The Newcomers: a novel of global invasion , human resilience, and the wild places of the planet

by Pamela Jekel

  And there was another time, the time of almost total silence in Africa, the time between the dark and the light. Even the crickets seemed silent, and the frogs went still. It was the time when all things slept most deeply, when their guards were down, when killers were likely to attack. This time of in-between was Jomo’s least comfortable hour, and he rarely left his bed then except in emergency.

  Ah, but the dawn. The dawn was a time of all things new and washed, all things possible, every sense alert, eager, and hopeful for the next adventure of life. He never felt more alive than at dawn, yet he rarely wanted to make love to Asha at that time. Somehow, the pleasure of dawn was too keen and personal to want to share it, the sense of lassitude after love-making unwelcome at such an hour. As the first scant possibilities of light began to move over the plains, making the outlines of the animals a bit darker than the dark, more distinct than the vast night, his spirits rose as they always did before a hunt. And sharing it with his lads made his pleasure all the more keen.

  The sounds of dawn drew them out onto the plain, and they drove out into the middle of the vastness, past the ghostly herds of zebra and the green eyes of impala caught in the headlights. They stopped the jeep, so that the noise and smell of the engine would not ruin the sensation of being completely alone with all of the animals in the world at once. Jomo said, “We’ve got some newcomers this morning.”

  Chase snapped his head back sharply to see the sky, but then he glanced at Jomo and followed the man’s gaze out to a herd of elephants near the marsh. “Oh,” he said with some relief. “Elephants.”

  Baako chuckled. “Newcomers? Poor choice of words, that.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” Jomo got out of the jeep and closed the door silently. “Let’s be off, then. Safari means a walking forth in Swahili. So we shall.”

  They geared up, shouldered their packs and their rifles, and Jomo led them out onto the plains. With each step, the outlines of the trees, the hills, and the animals became more distinct, but still the light had not reached the sky. Now, another chorus of lions began, a long low groaning roar, followed by three laboring coughs, more bellows than grunts. Another voice joined the first one, lighter in tone, at the same distance, and they roared repeatedly as though daring the sun to come up, as though asserting forever their right to say whom shall stir in the first light of morning and when.

  “The lionesses,” Chase said. The grunts seemed to shift direction, coming first from one place and then another.

  “Spot on,” Jomo replied. “They’re hunting. Giving each other instructions and encouragement. They are close, lads, so keep a sharp eye. Chase, you stay behind me; Baako, you’ve our backs.” He glanced at Chase. “Ready?”

  Chase nodded.

  “This morning, we bring meat to our women. Bahati.” Good luck.

  They walked silently out onto the short grasslands among the herds, which already were up and grazing. A few still dozed on their feet, but the zebra sentries were quick to give snorts of alarm as the men moved among them. Curiously, they did not stampede as Chase had expected, but all ears pricked in their direction, most heads turned as they walked, and it was clear that many of the eyes on the plain could see better than they could in the dim light. Jomo was headed towards a shallow depression, where they could crouch lower than the grasses. Jomo and Baako carried their .375 H & H Winchester Magnums, and Chase carried his Winchester Model 70, which he’d come to prefer over hours of range practice. They reached the culvert, settled down as quietly as possible, and waited until the herds began to turn their heads away and graze again.

  “You take first shot,” Jomo murmured to Chase. “Try for a Tommy buck, if you can.”

  Chase was on his belly in the short grass, his rifle to his shoulder, scoping the nearest gazelle cluster, when a buck moved into his sights, and turned and looked right at him, his ears pricked forward in wary consideration. Chase took a breath, held it, and squeezed the trigger. The exploding shot rang in his ears, the rifle kicked his shoulder hard, and the herds scattered wildly in all directions. In a moment, the dust cleared, and they saw the buck on the ground, struggling to get up.

  “You must finish him,” Jomo said, and they rose out of the grasses and walked quickly to where the buck kicked and twisted, trying to make his haunches work. Chase shouldered his weapon again, fired again into the buck’s neck, and it jerked, stretched out its forelegs, and died.

  “Well, that was brutal.” Chase’s voice shook.

