Heart of Africa (12 page)

“They seemed much friendlier to me at the time. And then what happened?” I urged.

“I skirted the hijackers and scrambled down the embankment to the river, right into a small bramble of acacia bushes. A thorn penetrated my boot and even though it was bloody agony, I continued. I crossed the river downstream from you. I was so certain I’d happen upon you, but after a few minutes it became evident that if I didn’t stop and remove the thorn I’d be in serious medical trouble. It was a nasty one.”

“So that’s why you’re limping.” I stated.

“I’ve washed it out a few times and can only hope it isn’t infected. By the time I was able to move on, I couldn’t find you. It seemed like you’d disappeared off the face of the planet.”

“I hid in a tree.”

He laughed. “Go figure. I should have realized you’d do just that, since you harbored such a fascination with ‘leopard’ trees.”

“And, I made a fire.”

He stared at me in admiration. “You did? That’s wonderful.”

“It was not my best ‘Girl Scout’ moment. It took five tries. I thought… I hoped… maybe someone would glimpse it.”

He knew what I meant. “I didn’t. When darkness fell I had to find some shelter. I dug myself into an overhang similar to this and waited out the night.”

“No fire?”

“Ach, shame… no matches.” He flashed a dirty lop-sided grin. “I did have a meal, though.” Peter touched the hunter’s knife he always wore on his belt. “The aqama was mighty tasty, even if I did eat it raw.” At my horrified expression he added, “Builds character, eating it uncooked. I swore I heard you early the next morning.”

I shook my head. “Perhaps…?”

“I’m positive I caught a glimpse of your pullover near the road. I heard a crashing through the bush and I headed in the direction of the sound. Something charged through the bush and left the road. I was certain you’d stick to the road.”

The memory of that morning flooded back. “The snake,” I gasped.

“Snake?” Peter’s face turned serious.

“There was this huge snake with a black mouth that looked like it had a smile on its face… and… and it chased me for ages.”

His brow furrowed. “A snake that smiled? Interior of mouth black?”

I nodded. “Yes, it was this enormous gray serpent that reared up in the road. It must have been twice the length of me, and I swear it pursued me.”

Peter said wryly. “It appears you encountered Mama Mamba.”

“Mama Mamba?”

“The black mamba. The children at grade school called her Mama Mamba. Her mouth perpetually fixed in a smile, she’s one of the deadliest snakes in Africa. No wonder you fled. She chases her victims and one drop of her neurotoxic venom can kill a grown man in less than sixty minutes. It shuts down the muscles, including the lungs, causing one to suffocate. You were fortunate indeed.”

I gulped painfully. If I’d known how dangerous the snake really was at the time, it probably would have been a heart attack, not the serpent that killed me.

“We were so close!” I moaned. “Then what happened?”

“I kept marching on, my foot killing me. I doubled back to the dirt track, hoping that by a miracle you’d stumble upon it again. I didn’t like the fact we were in Mozambique.”

“Why?”

“I know it doesn’t seem like it, but the infrastructure in Kruger is far superior to Mozambique. Finding assistance is easier on the South African side of the river. Also, well—people from Mozambique are not fond of white Zimbabweans. Even if they realized I wasn’t a poacher, they might just kill me on principle, since many sympathize with Mugabe.”

“Why?” I asked, confused.

“Zimbabwe used to be called Rhodesia, and both it and Mozambique were formally ruled by the minority whites. Mugabe used the fact that most whites oppressed the native Shona in Zimbabwe as an excuse to seize power. The farms were grabbed and many died, including my uncle who was shot on his plot. The irony is that Mugabe hurt the Shona more than the whites. Lots of black Zimbabweans cross Kruger into South Africa in hopes of finding work. Their economy has failed under Mugabe. He should have followed the model of South Africa, where the races worked together for a common good.”

“Because of Mandela?”

“Yes, Madiba. The grand unifier. He’s the reason I came to South Africa in the first place. Both Botswana and South Africa succeeded at putting aside their ethnic hate. So, I chose South Africa to live. Anyway, just as I became positive I’d located your trail, the fire erupted.”

