How could she explain that she’d looked into his blazing yellow eyes and seen beyond the hatred to the weary sadness of a creature hunted almost every day of his existence? How could she explain that without even knowing him, she loved him?
“I’m fine,” she replied. “I slipped on a rock, that’s all. I did hear the roar and I was a bit scared, but I knew you were close by. I knew you’d come running if I needed you, and you did.”
11
They rode back through the honeyed light of the breaking morning, munching on rusks. All three of them were lost in thought. Martine was thinking about Khan, and if and when she’d ever see him again. She was determined to do everything in her power to protect him from Rex Ratcliffe’s evil hunters.
Ben was thinking about Cassidy, who never seemed to go where she was meant to go, and he was thinking about Martine. He was positive she’d seen the leopard, and not only seen him, but been clawed by him. But far from being upset that she hadn’t admitted it, her silence on the subject made him admire her even more.
Ben couldn’t stand vain or boastful people. He knew perfectly well that, with the exception of Martine, there was not one kid in Caracal School who could have survived an encounter with the largest wild leopard ever recorded and not gloated about it forever and wanted to see themselves on the evening news.
Martine was the opposite of them. She’d done what she thought was best for Khan. He watched her guide Sirocco skillfully over a narrow stream and up the bank on the other side and grinned to himself. He couldn’t have wished for a better best friend.
Ngwenya, meanwhile, was feeling like a failure. Ever since Khan’s release into the wild at Black Eagle he’d vowed to do whatever was necessary to keep the leopard out of the hands of hunters and poachers, but it had taken two children who were not even from the Matopos to spur him into action and point out the most obvious thing: How can you save the leopard if you don’t even know where he is?
Ngwenya had helped Colonel Scott set Khan free, and it had been clear to him even then that this was no ordinary leopard. Khan’s paws had been the size of baseball mitts. Ngwenya was desperately disappointed to have been so close to the leopard again and yet miss him. Like Ben, he was certain that Martine had seen the leopard. It seemed to have scratched her. It was puzzling that she’d not breathed a word about it and was now riding her horse quite contentedly, as if being clawed by leopards was an everyday event for her.
There was no doubt that she was a most unusual child. She looked perfectly ordinary with her cropped brown hair, green eyes, and skinny limbs, but he’d noticed that Magnus and the horses had formed very strong attachments to her. Then there was this business of her riding a giraffe. Clearly there was much more to her than met the eye.
It was almost eight a.m. when the trio rounded Elephant Rock, riding three abreast. The first thing they saw was a blue and white striped car in the retreat driveway, visible through the gum trees. Ngwenya suddenly yanked at Martine’s and Ben’s bridles, pulling up their horses with a start.
“The police,” he whispered. He put a finger to his lips and dismounted rapidly, indicating that they should do the same.
“The police?” cried Martine, forgetting to keep her voice down. “Then what are we waiting for?” She sprang off her horse. “I’m going to run and see what’s going on. My grandmother or Sadie might have had an accident. There could have been a robbery. Anything could have happened.”
“No!” Ngwenya snatched her back roughly. “In this country, the police can be more dangerous than the criminals. Maybe they are on a routine patrol or maybe they have been called by Gogo and your grandmother, but we must approach with caution.”
They led the horses back the way they came and tied them up beneath an overhang screened by trees. Then they crept around the back of the stables and through the gum trees until they were within spitting distance of the police car. A low stone wall provided them with cover. Nothing happened for a few minutes and then Sadie and Gwyn Thomas emerged from the house with two policemen. Martine gasped. Her grandmother was in handcuffs and Sadie was arguing with a young constable who was gripping her arm as she swung along on crutches.
“I’m not going to deny I told Mr. Rat that I’d shoot him and his hunters if they set foot on my land . . .” she was saying.
“Mr. Ratcliffe,” corrected the constable. “His name is Mr. Ratcliffe.”
Sadie frowned. “Whatever. I’d tell him the same thing again. But that’s a very different thing from actually doing it—shooting him, that is. Mr. Rat is still alive, isn’t he?”
