Jackal's Dance

by Beverley Harper

  Hagen knew what he meant. Buster was recording zebra herds and trying to estimate numbers. Overgrazing was a growing problem, so some animals were to be darted and sold off. The important question was how many. For someone else to come in at this point would be a waste of time, since they’d more than likely duplicate work already done. ‘Sandra’s also looking for you.’

  Buster pulled a face. ‘Is she still talking to me? Wouldn’t blame her if she wasn’t.’

  ‘Must be. She asked me to tell you to bring her apron back.’

  Bleary bloodshot eyes raised to meet the German’s. ‘Look, I think I was a bit out of line last night. Sorry.’

  ‘No problem. It’s not as if we’re an item or anything. I’m interested but she’s definitely not.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I said a few things I shouldn’t.’

  Hagen shook his head. ‘That crack about eating her? I wouldn’t worry about it. At least you didn’t say it to her. The night before, I told her I’d like to roll her in honey and lick it off.’

  Buster grinned. Hagen must have been pretty pissed to say something like that. He was usually a shy man. ‘How did that go down?’

  ‘She was pretty direct. Suggested I indulge in a little sex and travel.’

  ‘Huh!’ Some brain cells may have started to work, but not many.

  ‘Fuck off were her exact words.’

  Buster waved Hagen away with a weary hand. ‘A sentiment I completely agree with. Get lost. I’ve got work to do.’

  It was not easy. His body and mind wanted more sleep. The coffee helped. He used both hands to hold his mug steady. He didn’t need this. Seventy kilometres to Logans Island. The heat. Rough country. Walking bloody miles. With assistance from one of the rangers, the job would have been finished the day before yesterday. Buster nearly decided to miss the party. It had been tempting to spend one more night at the hut, complete the job and then take a proper break. There’d be other parties. However, the need for a little relaxation won the day. Now he was wishing he’d stayed up there.

  He had half a day’s work left, if he was lucky. Breeding herds of zebra – a stallion and anything up to six females – tended to socialise, so the sight of hundreds grazing together was common. While this complicated the identification process, it was preferable to record the big numbers than spend a disproportionate amount of time tracking smaller individual groups. Buster worked on the ‘count the males and multiply by seven’ principle, which provided a fairly accurate estimation. The breeding herds made the process easier by obligingly moving from one grazing area to another in formation, the male herding his females ahead of him. The stallions were taller and stockier, making them less difficult to spot. The job wasn’t hard under normal circumstances, simply time consuming. But today? Just sitting here was arduous. ‘Half a day,’ he told himself. ‘Then I’ll come back.’ Buster was reasonably certain he’d located all the major herds. Half a day, and if he found no more he could be pretty certain with his estimation of total numbers.

  With a sigh of resignation, Buster made his way to the shower. Gripping both taps, he turned the cold to full volume, wincing as the shock hit his body. He tried to count to one hundred but failed dismally, giving in and turning on the hot tap before he got to twenty. The scalding water was welcome. He decided not to shave. Trembling hands made the exercise too risky. Dressed in a clean uniform, dark glasses hiding bloodshot eyes, Buster looked halfway human by the time he set off a little before eight o’clock.

  A man who took life as it came, rolled with the punches and accepted challenge as and when the need arose, there were three things Buster actively pursued. His work, a never-ending quest to get laid, and an occasional venture into the land of alcoholic release. Etosha provided the perfect venue for each, although Buster was currently, and rather sourly, reflecting that if he’d got lucky last night he would have been too pissed to remember it. Mind drifting, he glanced down at the speedometer and eased off on the accelerator. The speed limit throughout the park was sixty kilometres an hour. If anyone reported him for speeding he would be in trouble.

  Born Arvin Louw, his nickname had come to him at school. The young Arvin had a slight lisp. During an English lesson the teacher selected children at random to read aloud. When it came to his turn, he found himself reading a passage about a young boy called Buster. Arvin read it as Busther. Enchanted by the speech impediment, made more pronounced by four missing milk teeth, his teacher said he was just like Buster in the book. The name stuck. Of average height, a pug nose, a sprinkling of freckles, mid-brown thick straight hair, wide smile and twinkling brown eyes, the young Arvin had no idea what a Buster looked like but was pleased with the name. His friends quickly picked up on it, and before long nobody used his given name. Only his mother called him Arvin these days.

