
kopje
, they spotted the rhino. It was grazing under a tree. Luckily the wind direction was in their favor and rhinos have poor eyesight, so it didn’t notice them. It did, however, notice the sharp crack that suddenly split the air. Its horn jerked up and its piggy eyes swiveled as it tried to assess the threat. It didn’t hang around for long. With astonishing speed, it tore around the
kopje
and out of view.

The combination of the rifle shot and the rhino’s hasty exit was too much for Tempest, who bolted a few strides before being brought up short by Mambo’s lead rope. He reared in panic. Martine had to use all her giraffe-riding experience to cling on and soothe him. If Ben’s pony hadn’t stayed relatively placid throughout, disaster would have quickly followed.

“What was that?” Martine demanded when she’d finally managed to settle the Arab. “I know it was a gunshot, but who fired it? Were they trying to hit the rhino?”

Ben put the binoculars to his eyes. “I don’t think so,” he said. “It looks like there’s something going on at the Lazy J, but it’s hard to make out what at this distance. There are a lot of people gathered around a sort of paddock enclosed by a high fence. Let’s go a bit closer.”

They rode until they were practically touching the boundary fence that divided Black Eagle from the Lazy J. Martine felt guilty about going against Sadie’s wishes, but she was as determined as Ben not to leave until they knew what had happened at the hunting lodge.

Ben lifted the glasses again. “There’s a man entering the enclosure on his own. He’s wearing a hat and a khaki safari suit, and he has a really big stomach. It’s huge. He looks pregnant. He’s holding something in his hand, but I can’t see what it is. Either a stick or a gun.”

“Let me look,” said Martine, reaching for the binoculars.

Ben held them out of range. “Hold on a second. A small gate is opening in the wall and . . . Oh, wow. A male lion has come out. Martine, he’s so beautiful. He has the most amazing dark mane and he’s a tawny color with big muscles.”

“Ben, please!” Martine begged, but before she could say anything else another shot rang out.

Ben’s body went rigid. The color fled from his face and an expression of absolute horror came over it.

“What is it, Ben?” cried Martine. “What have you seen? Has something happened to the lion?”

“It’s nothing,” he mumbled. “Martine, let’s get away from here. The Lazy J is a wicked place.” He looked as if he was about to cry. “Come on, Mambo, let’s go.”

Martine took advantage of his struggles with the pony to snatch the binoculars, which he’d hooked around the pommel of his saddle.

“No, Martine, don’t!” yelled Ben.

But Martine had already wheeled Tempest and was lifting the glasses to her eyes. The lion lay dead on the ground. The hunter had one foot on its chest and one hand on his rifle, and he was smiling and posing for photographs. The lion’s blood was leaking out onto his boot, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Tears started to pour down Martine’s face. She put down the glasses, buried her head in Tempest’s mane, and sobbed uncontrollably. She wept for the proud lion, cut down without a chance so that a fat man could have a lion-skin rug in his home and a bloody photograph on his wall. She wept for the white giraffe whom she missed and who was safe at Sawubona when he too could so easily have lost his life to hunters. She wept for all the other animals whose fate it was to die alone and unloved at the hands of cruel, selfish human beings.

And gradually she became aware that Ben—the bravest boy she knew—was crying for exactly the same reasons.

That evening the sun, slipping below the ragged green hills, was the color of blood, and as they rode home through the lengthening black shadows the rocks moaned just as Ngwenya had described, only it was not the voice of Mwali that Martine heard, but the cries of all the animals who would go helplessly to their graves at the Lazy J unless she and Ben did something to prevent it.

“
C
anned hunting,” Sadie said heavily. “That’s what it’s called.”

 

They’d confronted her soon after returning to Black Eagle, their faces dusty and streaked with tears. She and Martine’s grandmother had come rushing to meet them at the stables, ready to scold them for returning so late, but Sadie had taken one look at them and dispatched Gwyn Thomas, protesting loudly, to deal with dinner. Ngwenya wouldn’t hear of them feeding or rubbing down their horses. They’d ended up sitting outside the stables with Sadie, who’d listened without saying anything to their passionate account of the horror they’d witnessed at the Lazy J.

Now they were gathered around the kitchen table in the flickering candlelight. It was spring in Southern Africa and the temperature still dropped steeply at night, so there was a crackling fire burning in the grate. Under any other circumstances, Martine thought, the scene would have been magical.