by Linda Tucker
It deeply saddens me to consider how modern humans have erected an electrified barricade, the infamous Red Line, along this very north-south golden meridian—the selfsame longitudinal line recognized and honored by the ancients as the most sacred ley line on Earth! Poignant as this may be, it is indicative of the many imbalances contemporary humans have imposed on our Earth and, conversely, the rebalancing role the White Lions are destined to play.
Maria Khosa’s prophecy that one day the two sides of this massive ecosystem will be united as one great body of ancestral land—a kingdom governed by the King and Queen of all animals—is in line with Ancient Egyptian beliefs. This precise ley line, which links Timbavati with Giza, is understood by the Ancient Egyptians to be the prime meridian. Known as Zep Tepi, it was believed to correspond with a subterranean seam of pure gold, holding the Earth’s axis in place. At a level of prophecy, returning the White Lions to their original sacred lands means these magnificent creatures can once more perform their role as divinely appointed protectors of this subterranean seam of pure gold, the age-old guardians of the Earth’s axis.
I estimate it is still a little way off before we reach the ancient baobab tree. Watching my footsteps imprint in the dry river sand, I can’t help thinking how sad it is that present-day Timbavati has no flowing rivers. Symbolically, as a medicine woman and natural healer, Maria Khosa always drew analogies between circumstances in the outside world and conditions in the human body. She viewed the Tsau River as the spinal column holding together both sides of the body of these lands, just as the Nile runs through the sacred lands of Ancient Egypt. Without access to this source, Timbavati reserve had severed its connection with not only its own spinal fluid, but also its very lifeblood, which no longer ran in the land’s veins. Equally, the fortified fence blocking the life force that flowed between East and West was analogous to the left-brain not communicating with the right, or the right side of the body not coordinating with the left. Maria viewed these conditions in the way she would view a critical illness; the difference was that this illness had a remedy. I know that this body of the natural kingdom will remain unbalanced and divided until the great overarching spirit of the White Lions unites it and restores health to our Earth.
After our slow walk down the dry riverbed, my companions and I clamber up the tufty riverbank, coming to stand on high ground beside the baobab tree, preparing for the ceremony. Feeling a gentle breeze across my face, I glance down to the site where I buried Maria’s crystal earlier in the day. I feel her presence. And suddenly—astoundingly—I see a leopard stretched out in the riverbed below us! She is languidly lying right over the crystal I’d buried earlier in the day. I am dumbfounded. The very sign I’ve been waiting for. Queen Maria. Awaiting us!
This time, it is impossible for me to miss the sign. Everyone else is equally overawed, and the two Bushmen drop down in a state of prayer and gratitude. All shamans see spirit in Nature and know the mysterious ways in which the ancestral world manifests in our own. They think in symbolic language, so at this moment I appreciate that the higher meaning of such a blessing must be resonating with each of them in their own unique way. It is truly amazing! In the brutal everyday world of this region, where leopards are mercilessly hunted, these exquisite cats are habitually furtive and shy. And besides, they’re nocturnal, so again, late afternoon is way too early to spot such an elusive creature at the best of times. All the more amazing that this magnificent cat is so serenely sitting, waiting and watching, her paws outstretched in a guarding position directly over the stone site where I myself sat only a few hours ago. She seems totally unperturbed by our presence. She gives a most glorious yawn and a full, languid stretch, glistening like liquid gold in the late sunlight. Standing up, she graciously pads down the riverbed, with her tail casually swaying behind her. I watch her tracks imprint in the dry river sands below as she disappears out of sight—and then I see it—her paw prints pad right over my own footprints from earlier in the day! I feel utter jubilation seeing how the Queen of Timbavati, Maria Khosa in leopard form, is walking in my own footsteps—just as I have followed her path.
Tears of joy stream down my face, as I take a deep breath of Timbavati’s pure, fragrant air, knowing with every fiber of my being that Maria Khosa will be with me in spirit throughout this sacred ceremony.
I’M IN THE CENTER OF A CIRCLE OF CRYSTALS, reminding me of the occasion years back that coincided with the birth of the Blue Star. These powerful stones have been placed in geometric formation on the surface of the Earth by elders from different indigenous cultures, while Maria’s buried crystal remains down in the riverbed beneath the white sands, unseen. Candles are being lit at the four corners of the cardinal axis—north, south, east, and west. And the !Xam bushmen have placed the ostrich eggs, balancing like sentinels on their pointed bases, symbolizing the moment of creation, when all was in perfect equilibrium.
Night equals day; the sun sets while the moon is rising. My world is held in balance by cosmic timelessness. The indigenous woman from the Dakota tribe, in ceremonial dress, is presiding. She steps toward me, with a flame in her hand, that I might light the burning center of our sacred circle.
“Are you ready, sister?” she asks.
“Give me a moment,” I respond, taking the burning flame in my hands. I need to center myself.
