The Last Leopard

by Lauren St. John

  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. Martin
e 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.

  9

  “Canned 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.

  Gwyn Thomas said, “What is canned hunting?”

  “It’s when animals that are dangerous, rare, or hard to track, such as lion, leopard, or rhino, are put into small enclosures in order for hunters to safely and easily shoot them,” Sadie explained. “These hunters are usually rich tourists or powerful men like government ministers who want a guaranteed kill with minimum risk. They want to go home with a skin or a horn or a couple of tusks, and tell stories about how they stalked and shot a deadly wild animal.

  “Rex Ratcliffe, who owns the Lazy J, has always claimed that he is running a respectable safari and hunting operation, but Ngwenya and I have suspected for many years that he is up to all sorts of tricks, including canned hunting. What you’ve seen today proves it. I’m sorry you had to witness that. I hope you can put it behind you and enjoy the rest of your stay at Black Eagle.”

  She reached for a serving plate. “Anyone for butternut fritters?”

  Martine couldn’t believe her ears. Sadie had as good as told them that her next-door neighbor was murdering wildlife in cold blood. She couldn’t seriously expect them to continue their vacation without a care.

  As for the fritters, well, Martine liked butternut squash as much as anyone, but after almost a week of eating it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, she was heartily tired of it. She found it peculiar that the groceries they’d brought had gone into the locked pantry and never come out again, but suspected that if times were as hard at Black Eagle as they appeared to be, Sadie was probably saving the interesting food for any visitors who might show up. Not that it mattered this evening. Every time her stomach rumbled Martine remembered the lion and felt sick again.

  “You must eat something,” urged her grandmother. “Have some potatoes or even just a slice of bread and peanut butter.”

  Martine took a few potatoes to keep Gwyn Thomas happy but did little more than move them around her plate. Across the table, Ben was doing the same.

  Sadie seemed determined to ensure there was no more talk of hunting or dead lions. She launched into a dreary rant about the high price of spare parts for cars. Martine started to simmer. She was fed up with Sadie pretending that everything at Black Eagle was completely fine when it obviously wasn’t. The fire was making her very hot, and that didn’t help her mood either.

  Ben seemed to guess what she was about to do and gave a warning shake of his head. When she ignored him, he kicked her under the table. Martine took no notice. She waited until Sadie paused for breath and said, “Why are you being blackmailed?”

  Sadie’s fork paused on the way to her mouth. Her fingers lost coordination and she dropped it with a clatter.

  “Martine!” her grandmother said angrily. “Have you taken complete leave of your senses? What on earth are you talking about? Apologize to Sadie at once.”

  Sadie was staring at Martine. “What did you say?”

  “It is blackmail, isn’t it?” Martine demanded, risking her grandmother’s wrath. “Whose blood money don’t you want? Who are you trying to hold on to? Is it Ngwenya?”

  Gwyn Thomas jumped to her feet. “This is outrageous. I’ve heard more than enough. Martine, go to bed at once and we’ll talk about this in the morning. I’m so sorry, Sadie. I’ve no idea what’s got into her.”

  Sadie stopped her. “Sit down, Gwyn,” she ordered. “You too, Martine. You’ve done nothing wrong. Quite the reverse. Ever since I telephoned you at Sawubona and asked you to come here, I’ve been wracked with guilt. I felt I was deceiving you all by not telling you what you might be letting yourself in for. But I was desperate. When I broke my leg, I had no one else to turn to. No one else I trusted enough to ask, at any rate. Ngwenya has been wonderful, but he has a family to go home to at night. I guess I was afraid.”

  Gwyn Thomas seemed unsure whether to be curious or furious. “But who are you afraid of? Are there bandits around here? Poachers?”

  “No,” responded Sadie. “At least, yes, of course there are, but it’s not them that I’m afraid of. I’m not really afraid of anyone. I’m afraid for someone . . . Well, not someone as such . . .”

  Gwyn Thomas sat back in her chair. “Now I’m really confused.”

  Sadie sighed. “Let’s make some strong coffee,” she said. “I think I need to explain from the beginning.”

  It all started when Sadie’s father, Colonel Scott, agreed to rehabilitate a young leopard into the wild on Black Eagle land o
n behalf of a famous Bulawayo wildlife orphanage, Chipangali. The project was an instant success. The leopard, a male named Khan after the Indian doctor who’d found him as a week-old cub, orphaned by a bushfire, took to the Matobo Hills as if he’d been in the wilderness all his life.

  “You told us that you’d only seen him once,” Martine reminded Sadie. “It must have been more often than that if your father was rehabilitating him.”

  Sadie gave a small smile. “No, I was telling you the truth about that. I saw Khan the day he came to Black Eagle, but the following day I had to leave for South Africa for a hotel management course I was taking. When I returned, Khan had already made his home in the bush and was as elusive as any other leopard.

  “At the time of my father’s death a little over a year ago, our main feeling regarding the leopard was pride, I suppose. Animals belong in the wild, not behind bars like prisoners, and we were proud that we’d been able to give Khan his freedom. Our problems started when I began to get reports of his immense size from the few people who glimpsed him. Male leopards have a territory of up to twenty-three square miles. I’d hear tales of his magnificence from far and wide. Once he was grown, he no longer stayed exclusively on Black Eagle property.

  “Four months ago, I was approached by Rex Ratcliffe. He offered me several thousand dollars in foreign currency if I would sell him Khan for use in one of his ‘safaris.’ I was sure that he really wanted him for canned hunting, but in any case I said that Khan was not mine to sell. He was free and that was the way he was going to stay. I told Ratcliffe that if I ever caught him or any of his hunters near my land, I’d shoot him myself.”