  Ten minutes into the drive Buster slammed on the brakes, cursing. He’d forgotten his notes. Without them, he was stuffed. Detailed descriptions of stallion sizes, their stripes, and how many mares were in each breeding herd. Buster could barely remember his own name this morning, let alone whether or not he’d seen a particular animal before. Equus burchellii might look the same to the uninitiated but each and every animal had its own unique markings. Feeling more hard done by than he had for some time, he turned the vehicle back towards Okaukuejo. Might as well have breakfast too. Greasy fried eggs and bacon usually gave the alcohol something other than his nerves to work on.

  Such was the extent of Buster’s hangover that he hadn’t noticed the remains of a lion kill a few metres off the road near the rest camp’s gate. The vultures brought it to his attention on the way back. A Burchell’s zebra, or what was left of it, was being picked over. There were at least a dozen white-backed carnivores struggling and fighting, squealing and hissing among themselves for a share of the meal. Several lappet-faced of the species, feared by the others, enjoyed a bit more elbow room. Hooded vultures hopped hopefully around the carcass, quick to dart in and clean up anything dropped by the bigger birds. The gore-covered beaks and blood-smeared feathers didn’t do much for Buster’s condition.

  As he drove towards the dining room, he saw Sandra entering the building. Memory of the look on her face at his words, ‘ . . . then would you mind lying down while I have one?’ came slinking back. Buster cringed at his crassness. Last night he’d thought the joke was funny. One mega-apology coming up. ‘Jesus! You’re a smooth-talking bastard when you want to be.’

  There was no way to avoid her so he didn’t even try. When she saw him approaching, what could only be described as an evil grin spread across her face. Buster’s heart sank. It was going to be a long day.

  Megan decided it was rest time. She’d been walking for several hours, the heat of the day was nearly unbearable in the heavy jacket, her head ached and the injured arm throbbed. The further south she travelled, the more her confidence grew. Despite discomfort, walking was not difficult. The road remained fairly flat, running less than a hundred metres back from the pan. Brown stubby grass and stunted shrubs, with occasional small stands of mopane, meant that Megan had good all-round visibility. She could still see Logans Island but the lodge itself was no longer visible. With the pan on her left, its edge stretching in a lazy fifty-kilometre arc southwards and disappearing to infinity towards the east, Megan was sure she would see any elephants way before they saw her. Besides, there was little to attract them from the denser forest further to the west.

  Ahead stood a lone and unusually large thorn tree. Megan paused. It could be an ideal shady haven for lion. The grass was longer under it. She approached with extreme caution, eyes focused on the dappled shade for any sign of movement. Nothing, though the flattened grass was a sure indication that something had lain there recently. No droppings. The sandy road revealed no pug marks. Relieved, Megan gratefully sank down. She needed to get out of the jacket.

  It took a while. First she had to extricate her right arm from the sling. The injury ached a protest. Struggling, one-handed, she finally sli
d the jacket off. The relief was immediate as contact with air evaporated moist beads of perspiration. Megan hugged her bad arm. The ache was deep and raw.

  When the pain finally subsided to bearable, she removed an apple, some biscuits and a plastic bottle of water from various jacket pockets. It was too early for more antibiotics but she took two painkillers.

  With the rifle lying across her legs, Megan munched on the apple. Senses alert for danger, the wide empty land in every direction again emphasised her aloneness. The silence was so deep she could hear it. Out on the pan, thermals stirred white dust, giving birth to a whirly-wind that petered out as quickly as it had come. She’d seen very few animals. A herd of zebra near the embankment that ran out to Logans Island, one solitary jackal, three giraffe in the distance, a couple of ostrich on the pan, and a lone male springbok. A bateleur eagle soared so high it was hardly more than a speck. The only reason Megan could identify it was because of the way it tilted from side to side, a common characteristic developed, most probably, to compensate for instability in the air caused by its extremely short tail.