  “It’s your first kill,” Jomo said. “Next time, you’ll take him with one shot.”

  Chase looked out over the plains, making an effort to collect himself. No one spoke, as though the moment was somehow sacred. Finally, he felt he could look back down at the gazelle, a tawny-skinned sleek animal, with large liquid eyes already casting over, bleeding from the neck and from behind the shoulder. He put his safety on, set down the rifle, and sank to his knees next to Baako, who was already beginning to butcher the carcass. “I guess I need more practice.”

  “Forget it,” Baako said. “It’s always different in real life. You’ll get hardened to it, never fear.”

  A sudden growl from startlingly close made them all snap to their feet, their rifles up. A large male lion was padding through the grass no more than fifty yards from them, and he was coming fast. Baako shoved his knife in his belt and stood before his father. “Back to back,” Jomo said, “rifles ready and retreat slowly.” Baako and Chase moved shoulder to shoulder next to Jomo, their rifles up, stepping backwards away from the kill.

  “Do we shoot him?” Chase asked, never taking his eyes from the lion and trying not to stumble as he walked blindly backwards.

  “Can’t. No predator kills, unless we want a hefty fine. He likely knows it, too. Do be careful not to stumble. On my signal, we shout him off. One, two, three!” They hollered boldly at the lion, and Jomo waved his arms, picking up a branch with his free hand. “Turn off, you bastard!”

  The lion came on without slowing, his mane whipping in the breeze, his growl growing more fierce and implacable.

  “Do we shoot in the air?” Chase’s voice sounded high to his own ears, like a boy’s.

  “If we must.” Jomo moved in front of Baako and kneeled quickly, his rifle to his shoulder. “Don’t make me do this!” he bellowed again at the oncoming lion.

  The big male stopped suddenly, his legs stiff, his mane erect, his mouth open in a snarl. He was close enough that they could see the flash of yellowed canines, the baleful gold glare of his eyes, the huge pads of his paws, and the lashing, black-tufted tail. His eyes narrowed, and he crouched slightly, his hind parts higher than his shoulders.

  “He’ll charge us, I expect,” Jomo said. “At my signal, shoot in the air, and no matter what, do not run. If I have to, I’ll put him down.”

  The lion still stared at them, but a quick change rippled over him, like a hand over his fur. In that instant, they sensed he would not charge. He lowered his head, his eyes still intent on them as they kept moving backwards. Panting and swinging his head slightly, the lion padded closer, still murderously growling deep in his chest. They continued to back up, as he advanced. He reached the kill, sniffed it, still growling, then turned his back on them deliberately, as though they were now beneath contempt, picked up the gazelle in his jaws easily, and trotted off with the carcass. After he had carried it off some distance, he dropped it, faced them again, and roared his challenge. The noise was deafening, crashing over the plains and echoing from the skies, and there was no mistaking the tone of defiance and scorn. Then he picked up the gazelle and walked away, with a low-slung saunter and a swish of his long tail, stunningly indifferent to their presence. All that was left of Chase’s kill was a wet spot on the ground and the mix of human and lion prints around it.

  By now, the sun was up, and the herds grazed around them as though nothing which had occurred was worth lifting their heads from the grass. Chase walked back and looked at where the gazelle had been, measuring
his own feet against the spoor of the lion. Even Jomo’s prints were smaller.

  “So I guess shooting something is one thing, keeping it is another,” Chase said.

  “Be glad it wasn’t hyena,” Baako said. “Those tossers egg each other on, and they don’t bluff easy.”

  “That’s so, I’m afraid,” Jomo agreed. “I know a hunter who made the mistake of sleeping out in the open, and a hyena bit off his foot. Jaws like steel, that lot. Lions are not as dangerous as the lionesses, to my mind. The ladies are the real killers. This old man is used to taking what he wants, and so long as we’ll let him, he’ll content himself with insulting us.” He turned and slapped Chase on the back with a relieved grin. “So you’ve been blooded, called out, and robbed. And the sun’s barely up. Quite a morning, yes?”

  “What would we have done if he charged?”