“Sadie,” interjected Gwyn Thomas, “I think the less said, the better, don’t you? Let’s cooperate with these nice policemen and go down to the station, and I’m sure we’ll have it all sorted out in no time.”
“Why do you want to kill Mr. Rat—er, Mr. Ratcliffe?” demanded the other policeman. “Are you jealous that his business is doing well and Black Eagle Lodge is in some difficulty?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” snapped Sadie. “How can I be jealous of a man whose business is murdering animals? And besides, if Black Eagle is in difficulty it’s because Mr. Rat has driven away all my customers. It’s him you should be arresting, not me, and certainly not my friend who has done absolutely nothing.”
“Sadie,” cried Gwyn Thomas, “not another word! Do you want them to lock us up and throw away the key? Officer, can you read us our rights?”
The young constable looked surprised at being asked to do his job. Behind the wall, Ngwenya and the children were struggling to take in this bizarre turn of events. “You have the right to remain silent,” the constable parroted dutifully. “Anything you say can and will be held against you—”
“Wait,” said the other policeman. “Where is the man who usually works with you? Ngwenya, is it? Also, Mr. Ratcliffe mentioned some children.”
Fear flitted across Gwyn Thomas’s face.
“How did he . . . ?” Sadie began. “Never mind. Yes, you are quite correct, Mrs. Thomas’s granddaughter and a boy, Ben, were here, but you know how children are these days—in constant need of entertainment. They were bored in the bush with nothing to do. They missed television or video games or something. I had Ngwenya take them to Bulawayo to stay with some friends of mine for three or four days. He had some business in the city. He was going to spend time there and bring them back toward the end of the week.”
“Kids, they are very expensive,” agreed the young constable. “All the time my son is wanting new shoes, new clothes, new CDs, new books for school. And he is always eating. I tell him—”
“Shut up, Shepherd,” said the surly policeman. “You talk too much. Let’s take these women down to the station.”
The officers were marching their unlikely prisoners to the car when Magnus flew down from the trees and landed on the wall. He hopped along the chestnut bricks until he was close to Martine, then cocked his head and opened his beak as if he was about to start chatting to her.
From her crouching position, Martine tried to wave him away before he drew attention to them. Ngwenya even prodded him with a stick. But the hornbill just hopped out of range.
“What is that funny bird doing?” inquired the policeman, locking Gwyn Thomas in the back of the car and striding in their direction.
Through a hole in the wall, Martine saw it dawn on Sadie why Magnus was behaving so oddly. “I wouldn’t go too near if I were you,” she cautioned the policeman. “You’ve heard about the deadly bird flu that kills human beings within twenty-four hours? Well, it’s been proven that hornbills are particularly likely to get it. That hornbill has been sneezing for days.”
Magnus chose that very second to swoop off the wall and make a lunge for the keys that dangled, gleaming, from the policeman’s belt.
The policeman screamed like a girl. “Get away, sick bird,” he squawked, flapping his arms. “Get away!” He dived into the car and turned on the ignition.
Sadie took advantage of the dist
raction to say loudly, “I’m really glad that the children aren’t here, because if they were they’d be worried about us and there’s really no reason to be. This is a ridiculous misunderstanding. We’ll be back by lunchtime, I’m sure. But whatever happens, it’s nice to know that they’ll be safe with Ngwenya. He’ll take care of them.”
“Why are you shouting when I am right here?” snapped the constable. He bundled her into the backseat, tossing her crutches in after her. “Get a move on. You are making us late.”
The police car departed in a crunch of gravel. The engine faded and the blanketing silence descended once more.
Martine felt ill. Usually it was her grandmother who worried about her. Now it was the other way around.
“What do we do now?” Ben said.
Ngwenya’s face was grim. “We make a plan.”
12
“Don’t you bring trouble to our door.” The speaker was Ngwenya’s uncle’s wife, Mercy. She stood with her arms folded like a bodyguard, glowering at the horse wrangler. A baby was strapped to her back with a towel. Her husband, a wiry man a third of her size with the mournful expression of a bloodhound, trembled slightly at her side. His eyes never left the ground, although from time to time he stooped to pet two mongrels.
