Jackal's Dance

by Beverley Harper

  ‘Me.’ Fletch held it up. ‘And spare batteries.’

  They were eating oranges. The one thing Eben Kruger promised before they left Johannesburg was that they’d all lose weight. Two weeks into the field trip, this proved to be the case. Food was basic, wholesome and adequate – just. No alcohol, barring three bottles of cheap Cape Brandywyn for Eben’s dops. Bread was baked under a metal bowl covered with hot coals, eaten fresh and warm with no butter. Aside from six pockets of oranges and two each of onions and potatoes, which they’d brought with them – other fresh fruit and vegetables as well as meat were not possible – the team, whether they enjoyed it or not, existed on canned varieties of a tinny flavour and sludgy appearance. Breakfast was tea or coffee, cereal, powdered milk, and oranges to follow. Lunch consisted of roughly made sandwiches using bread from the previous night’s baking, spread with corned beef, jam or Marmite. Dinner, the one hot meal, was whatever revolting mix of tinned food the designated chef decided to throw together, along with rice or noodles and more fresh bread.

  Their diet, combined with hard physical conditions and days spent sweating in whatever scant shade could be found, fulfilled Eben’s promise. All of them had shed a few kilograms.

  Angela looked over at Eben, orange juice dripping from her chin. ‘May I stay in camp today please? I’m not feeling too well. Wrong time of the month.’

  Josie blushed and looked down at her feet. Angela’s frank admission caused her to feel squeamish and she couldn’t understand why the others simply kept eating.

  ‘Sorry.’ Eben’s voice carried little if any sympathy. ‘No-one, I repeat, no-one is exempt. You’ll just have to deal with it.’

  ‘It’s the wrong time for me too, Prof. We could both stay behind.’ Troy winked at Fletch.

  Some laughed. Josie and Angela didn’t. Professor Kruger scowled. ‘It’s no joking matter, my boy. Just thank God you’re not a woman.’ Eben’s lack of humour was outstanding in its magnitude. Troy and Fletch had a long-standing bet that Troy could get him to laugh. Fletch thought his money safe. Last year the professor had barely raised an acknowledging, though slightly pained, smile when one of the group complimented him on his lecturing methods.

  ‘Are we all ready?’ Eben was moving away. ‘Right, team. Let’s go.’

  TWO

  THE RANGERS

  He lay propped on one elbow, looking down at the sleeping woman beside him. In the cold half-light of morning, with make-up clogging pores and fine lines, hair squashed from sleep on one side but standing out on the other, imperfections not revealed in last night’s flickering firelight became obvious. Not a bad looker, but her declared forty-three years was in some doubt. Fifty-plus more like. She was snoring slightly and blue-veined eyelids flickered as she slowly surfaced from deep sleep. Bit different from last night’s wild cat. ‘Stupid,’ he castigated himself. ‘Just plain stupid.’ Indeed, it might have been but he knew he’d offend again.

  Dan Penman was very well aware of the rules. Guests paying for luxury accommodation were supposed to be off limits. What rubbish! A woman alone who booked into Etosha’s showpiece lodge on Logans Island had two possible objectives. To be shown the park’s animals by a ranger, or to seek out the animal in her ranger. Or both, which was often the case.

  All the other lodges in the vast game reserve operated on a self-drive basis. About five years ago the government had identified a need for professionally run game drives and Logans Island Lodge had been built to cater for just that. Tourists could still drive themselves if they wished, providing they had a suitable vehicle. But more often than not, visitors, especially those from beyond Africa, preferred to see the game with a ranger. It was proving both popular and profitable.

  Logans Island, like the four other accommodation areas in Etosha, also provided a secure and well-equipped camp site. Those who used this facility were free to avail themselves of some of the amenities offered by the lodge but, for some reason, the anti-fraternisation rule for rangers didn’t extend to campers. Whoever drew up the regulations clearly felt that while it was okay to lech after tourists in tents, those paying top dollar to stay at the lodge would not take kindly to services of a sexual nature. In Dan’s experience, it was usually the other way around. Campers were usually fresh-faced youngsters in healthy relationships of their own. Sexual success, as a general rule of thumb, came from the bored, wealthy or cynical. In any event, what was a man supposed to do when a client came on to him with alcohol-induced feline ferocity? Ask if she’d mind moving into a tent?