  “Shoot him, of course,” Jomo said. “But they’d take our permits for that, and likely make us give up the camp. That big male is worth more than all three of us, so far as the conservationists are concerned. It’s bloody annoying, but there it is. We’ll get another buck, lad. And hope the neighborhood has only one bully about.”

  They shouldered their weapons and walked on, searching for another spot with some cover. Now the shadows were gone, and the herds were more scattered. They walked in an approximate circle, trying to keep the jeep as close as possible, but they had to range farther and farther from it finally to find a place that satisfied Jomo as suitable. He settled on some taller grass near a clump of wait-a-bit thorn and after carefully walking up on it to be sure no predator had already claimed the shade, called it a good ambush, and settled down to wait.

  Chase lay on his belly looking out over the plains towards the distant horizon. The vastness of the space made the curve of the earth evident under the brilliantly blue sky. Not a single jet plane went overhead. Never a high, white contrail to be seen. He realized it had been more than a year since he’d seen anything in the air but birds and light planes. “Aren’t there any other hunters out here?” Chase whispered, mindful that there were ears all around them.

  “I should hope not,” Jomo murmured. “Paid enough to get this camp and concession. Had to pull some strings. The district wardens space out the hunters by area and week, so we don’t blast each other’s heads off or weaken the herds.”

  The endless streams of animals moved past them, wildebeest cow and calves, herds of bulls, zebra families made up of bands of stallions, mares, and foals, long lines of gazelles, buffalo, kongoli, impala, topi, and even a few clumps of elephants in the far distance filled the grasslands with life. “Man has hunted these plains for a quarter-million years,” Jomo said. “Hunted with spears, in packs like dogs, driving game into the swamps, with bolas or snares, whatever else they could invent. And still the herds seem to go on forever.”

  “What’s it like on the Serengeti when they all give birth at once?”

  “Quite a miracle, I should say. I’ve seen the wildebeest drop calves by the hundreds at once, often right in the middle of the day, when the sun is hot, not a breath of wind or shade. Predators are usually sleeping, so down they go, cows all over the grass, little tottery calves less than an hour old trying to stand, and by the time the killers are up and sniffing the wind, the calves can already run. Still, plenty of them don’t make it. I’ve seen a lioness take down a calf, tear it open, and when another calf comes too close, swat that one down as well and sit on it, until she can get time to kill it.”

  “But there are still so many of them, even with the hunters and the predators.” Chase squeezed an insect that was biting him and peered at it.

  “Not so many hunters, these days,” Baako said. “Not many can afford the fees.” He said that with mixed pride and regret.

  “There’s still some poaching, of course,” Jomo said. “Some of them are only farmers and villagers seeking their bit of protein, as they’ve always done. The government took their lands and put the wild game in parks, parks they can’t afford to ever visit, gave sanctuary to animals that eat their crops and kill their goats, not to mention sometimes their women and children, and it’s all very well to speak of conservation, but it means nothing to that farmer. Tell him that tourist revenues will make his life better, but all he sees is that his clan is worse off than before. He’s a Kikuyu or Maasai or Turkana before he’s a Kenyan. The government calls it tribalism, like it’s barbarism, but one can’t fight tradition and family. Those private reserves for the rich put nothing in that farmer’s cooking pot or those of his tribe. He sees these vast herds, and he says to himself, why can’t I take the game as I have always done? Why can the wazungu, the whites, pay a fee and take a trophy, or the rich District Commissioner can do it, but I cannot feed my family?”

  “Doesn’t seem fair,” Chase said.

  “I should say not. And it doesn’t help when the herds cross the park boundaries at night to raid his crops, and then slip back inside the parks during the day where they can’t be reached. Elephants can ruin a full year’s harvest in a night, and they know exactly where the parks end and private lands begin. The time will come when no government will be able to persuade this farmer that his children should starve while the animals are protected, and then the wildlife will be gone. Too many people and too many cows, as I said. That buck is in range now, lad. This time, aim a bit high; anticipate his jump, and you’ll have him.”