Mercy jerked her chin toward Martine and Ben, whom she hadn’t even greeted. “My baby is not well. She has been crying all day. We have many problems and now you ask us to hide the children of a grandmother wanted by the police. Ha! You are very irresponsible, Ngwenya.”
Martine thought it might be the wrong moment to inform her that a) Gwyn Thomas was not wanted by the police but had been wrongfully arrested, and b) she and Ben were not related.
Mercy shook her head in disgust. “You are very irresponsible, Ngwenya,” she said again. “Do you think we want trouble coming to our house? Do you think we need the police at our door?”
Ngwenya threw an anguished glance at Martine and Ben. “Mercy, please,” he begged. “These are two innocent children. Gogo and Martine’s grandmother are also innocent. They need our help. I cannot keep them in my own village because it is too near to the retreat. You would not want somebody to turn away baby Emelia if she is ever in need of sanctuary when she is older. It is not their fault this has happened. It is the fault of Mr. Ratcliffe.”
Mercy said sharply, “Mr. Ratcliffe? What has Mr. Ratcliffe been doing now?”
“He is the reason that Black Eagle Lodge is going out of business,” Ngwenya told her. “He is the reason that Gogo has had to lay off most of her staff. I have not spoken of this to anyone because I promised her I would not, but he has made her life hell by starting rumors about thieving employees and dirty rooms. He has poisoned our cattle and threatened Gogo. We can’t prove it, but we know he is behind these things. It is blackmail.”
Mercy was briefly dumbstruck. “But why? What reason would he have to make his neighbor suffer like this?”
“He wants the leopard. Gogo would not allow him to buy Khan so that he or his hunters could kill him, and he is not a man who understands the word no. She warned him she would shoot him if he came on our land, and he sent the police to arrest her. They have taken Martine’s grandmother for no reason.”
Mercy addressed Martine and Ben for the first time. “This man Rat cost my husband his job,” she said. “Odilo, my husband, was a proud man, but Mr. Ratcliffe has friends in the government and together they shut down the mine where Odilo worked because it was close to the edge of Mr. Ratcliffe’s land. Now Odilo has a lot of sadness and life is not easy for us. There is little money. But an enemy of Mr. Ratcliffe is a friend to us. You will stay here, of course. Please, sit down for a cup of tea.”
Martine was worried sick about her grandmother, but she found the experience of being in an African village fascinating. The huts had thatched roofs like inverted ice-cream cones, and their clay walls were prettily decorated. They were insulated with cow dung to keep them cool during the day and warm at night. Inside, mattresses with woven quilts were placed on platforms of bricks, raised to keep the sleeper safe from the dwarf spirit Tokoloshe, who, Mercy told them, kidnapped his victims and took them down to his watery den. Everything had the faint smell of wood smoke.
Chickens pecked around the outdoor cooking area, where two women were pounding maize into the powdered meal used to make sadza porridge. The village was set on the edge of a large, flat plain, across which could be seen the low gray buildings of a school, closed since the previous Friday for vacation. Behind Martine and Ben’s temporary home, a red-brown hut with zigzag patterns, was a circle of low kopjes, shaggy with shrubs and trees. The hills formed a natural paddock with only one exit. Mambo, Sirocco, and Red Mist were in there grazing with the cattle and sheep. Ngwenya was planning to return to Black Eagle for the night so that he could keep an eye on the retreat and take care of the other horses.
Apart from the rhythmic thud of the women crushing maize, the village was quiet, so quiet that any approaching police car would be heard for miles.
“Don’t be frightened for Sadie and Mrs. Thomas,” Ngwenya counseled Ben and Martine. “They’ve done nothing wrong and will be home very soon. Not even Mr. Ratcliffe can make the police lock away innocent people for more than one or two days. They are just going to question them and release them—maybe even by this afternoon.”