I remembered the horror of the licking flames and my desperate burrowing into the sand like a frantic squirrel. “Your hand. That’s when you hurt your hand.”

“The wind-driven flames cornered me, so I climbed a tree that had already burned at the base. I grabbed a still-smoldering branch and this was the result.”

I gingerly took his damaged right hand; the palm torn and blackened with second- and third-degree burns. “I wish I had some aloe to smooth on this. So how
did
you finally locate me?”

“The ‘copters. I was so chuffed, as I believed they were searching for us. I only recognized it held South African troops on poacher patrol a bit belatedly. Hearing gunfire, I dove for the bushes and prayed you’d hear the helicopter’s motor as well. I reckon the third time’s the charm, because here you are.”

“And here
you
are.” I lowered his sandy head and kissed his lips tenderly. “So now what?”

“We must cross the river and return to South Africa. Once we find a road, we should locate help.” He smiled. “I must say I’m partial to your stick.”

I shook it a little. “It’s my defense against hungry varmints.”

He smiled ruefully. “Well, between your staff and my spear and knife, I reckon we’re quite safe.”

His playful words cheered me. “You’re my good luck charm, Peter,” I stated bravely, rising.

I brushed off the clinging sand, adjusted Peter’s hat over my tangled hair and gripping my staff, followed him to South Africa.

I had escaped death three times with the herd of Cape buffalo, the smiling snake, and the raging fire. Though too incompetent, too out of control, and too uneducated in the ways of the bush to survive, I’d somehow lasted the night and the better part of a day. Now, I felt totally optimistic. Peter appeared to as well, though he limped badly and I sensed his hand pained him.

A bird with a long, slightly-curved bill, its erect crest dabbed in black, alighted on the ground near us as we headed for the river. It possessed a body colored an enchanting cinnamon, and its striped black-and-white wings made the small bird unforgettable. It poked at the sandy soil only a few feet from us. At our disturbing approach, the brightly-colored bird hopped in alarm and cried
hoop, hoop, hoop
, before jumping crazily into a nearby thorn tree.

“Did you see that beautiful bird?”

“I did.” For some strange reason, Peter laughed heartily.

“It’s the
pupupu
or common hoopoe, lass. It’s found everywhere, whether town or bush. Many believe it brings good luck and dreams, with positive omens of the future. You brought that bird with you, didn’t you, Mandy Phillips?”

I smiled. “Of course I did, Mr. Leigh.”

He halted abruptly and grabbed me roughly by the arm. “Now, you listen carefully, lass, and promise me you’ll do exactly as I ask.”

“Anything,” I said.

“Walk directly behind me and only step where I step. If I order you to freeze, you freeze. If I command you to run, you run. You don’t wait for me or argue with me. Do you understand?”

“I promise.”

“That’s my brave girl. Let’s hope the luck of your hoopoe continues on our trek.”

Chapter 13

I thought Peter would take a direct path to the road, but
instead he meandered through the bush, keeping his eyes peeled and remaining cautious on his path. I remembered my own earlier haphazard flight through the bush and observed his progress closely.

He paused after a few minutes and gestured to a heavily-leafed tree. “Do you recognize this tree, my lady?”

“I really don’t have a clue. I’m not very good with plants.” Peter pointed his makeshift spear at the grayish-brown bark.

“This is called the common hook thorn, and it’s the most populous tree in the area.”

I moved forward to examine its twisting trunk. At least eight meters high, it provided lush shade. Interspersed among its drooping foliage, ample thorns in lethal pairs warned browsers to beware. I reached a hand up, glad to pause under its blessed shade.

“Careful,” warned Peter. “You must look before you reach. Within the tree’s branches might be anything from a serpent to a leopard. Some trees even have blistering agents. It’s better to be cautious.”

Peter then touched a small tree whose healthy leaves were shiny and thin with hair-like tips. They drooped slightly upon a long stalk.

“This is a bead bean tree. The pods are eaten by many animals, but unfortunately taste nasty to humans. I don’t know about you lass, but I’m famished. We’ve got to find something to eat.”

It wasn’t more than thirty minutes before I began to flag, my energy nearly spent. My stomach refused to stop growling, unfed after my mid-morning splurge on peanuts and the remaining energy bar.