  Megan breathed in deeply, eyes scanning the sweep southwards. If a vehicle were on the road, she should be able to see dust. There was none. The sheer empty space was overwhelming. She briefly considered returning to the lodge but the knowledge that other people’s safety could well depend on her decisions quickly dispelled the thought. Where were they now? Megan wasn’t fooling herself. The others might have survived execution but their continued wellbeing was anything but certain.

  Apple and biscuits finished, she was about to pull the jacket on again when, glancing back, movement on the road caught her attention. Megan nearly died of fright. Elephant. Where the hell had they come from? The herd was travelling in the same direction as her – south. What should she do? Run? Don’t be stupid! Hide? Where? More and more silent grey ghosts seemed to materialise from the shimmering heat. Trying to count them was impossible but there had to be around thirty. They’ll get my scent. Oh my God, what do I do?

  Etosha elephant are reputed to be the tallest in the world. Sitting on the ground, Megan could testify to that. The leading animal looked like a three-storey building on legs. As they ambled down the road towards her, making not a sound, Megan’s entire body froze – brain, limbs and muscles. It was too late for her to do anything.

  The old matriarch’s ears flapped constantly and she held her trunk up inquiringly. With no apparent signal, scurrying youngsters disappeared into the group. The herd passed within two metres of where Megan sat rigid with fear. Not one elephant looked her way or gave any sign they knew she was there. When the animals were well down the road, Megan noticed that the juveniles had reappeared. They had been aware of her presence, no doubt about it. Breeding herds were known to be unpredictable. How had these elephant sensed that a strange human huddled in the shade of a tree at the side of the road meant them no harm?

  Megan eyed the rifle still lying across her legs. It never once crossed her mind to pick it up. She waited for a good ten minutes before moving on. The elephants, unless they stopped to browse, were faster than her. They might have ignored her once but if they thought she was following them there was no telling how they would react. Better to let them get ahead.

  Feeling only marginally better with a fry-up inside him, Buster collected his notes, eyed the unmade bed with longing, and set out again. He passed several tourists along the way, but once he turned north past Okondeka he saw no-one. He was going to send a rev or two up Billy bloody Abbott before returning to Okaukuejo. From now on, any requests for assistance would be made to Thea Abbott. She was much more efficient.

  Half an hour later, Buster spotted a large herd of elephant some distance ahead. They were probably making for the spring at Okondeka, which meant they’d more than likely stick to the road rather than go across country. He continued to drive slowly until the oncoming group were about twenty metres from him, then stopped, selected reverse and watched carefully for signs of aggression. There were none. With no change of pace the herd simply parted and ambled around his stationary vehicle. Buster turned in his seat and watched them go, admiration in his eyes. He counted twenty-six and was happy to see that they were in excellent condition. Two cows looked close to dropping calves, another eight had to be nearly at breeding age. No evidence of anxiety or stress. This herd had obviously wintered in the north where feed was good and tourists didn’t venture.

  His hand felt for the gear lever, changed to first, foot easing pressure off the clutch before returning his attention to the road. ‘Holy shit!’

  Standing in the middle of the sandy track about fifty metres away was the most unlikely sight he’d ever seen. Female, most certainly. Long hair, and his infallible instinct for such things, said she was. She was wearing a heavy jacket and leaning on a walking stick, right arm in a sling. One side of her face looked like she’d done ten rounds with Mike Tyson, or at the very least, been hit by a low-flying suicidal eagle. What, in God’s name, was she doing alone and on foot in the middle of nowhere, a stone’s throw from a herd of elephant? More to the point, what was she doing with a rifle slung across her back?

  Buster cut the engine. The girl had a wild look in her eyes and he was wary of the weapon she carried. He needn’t have worried. Her face suddenly crumpled. She unslung the firearm and allowed it to fall on the ground. With tears of relief streaming down her face, Megan, at last, gave way to emotion. On top of everything else, catching up with the elephants had been the final straw. She’d been standing there wondering what to do next when the herd parted and a vehicle appeared from their midst. Another human being. Salvation. The realisation hit home and Megan caved in.