  The woman groaned and stirred. Dan knew she’d wake with a hangover. This lady had put away enough scotch last night to pole-axe an elephant. His early morning phenomenon being what it was, he moved closer and placed a hand between her naked thighs. If the full extent of her hangover cut through sleep, sex would probably be the last thing on her mind. She’d made it plain enough last night, though: ‘When I see something I want, I go for it.’ Two could play that game. She wanted it then, he needed it now.

  She was moving under his hand, legs spread, fingers reaching for him. Dan raised himself, positioned his engorged penis and slowly entered her. She gave a small gasp of pleasure, then lifted to him with growing enthusiasm. She was a moaner, this one, and in full-throated roar within seconds. He covered her mouth with his own, reducing the decibels to huffy squeaks and groans. They came together . . . well, at least Dan assumed she’d climaxed. Hard to tell with women.

  As soon as he decently could, Dan rolled away and sat up, reaching for a cigarette. He felt her nails scratch down his back. ‘You’re good, honey. God! My head.’

  Facing away from her, Dan rolled his eyes. He’d forgotten she was American. In fact, he’d even forgotten her first name. Mrs Delaney. Arrived yesterday, leaving today. A whistlestop trip by a bored, rich American. Been there, seen that. She’d done the rounds. Two private game reserves in South Africa, one in Malawi, another in Botswana and now Etosha. No doubt she’d left a trail of dishevelled and weak-at-the-knees rangers in her wake. Dan had learned to pick them. There was a predatory gleam in their eyes somehow similar to that of the carnivores he showed them. The big five – elephant, lion, leopard, rhinoceros and buffalo – acted like an aphrodisiac.

  Actually, Dan appreciated women like Mrs Delaney. No complications. No strings. No promises to break. Women who approached fornication with the same uncluttered single-mindedness as most men. They were a rare find. He’d recognised the hallmark in Mrs Delaney almost immediately.

  Dan made sure she’d seen enough to impress. A breeding herd of elephant just west of the pan itself, two magnificent black-maned lion over near Okaukuejo, a pride of females sleeping this side of the Halali waterhole, giraffe, zebra, wildebeest, springbok, gemsbok, a black rhinoceros. Finally, closer to camp, a cheetah mother with two cubs – a rare sighting. His client had gone ape-shit over them.

  This one had the hard stare of wealth, position and authority. Dan knew, even before the game drive was over, where the night would end. After dinner, instead of going back to his room, he’d joined the others around the fire outside until, one by one, the tired tourists drifted away and it was down to him and Mrs Delaney. She was quite drunk by then and not about to mince words. ‘Where do you sleep, honey?’

  Dan had risen, held out a hand and, when she took it, led her to his room.

  He glanced back at her now. She had covered both eyes with an arm to shut out the light and Dan was not unsympathetic to how she must be feeling. ‘Breakfast,’ he suggested. ‘You’ll feel better with some food inside.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ she groaned.

  He stifled irritation. She knew the rules. It was time to go. At last, Dan felt the bed move as she rose. Dressed now, Mrs Delaney stood in front of him. ‘If you’re ever in the States.’ She handed him a card, her eyes distant and impersonal. Without another word, she turned and left, the brief though intensely intimate experience a thing of the past.

  Her credentials announced Doris Delaney. Attorney
. The address was Maine. Dan ran a hand through thick, strong, iron-grey hair before tossing the card onto a chest of drawers next to the bed. If he ever got to the States it was unlikely he’d bother looking her up. He rose, wincing slightly at a niggling pain in his lower back. Last week he’d been helping the park veterinarian with a study that involved darting, weighing and checking wildebeest for signs of anthrax. The pulled muscle happened while manhandling a two hundred and fifty kilogram male onto the weighing machine. It had been healing nicely but obviously didn’t appreciate a night’s exercise.