I remember those nights with my shaman teacher, how Maria and I would sit beside the Tsau River, with Orion and the Leo constellation so brilliant above us, and the Milky Way overarching like a river of stars. This ceremony is lit by another such star-shimmering night—only Maria has since gone, and the angelic lioness, gift from above, has returned to her kingdom.
But Maria’s words live on, and I draw strength in the knowledge that tonight we celebrate Queen Marah’s return as ordained in the heavens. Here, on the sacred land of White Lions, the land where the starlions came down, I feel the wonderment of this celebratory event.
In the secret knowledge, these luminous creatures are understood to be guardians of the Earth’s axis; that’s why they were depicted in this way in all the great squares of the Earth, whether Trafalgar Square in London, St. Mark’s Square in Venice, Singapore’s Merlion Park, or Giza’s Sphinx. They are true avatars of enlightenment who will bring all people together in harmony, and in this way unite the four root nations of the Earth. Poignantly, here tonight, on the sacred lands, I picture my four lions, two female and two male. By force of circumstance, they are still held captive in their fortified boma, but this fenced area in the heart of their ancestral kingdom is located precisely upon the prime meridian—the golden ley line understood by the Ancient Egyptians to be the central axis of the globe. And it seems to me that, despite humanity’s confused and fearful efforts to stop the workings of a higher plan, these four lions are literally guarding the four corners of the Earth here, now, forever.
Under the infinite stars, my anxieties about the hostile neighbors, and their intimidation tactics emblazoned across the local papers, are dispelled. The blazing headlines seem so miniscule. I am fully equipped with the spiritual weaponry Maria handed over to me, and I will never forget her words: “Love is the greatest force!”
“Are you ready, sister?” the Dakota medicine woman asks again.
I am.
Drawing on an inner knowing, a connectedness with everything around me, I prepare myself to lead this ceremony of celebration, giving thanks to the creator for all that is. Holding the flame in my hand, I light the fire at the center. With eyes closed, I visualize the east and west coming together and uniting along this great divide. And then north and south. I put out a prayer to the universe for healing and unity among all people, and a prayer of protection for the White Lions, newly returned to their sacred ancestral lands.
In the shadowy presence of the baobab tree, the luminous aura of the leopard presides, and I take Maria’s lead in this thanksgiving ceremony, calling upon the spirits of our ancestors to join us in celebration, inviting representatio
n from all the animals, plants, and minerals, and the angelic kingdoms. With the thrill of the big cat’s presence running through everyone’s veins, I do not need to speak. Instead, I allow Nature’s voice to speak for itself.
We settle down, cross-legged, for an all-night vigil. The Bushmen, normally irrepressible with excited chatter, have long since gone into a state of reverential calm. Above us, the Milky Way spans the north-south horizon, a massive river of shimmering stars. All of us hold the silence.
I visualize the future. One thousand years of peace. I call upon the vision of a golden age: a verdant paradise, where love and respect bind all beings and humanity is in harmony with Nature. Listening to the night sounds around me, I let go of worldly images and gradually attune to the entire biosphere of land, undamaged by human impact, and protected, loved, and nurtured. A deep contentment and calm overcomes me as my mind expands into unfathomable realms.
When the dawn breaks, we, the initiates who’ve been gathered all night around this stone medicine wheel in wordless meditation, break our silence. One after the other in different languages, a prayer of peace and unity sounds in praise of Mother Earth. We don’t share a common language, but our prayers sound with one mind and one heart. And it seems the great shadowy baobab tree, its ancient branches reaching out into the heavens like a giant tuning fork, amplifies our prayers many times over.
As the first rays of sunlight take form, the Intuit elder begins humming, and all parties join in. My eyes are still closed, and the vibration of this continual humming resonates throughout my body, filling my being with celestial sound. It feels as if I am one with the life force all around me, with the creative essence of all creation.
When the humming draws to a close, I open my eyes again to find that the Bushmen elders have disappeared. Their tracks head off into the bushveld, in the direction of the rising sun. In fact, it’s the same direction as the distant boma, a kilometer or so away through dense bushveld terrain, where Marah and her cubs are housed. I know they are going to pay homage. But since Marah didn’t sound her roar yet, I wonder what telepathic means will navigate them to the Queen of Lions.
The sun bursts over the horizon, a gilded disc rising on the cardinal axis, due east. With it, the great river of stars has fast faded from view. But Maria’s prophecy remains crystal clear in my mind.
MAY 10, 2005. WITH THE RADIO CLENCHED in my hand, I stand at the base station, summoning security. Mireille is beside me, dressed in her trademark red bomber jacket, despite the warm morning temperature. She has postponed her return flight several times over these past couple of months—in order to satisfy herself that the lions are settled, and that we ourselves are set up as best we can be in the dilapidated, old farmhouse on the property. Despite her staunch aristocratic background, she flourishes in these humble circumstances, rallying the troops with encouraging philosophies and preparing sandwiches and flasks of coffee for Jason and my late-night lion-monitoring shifts. She’s donated a radio communications system to the project. This way, we can communicate with any member of our team, wherever they are located on the land, particularly in times of emergency.