  Chase shouldered his rifle again, took careful aim, and saw that indeed, a gazelle buck was in range. He squeezed off his shot, and the buck fell instantly this time with no struggle. With great relief, Chase led them to his kill, nodded at the clean shot, and realized that this time he could accept the death calmly, even with some satisfaction. He knew Asha would be proud of him.

  “Nice shot,” Baako said.

  “Let’s get this one butchered fast.” Jomo stood guard while Baako pulled his knife from his sheath and went to work. A lone topi wandered close to see what the men were doing, its black backwards-facing horns flashing in the sun. Snorting in disapproval, it moved off, its knees clicking as it walked. “Here, dig in,” Baako said, handing Chase another knife. “It’s your kill, after all.” They quickly cut the prime meat from the gazelle, wrapped it in the plastic sheets they carried, and slid it into their packs. They left the carcass with still plenty of meat, and when they looked up, the vultures were already circling. “Now, the circus starts,” Jomo said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They headed in the direction of the jeep, and over a small rise, four hyenas came towards them, glancing up at the vultures. “Turn and keep walking,” Jomo said. He took the rear of the procession with his rifle ready. The vultures descended swiftly onto the carcass, and the hyenas came boldly forward, their ears pricked with keen interest, their jaws open and panting. They made such strange guttural moans as they hurried forward, that they seemed almost to be large ugly dogs, whining for treats. But there was no mistaking their intent. “Stop and turn!” Jomo hollered, and the boys whirled to face the on-coming pack. They were loping closer, their jaws agape with ugly grins, chuckling and giggling, and then two of the smaller hyenas faltered and swerved.

  The lead hyena stopped suddenly as well, yickering in confusion. Cringing and loping sideways, she veered away from the humans, glancing over her shoulder, and then she ran straight on to the carcass, never looking back. By the time the hyenas got to the gazelle, it was a battleground. Four vultures were already on it, hissing and squealing, thrusting their naked heads into the gaping wounds, ripping at the flesh and huddling their shoulders tightly together so that they seemed to be a writhing mass rather than individual birds. More vultures were arriving, hopping quickly to join the feeding, bobbing and hissing with their necks extended like snakes, shoving their way into the fray, and the carcass was no longer visible at all.

  The hyenas hesitated before the frenzy of the birds. The larger hyena ran at the carcass, trying to bluff them off, snapping at one vulture’s wing, but the bird tu
rned on the hyena so viciously, flapping and hissing and darting its hooked beak towards the hyena’s eyes, that the hyena retreated, moaning and groaning its pitiful lament. The four hyenas finally gave up the opportunity and walked away, their heads sagging in defeat, squealing and rubbing each other’s flanks for comfort.

  “Now then, one doesn’t see that often,” Jomo said, as they turned towards the jeep once more. “Hyenas run off by vultures. That lot would sooner have a thing done badly than not have it at all, and that lead bitch could have fetched off those vultures with one good bite. The hyenas must have fed recently.”

  Chase looked back at the carcass which was now being gradually abandoned by the birds. The naked ribcage rose up from the grass slightly, but every morsel of flesh was gone from the body, and bits of skin and bone were all that remained of his kill. Two jackals were already moving in for the scant remnants, as the vultures took to the sky, hopping with ungainly, jerking bounces until they could get airborne. He felt no remorse at the death. The pride of the kill was new and intoxicating, and he wanted to feel it again.

  Back at camp a full breakfast awaited them, and the women clapped their hands with pleasure at the gazelle steaks they brought. Jata ululated in the old way like a woman welcoming a returning warrior and shyly patted his shoulder. Asha gave Chase a quick hug. “Well done, lad, well done. And I hear you scared off a lion as well!’

  “Somebody was scared.” He grinned sheepishly. “I don’t think it was the lion.”

  She chuckled. “You must ask Jomo to tell you of the time he scared off a lioness.”

  Jomo rolled his eyes. “Oh yes, I scared her off alright. From my perch in a thorny acacia tree, where I shouted for help to no avail. She no doubt trembled in fear as she napped beneath me.”

  “But you didn’t shoot her?” Chase asked in wonder.