  Buster stepped cautiously out of the Land Rover. ‘Hello,’ he called softly, not wishing to frighten her. She’d obviously been badly knocked about.

  Megan’s face was sunk into her left hand but she nodded acknowledgement of his greeting.

  ‘My name’s Buster. I’m a vet. I work here. Leave the gun where it is. I’m coming to get you.’ He approached slowly, alert for any move she might make towards the rifle. On reaching her, Buster picked up the weapon first, automatically checking it. Loaded. Safety on. He cleared the chamber and slung it over one shoulder. The girl was sobbing and still not looking up, but he could see she’d been badly injured. ‘What’s your name? What happened?’

  ‘M . . . M . . . Megan.’

  ‘Okay, Megan. You’re safe now.’ He moved closer. ‘I’m going to help you back to my car, okay?’

  She nodded again.

  As Buster put an arm around her she gave a sharp gasp of pain. ‘Sorry.’

  She was looking at him finally. Her face a terrible mess – horribly bruised, one eye closed. What could have caused such injuries? Sunburned as well. Her head and neck were burned red. This girl was suffering from exposure on top of everything else.

  ‘Megan, come with me. I’ll take you to the lodge at Logans Island. You’ll be safe there.’ Buster’s own condition forgotten, his mind was working quickly. He’d radio base and Megan could be airlifted out.

  She began to shake. Her lips quivered and she was struggling to speak.

  ‘You need help, Megan. Medi Rescue can have a plane here within the hour.’

  ‘Not the lodge,’ she managed.

  ‘It’s the best place to wait. It’s closer than Okaukuejo.’

  ‘No,’ she shouted. ‘You don’t understand. No-one there. Dead. All dead.’ The fear and horror she’d been suppressing burst from her in hysterical babbling. ‘Murdered. Vultures. Hundreds of them. The professor. The pillow . . .’

  Buster turned cold. What did she mean? Was the girl all there? He broke into the disjointed jabbering. ‘Come to the car, Megan.’ She seemed unable to move. Sweat trickled down her face. ‘Take the jacket off. You don’t need it. Can I help?’

  ‘No.’ Megan shook her head vigorously, as if trying to clear it. She was hyperventilating, shaking, but reason was coming back. With a small mo
an she handed him the walking stick. It clearly hurt trying to get her arm out of the sling and remove the garment, but she persevered and finally managed. Her hand went out for the stick and Buster passed it back.

  ‘Give me the jacket, I’ll carry it.’

  Megan let him take it. He was surprised at its weight.

  ‘Come on. Into the car.’

  It was only when she moved that he realised why she needed the stick. Her walk was not of a person favouring an injury. One leg was shorter than the other. He wanted to help but was scared of hurting her again. Megan’s face was set with determination as she climbed into the vehicle.

  Buster was anxious to ask about the lodge but realised that Megan was at the end of her endurance. She needed time to pull herself together.

  In the Land Rover he helped her with a drink of water. She took a long swallow, leaned back against the seat, eyes shut, gave a shaky sigh and slowly, with infinite caution, slipped her arm back into the sling.

  Buster watched, not pushing her. She was young. Been to hell and back by the look of it. A fighter, though. Taking deep, slow breaths, trying to calm herself. Lips trembling. Gulping back sobs. Finding control. What had this girl been through?

  Finally, Megan opened her eyes and looked at him.

  ‘I’ve got to report this.’ He unhooked the radio mike on the dashboard. ‘You up to telling me what happened?’

  Megan nodded.

  ‘What did you mean about everyone being dead?’

  She took a deep breath.

  Fifteen minutes later, an ashen-faced and shaking Buster called head office on his two-way. ‘Sounds like UNITA,’ he concluded.

  The tinny voice of his boss came back down the line. ‘Bastards! They’ll deny it, of course. Always do. Claim it’s government troops wanting it to look like UNITA.’

  ‘Megan won’t go back to the lodge.’

  ‘Can’t say I blame her. What about medical attention?’

  ‘She should be in hospital. Two bullet wounds, both superficial by the sound of it but one more serious than the other. Exhaustion and exposure.’ He glanced at Megan who was staring vacantly at the road. ‘Counselling probably.’