A large, spreading shrub we passed held countless long flowers resembling faded yellow trumpets and though I wished to inquire about the pale blooms, Peter seemed preoccupied, his eyes continually searching the rough terrain. He paused, his head cocked at an angle, before nodding to himself.

“How are you holding up, milady?”

“Okay,” I said bravely.

“That’s the spirit.”

I trudged in silence after him, trying to take note of my surroundings. Peter halted abruptly and I nearly ran into him.

“There.” He pointed and amazingly, the wide Limpopo River stretched before me.

“It can’t be,” I protested. “The river was directly behind me. I swear it was behind me!”

Peter shrugged his broad shoulders. “Many say the Limpopo is deceitful like a snake, twisting this way and that. And, like the serpent, it will lure you to its treacherous shores. We have to be cautious now; there are crocodiles everywhere.”

I followed Peter down the sandy bank and gingerly stepped over some tortured logs, thrashed about by the unforgiving summer storms.

“Check out that fellow,” he said, pointing to a yellow-tailed crocodile that lay sunning himself. “This one is lazy and no threat, for he’s eaten not long ago and just wants to bask in the sun. Better, though, to give him a wide berth. Come this way, lass; crocs can move more quickly than you can imagine.”

Here the river trickled slowly, so low it lapped below my knees. The coolness felt wonderful after our hurried pace, and I stooped to quickly fill my two-liter bottle after splashing some water upon my hot face and neck. After climbing some bright boulders, we stood upon the other side of the river.

“Welcome back to South Africa,” Peter said.

I’d never felt happier in my life. “I don’t see any crocodiles about. Why don’t you remove your boot and let me take a peek at your foot.”

Peter hesitated and I thought he was going to refuse. He finally nodded and sank down upon a log near the lapping water. Gingerly, he removed first his bloody sock, then shoe. I knelt before him and examined his foot. Black blood had congealed over the wound and the edges appeared raw and red.

“I think it could do with a washing.”

“Righto,” agreed Peter and placing a hand upon my shoulder, limped to the water. He rinsed it as thoroughly as he could in the murky water and then hopped back to the log. I pulled off the sweatshirt tied about my waist and dried his foot.

“I wish I had something to bind it with.”

“Does it appear infected?”

“I don’t think so,” I said truthfully. “But walking on it can’t be beneficial to the healing process.”

“Well, since I don’t have much of a choice, let’s get this show back on the road. Um, perhaps you’ll want to wash your face, Mandy.”

His wry smile took me by surprise.

“Is it that bad?”

“Looks somewhat like military camouflage,” he said lightly as I bent and splashed water on my face.

“Much better,” he declared, and within a couple minutes was back in the lead, reshod and, to my mind, limping less.

“Do you have an idea where the road lies?” I asked.

“It’s to our left, only a couple of kilometers away. We must hurry to reach it before dark.”

It was rough going, but I made sure I never once complained. Peter set a good pace, and I didn’t want to let him down.

Breathless and annoyed by the countless bugs swarming around my face, I didn’t see the road until were finally upon it. The dirt track lay dry and dusty. Not ten feet from where we stood, a huge pile of dung lay gently smoking in the sun. A red-billed hornbill poked around the dung, searching for insects.

“I know this slip road,” Peter said quietly. “It’s closed to tourists, but if we continue up it a couple of kilometers, we should run into the junction that leads to Crooks’ Corner. Once there, we simply turn left and head toward Pafuri. Left would be best because so many cars come that way.”

I grinned happily as we set off briskly, giving the huge pile of fresh dung a wide berth. My heart soared. I could almost see my camp and feel the softness of our bed. But first, first, I would give the park rangers the license plate number I’d scribbled down. It wouldn’t be long now!

The service road curved slightly to the left and we strode quickly, already feeling the coolness signaling that evening was set to arrive. As we rounded the corner I stopped short in terror, stunned by the sight of the huge bull elephant directly in our path.

“Damn,” hissed Peter under his breath and raised his arm, warning me to stand completely still. The pachyderm took an excited step back and raised his trunk, letting out a tremendous trumpet. His huge ears flapped and he elevated his right foot, just like a Spanish bull does before preparing to charge. I stood paralyzed, my heart chugging like a freight train. The elephant trumpeted again and took a heavy step forward.