  The shower was lukewarm but that didn’t bother him. Dan had spent his entire adult life in the bush. Running water was a luxury, hot or cold. He stood under the tepid trickle, allowing it to flatten his hair. The soap didn’t lather too well but the shampoo bottle was empty. He paid attention to armpits, crotch and feet. In his mid-fifties, Dan was in good shape, not an ounce of fat on a hard, muscled body. His stubble-shadowed face weather-beaten, evidence of the years spent under a blazing African sun. Faded grey-blue eyes usually twinkled from some inner amusement and, when he smiled accentuating the creases in his face, they lit up with mischief.

  Wandering naked back into the bedroom, Dan sought out a clean park uniform and frowned slightly when he felt the material. He sniffed it. The laundry girl had put it back damp and it smelled faintly of mildew. He put it on anyway, having no option. Two other uniforms were exactly the same.

  Dan’s living quarters consisted of an oblong-shaped room with an ensuite at one end and a narrow porch outside. He had a standard issue queen-sized bed, curtain-covered hanging space, a chest of drawers, shabby armchair, desk and chair and one small round mat on the cement floor. The rangers’ rooms were all furnished with discards from the older rest camps as and when the guest accommodation was refurbished. More than adequate for a man who carried very little baggage. Dan never saw the point of acquiring possessions. He preferred listening to the bush rather than the tapes and CDs favoured by others. There were always a few books scattered around, all read, so there was no real reason to keep any of them. No photographs, no past, no signs of a hobby. If Dan chose to leave his life would fit in one small suitcase. It was the way he preferred it.

  No-one, least of all Dan himself, could have foreseen the man he was to become. He’d grown up in Cape Town, the middle child in a loving and happy family environment, with an older sister and younger brother. Outgoing, well-adjusted and friendly, Dan was popular with other kids and well liked by adults. At sixteen he developed a crush on the girl next door and she returned his affections. Four months into the relationship their petting had turned serious. Dan and Julie lost their virginity to each other. Three short months after that, she was dead. Her bruised and abused body was found in a shallow grave on a beach near the holiday resort of Hermanus, about one hundred and thirty kilometres almost due east of Cape Town. Dan had been the police’s number one suspect. He’d been locked up and interrogated for seven gruelling hours.

  Although it had been proved conclusively that Dan couldn’t possibly be guilty, shit sticks and the stigma stayed with him. He was nearly seventeen, grieving for Julie, trying to hold up his head while all those around looked at him with accusing eyes, unable to cope with the coroner’s findings that the love of his young life had been repeatedly gang-raped, sodomised and had been two months pregnant with his child.

  They were never found. Out there, to this day, two or more men walked free having robbed Dan of his love and his child. He recovered in time from the deep grief but he never got over his rage. Nor did he allow any close personal friendships to develop.

  The Penmans watched, helpless, as their happy, gregarious and socially well-adjusted child started to self-destruct. Dan turned inwards, loudly resenting any attempt from family or friends to reach him. He finished school, a solitary, bitter boy who saw life through the eyes of a cynic. The day after leaving school, Dan packed a single suitcase and, without leaving even a note, left Cape Town.

  He had never returned.

  Fortune bestowed on Dan a small smile that day, although he didn’t know it at the time. From Cape Town he hitched a lift to East London, a thousand kilometres along the coast. The driver, an Englishman in his mid-forties, saw an intense sadness in the quiet boy and managed, by avoiding prodding and personal questions, to learn that the lad had no idea where he was going, or even why. Norman Snelling and his wife had never been blessed with children, which was a pity since both of them would have loved their own. Norman, particularly, had a natural affinity with the young. Troubled teenage offspring of friends often took their problems to him, sensing that here was one adult who actually listened and did not lecture.

  As soon as Dan accepted the lift, Norman’s infallible instincts told him the boy was in trouble. He wondered, though did not ask, what could have gone so wrong in the life of one this young. Sensing that Dan was running away from something more than just discipline or an unhappy home, he knew that the young man would reject anything perceived as sympathy. The groundwork was laid with skilful care.

  ‘I love this country.’

  Dan looked at him.

  ‘I mean, look at it. It’s paradise.’ They were inland from Port Alfred, about two hours out of East London, driving through open rolling country. Norman indicated a dirt road off to the right. ‘Got a farm over there. Just on a thousand morgan. Plan to retire there one day.’ He frowned. ‘If there’s anything left of it by then.’