The thing that bothered Martine was what would happen if her grandmother and Sadie didn’t return to Black Eagle in a matter of days. She and Ben could hardly ride their horses through the streets of Bulawayo, like characters out of a cowboy film, and demand that the women were freed. An unfamiliar feeling of powerlessness had come over her as Gwyn Thomas was driven away.
Ever since she’d returned from the island, she and her grandmother had grown closer and closer. For the first six months after her parents died, a little part of Martine had kept expecting to wake up and find that the fire had been a hideous nightmare and they weren’t really dead after all. She’d kept thinking that at any second her mum would walk through the door, or her dad would grab her around the waist and tickle her until she cried with laughter. But at a certain point, a little over a month ago, she’d realized that it was never going to happen. She was never going to see her parents again. It was then that her grandmother, Jemmy, and Ben had become the center of her world. She depended on them utterly. And now two of those loved ones were far away and she didn’t know when, or if, they’d all be reunited.
She glanced over at Ben. Unusually for him, he was wearing a slight frown and seemed worried. That made Martine feel even worse, because she felt like it was her fault he’d been dragged into this. She knew that he too must be anxious about how long it would be before he saw his own parents again, and when he’d be able to get to a working telephone to let them know he was okay. And yet outwardly, he was obviously determined to be strong for her sake.
As if he’d read her thoughts, Ben said, “There’s no point in dwelling on what we can’t do. Let’s figure out what we can do.”
“I don’t know what that is,” Martine burst out. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“Why don’t we start with the Lazy J?” Ben suggested.
13
That evening, the aroma of chicken sizzling over the coals and the nutty smell of bubbling sadza filled the air. Mouths watering, Martine and Ben warmed themselves beside the fire as the villagers buzzed around them, cooking, chopping, preparing. Martine could imagine that on most nights a relaxed, sociable atmosphere of community and friendship would prevail in the village, but tonight there was tension in the faces of the men, women, and even children. Mercy’s baby had a fever and was now desperately ill. Odilo had sent for the witch doctor.
When the baby finally fell asleep, Mercy joined them for the meal, although Martine noticed that she barely touched her food.
“How is Emelia?” inquired Ngwenya.
Mercy’s expression told him all he needed to know. “I would feel much better if I knew we didn’t have to depe
nd on the witch doctor,” she said. “He is the best we have, but he has a weakness for . . .”
She trailed off in mid-sentence. “Let us hope that he has had a good day.”
Martine and Ben followed the lead of Ngwenya, who, like everyone else, ate with his hands, rolling the sadza into snowy balls that he used to scoop up chicken pieces and a spicy relish of spinach and tomato. He and Odilo were interested in Sawubona and asked lots of questions. Odilo wanted to know if the game reserve had what rangers called the Big Five: lion, leopard, rhino, elephant, and buffalo.
“It does,” Martine said proudly. “We don’t have any cheetahs, though. We do have three leopards—a mother and two cubs. They were given to Sawubona by a wildlife park that went out of business. I’ve seen the cubs but never the mother. She’s very elusive.”
“Here in the Matopos, we have the Small Five,” Ngwenya told her with a grin.
“The Small Five?”
He counted them off on his fingers. “The leopard tortoise, the rhino beetle, the ant lion, the elephant shrew, and the buffalo weaver!”
Everyone laughed and for a moment the gloom over the village was lifted.
Before Ngwenya could continue, the dogs bounded up barking. Martine glanced nervously at Ben.
“Who’s there?” Odilo called out.
Out of the night strode a tall young man dressed very smartly in a shirt, tie, and trilby. He had a handsome face, blighted by a perpetual sneer, and smelled quite strongly of cologne.
Martine stared at him in shock. It was Ngwenya’s cousin.
The cousin who wanted the leopard dead.
“Good evening, good evening,” he said pleasantly, though it was obvious that no one in the circle was pleased to see him. “I am in time for supper? That is great news. Thank you, Mercy. It’s very nice of you to make it for me.”
He unfolded a plastic sheet from his pocket, sat cross-legged on it, and took off his hat. “Pass me a bowl, Ngwenya.”
The Last Leopard Page 8