Peter whispered. “Move back very slowly, Mandy.”

The gigantic herbivore lifted his trunk and smelled the breeze, his ears flapping wildly. Taking one tentative step backward, then another, we slowly distanced ourselves from the irate male. Just when I believed we were safe and had nearly reached the curve of the road, the bull let out a gusty roar and charged down the dusty track.

We turned tail and ran for our lives, plowing through the heavy underbrush, me screaming at the top of my lungs. The elephant crashed after us, bellowing and snorting. I ran faster than I’d ever run before, but the elephant still gained on me. Peter, even with his damaged foot, sprinted a meter ahead. The snort of the elephant’s heavy breath sounded behind me and I realized it would only be a matter of seconds before he’d trample me to death. In desperation, I veered sharply right. Suddenly I was jerked off my feet and thrown to the ground. A ringing noise and choking dust made it hard to focus or hear, but the sensation of being rolled across the brush and shoved inside the roots of a dead tree made some sort of jumbled sense.

A hand covered my mouth and Peter hissed the word “quiet” in my ear.

Our refuge was a termite hill built around the roots of a huge, dying tree that had been kicked in and abandoned at some earlier date. Peter’s heart pounded next to my back and I didn’t need his urging to remain completely still. The elephant snorted roughly and sucking sand into his trunk, propelled it like shotgun pellets into the air. Jumbo then turned his rage upon a nearby thorn tree, using his versatile trunk to grab a branch and rip it off. The selfsame tree then received countless tusk thrusts as the pachyderm vented his spleen on the now shredded and uprooted tree.

I have no clue as to why the bull elephant never located us. I just remember watching in petrified fascination as he scouted the area searching for us, using his trunk like a bat to swipe at the underbrush. The heavy pads of his broad feet sent little puffs of dust into the air and occasionally, he bellowed his ire. After a long while, the rogue male finally moved away. A lifetime later, Peter whispered into my ear.

“It’s lucky Master Elephant has such poor eyesight or he would have discovered us for sure.”

We stayed that way, tightly crouched inside the enveloping roots and red soil of the mound, until the late afternoon again became filled with bird and insect noise. Peter gave me a quick hug before urging me out of our sanctuary. Filthy with dirt and twigs embedded in my hair, I swayed in front of the copper-colored termite hill and tried vainly to remove the sticks and leaves. Peter shook his head grimly. My staff had fallen to the ground near the mound, and his crude spear rocked in the slight breeze where it had been thrown into the root mound of an acacia tree. He spoke quietly and contritely.

“It’s my fault, Mandy. I knew the elephant dung to be fresh, but headed in that direction anyway. I’d hoped vainly he’d already moved off the road, but I should have known better. Only two weeks ago, a man crossing from Mozambique was trampled to death when he got in the middle of a herd near the river. Elephants are dangerous and unpredictable; you never know what they’re going to do. Our friend here was an old rogue male nearing sixty years of age.”

I gulped and gazed at my hands. They were shaking. “I thought elephants travel in herds?”

“Usually they do, but often the old rogues are forced out because of their belligerent behavior. He’s likely on his last set of teeth and doesn’t have much time remaining. Not being able to chew and digest the foliage he needs,
Kambaku
is hungry and irritable.”

“His last set of teeth?” I stammered. I suddenly envisioned the elephant having serrated rows of teeth like a great white shark I’d seen on the
National Geographic
channel.

“Yes. Remember at the elephant museum in Letaba when I mentioned how the elephant has only six rows of teeth in his lifetime? He lives to about sixty and dies after his last set wear out. Basically, he starves to death. It’s nature’s way of culling the herd. Can make an old chap like that highly irritable.”

Peter took my hands and gently rubbed my palms with his thumbs. “We’re going to be okay, Mandy. Someday, this will be quite an adventure to tell our grandchildren.”

I couldn’t disguise the joy in my eyes. The laugh lines around his mouth twitched as he wrenched his spear out of the dirt.

“We must hurry just now if we stand any chance of getting to Crooks’ Corner before sunset.”