  Dan remained silent.

  ‘I’ve had three managers on the place. The first was okay but he dropped dead of a heart attack. The second robbed me blind and the one I’ve got now is a lazy, good-for-nothing drunk.’ Norman sighed. ‘I’ve got the transport business operating out of East London. It’ll be ten years at least before I can retire. I’d give anything to find someone reliable so I don’t have to spend half my life running backwards and forwards checking up on things.’ He glanced sideways at Dan. The boy was staring out towards the distant hills. ‘I’m not asking for much. Just a reliable person who’ll take the day-today decisions and do what I ask. Think I can find someone? Can I, hell! I’ve advertised in Farmer’s Weekly but it’s expensive and all I get are deadbeats and drunks.’ He thumped the steering wheel dramatically. ‘I may have to sell the place, though God knows, I don’t want to. It’s called Emoyeni. Know what that means?’

  Dan shook his head.

  ‘It’s Zulu. Means “Place of the Wind”.’

  Norman sensed more than saw the movement as Dan shifted in his seat. Then the boy’s quiet words, ‘If you don’t think I’m too young, sir, I’d be more than happy to give it a go.’

  Dan managed Norman Snelling’s farm for eleven years. He’d been there for six months when a missing person advertisement appeared in the Cape Times. Norman saw it. He recognised the photograph. Instinct told him that he should get to the bottom of whatever troubled his young farm manager. Norman made discreet inquiries and soon learned of the unsolved murder. He had press cuttings posted to East London, taking them, along with the advertisement, out to the farm and laying them down in front of Dan.

  ‘If you ever want to talk about it, son, you know where to come.’

  Dan stared at the newsprint.

  ‘I don’t know you well, son, but I know this much. You didn’t do it. I’ll say no more than that.’

  A sob rose in Dan’s throat.

  ‘Don’t bottle it up, lad. Let it out.’ Norman watched silently as Dan battled to control his emotions. A couple of sniffs, that was it. Norman patted his shoulder. ‘At least write to your parents. They’ll be worried sick.’

  The bowed head nodded.

  ‘Good lad.’

  Norman never mentioned the matter again sensing, if he did, Dan would leave. Nor did he ask if Dan had written home. Unbeknown to Dan, Norman had contacted his parents to let them know their son was safe. Dan had obviously done the same. Over the years snippets came out of conversation which suggested he was in touch with someone
– ‘My sister is getting married’, or ‘I have a brother at Stellenbosch University’.

  After eleven years, when Norman and his wife could eventually move to Emoyeni, Dan was offered a profit-sharing partnership. By then he had become too well set in his solitary ways. His words were simple. ‘Thanks but no thanks. Time to be moving on, Norm. Think I’ll head up to South West for a bit.’

  At thirty he found work as a veterinarian’s assistant, based at Fort Namutoni in Etosha. Over the years he had a variety of jobs but always remained a loner. When Logans Island Lodge was proposed, Dan was one of the park’s most experienced game rangers. He knew so much about the bush he could have written a textbook. Etosha had been home for twenty-six years, Logans Island for three, and, as far as Dan was concerned, he had found the place where he would be happy to die. He’d never married. Relationships meant risk. Even his fellow rangers knew only as much about him as he chose to tell them.

  Dan’s wife was the bush, its animals his children. The resident staff were neighbours and tourists, a cross that had to be borne. If he’d thought about it, Dan would have concluded that he needed nothing else.

  As he walked towards the dining room and breakfast, the only question on Dan Penman’s mind was whether or not Doris Delaney had left yet.

  Being late November, the rains had started. Good falls meant pools forming in what were normally dry areas, the animal population quick to desert its seasonal reliance on permanent water. While this brought relief for them, game sightings became less of a foregone conclusion than during the dry winter months. The weather had turned humid with daily temperatures pushing thirty-five plus. Tourist traffic dropped off dramatically during the summer and only two of the four rest camps remained open. Logans Island Lodge also closed and was already in shut-down mode. Guests arriving today would be the last until March. When they departed, the lodge would become a hive of annual maintenance and new construction activity.