She stands by my side for moral support, holding my left hand. There’s a crackle over the radio. Then nothing.
“Nelson, Nelson! Come in, Nelson!” I repeat my call over the radio, gripping the unit with my right hand. The subtropical climate has eased a little, but I feel myself instantly breaking out into a sweat.
The last few months have probably been the hardest in my life, focused on complex and perplexing legal strategy for which I feel totally unprepared. The warning emblazoned in the headlines of the local paper was no empty threat. Fortunately, the top legal firm in the country under the leadership of Coenraad Jonker has offered the services of its environmental law department pro bono. Without this assistance, we’d be sunk financially, since every last cent has already been spent securing the property, with virtually no fallback for funding daily subsistence.
Standing at the radio base station, urgently waiting for Nelson to respond, I feel that nervous tingling start up in my feet again. It’s bad enough facing a legal battle, but today Jason was tipped off in town that neighboring hunting farms have intentions of actively sabotaging our project. He’s just phoned from Hoedspruit, advising that we check our southern boundary immediately. He’ll be back shortly to take over for us, a comfort and support in particularly trying times.
There is another crackle over the radio in answer to my call—and a gravelly Tsonga accent responds: “Nelson, standing by.”
“Nelson, please check the southern fence line with Thornybush. Now please. We think there could be poaching activity there.”
Most of the time, I struggle to comprehend the reason behind such ferocious opposition. It’s difficult to pinpoint exactly who these opponents are, and exactly why the reintroduction of White Lions to these lands should be so threatening to them. At least a legal battle is open and declared—we can manage that. But the shadowy, nefarious activity at our borders is more unsettling. I continually worry what form this might take. One lighted match thrown into the parched winter grass could lead to an uncontrollable veldfire raging through our land, trapping Marah and her cubs in the interior. This prospect is utterly appalling. Then again, if my beloved lion family found their way to the fenced borders, they could be at risk from a hunter with a rifle taking a shot at them. Marah and her children mean everything to me, but their value in monetary terms is what worries me most. In a context where money drives all kinds of illicit activity, it is a reality that a poacher might dart the White Lions with a tranquilizing drug, cut the fences, and remove the cats from the property for trophy purposes. Each lion has been carefully fitted with a numbered transponder just under the skin, which, when scanned, would identify them. However, if they were kidnapped, and we were unable to trace their whereabouts, for instance, we’d have no way of applying the microchip device in proving their identities.
Security, and guarding our borders, have become paramount. We’ve decided not to bring in an independent security firm, because there’s no guarantee of its allegiances. Post-Apartheid South Africa is full of armed-response units comprising supporters of the old regime, trained in deadly weapons. These men are often big hunters themselves, with racist inclinations. There have been frequent reports of security guards caught red-handed, poaching the very game they were meant to protect. So instead of employing a specialized armed-response unit, we decided our best security was to make use of our own trusted staff. Fortunately, we have Nelson Mathebula, a well-built Tsonga man in his midfifties. Nelson has a broad smile and an infectious laugh; he’d been with my family for many years, working in an all-around capacity as gardener, caretaker, and security officer. He’s weapons-trained and a specialist in antipoaching techniques after years of field-ranging in this part of the bushveld in his younger days. If I’d looked far and wide, I couldn’t have found a more comforting right-hand man. Yet amazingly, I have two such stalwarts, backing each other up as a security partnership. The other is the delicate-framed Nelias Ntete, the dignified seventy-three-year-old Sotho man and expert tracker who has lived on this land for the past half century. He’s an ideal back-up to Nelson.
Nelias’ expertise is not book-learned—in fact, he’s never been to school—but he knows every tree, every termite mound, every bird and animal print of this intricate ecosystem. He is the man who showed me the site where the ancient baobab tree resides when I first set foot on these lands, even though the previous owners never made mention of it. Working for the hunter-farmers, Nelias was required to track down game for trophy hunters; now he is on alert for human footprints.
“Okay, we’ll famba lapa southern fence, Mama Linda,” comes Nelson’s voice. His manner of titling me is a Tsonga token of respect. The staff tend to call me Mama—even though I am younger than most of them.
Mireille has just picked up the radio receiver and given an additional instruction with her pukka Swiss-British
accent. “Famba, Famba! Chin-up, Nelson and Nelias! D’you copy me? To the borders, everyone!”
As she waits for Nelson’s response to crackle back over the airwaves, she informs me, “Just giving a bit of encouragement over the walkie-talkie.”
Mireille’s technique over the radio is cause for much mirth with the rest of my team. She addresses Nelson and Nelias using a scramble of Tsonga words she remembers from childhood and other obscure expressions seemingly dating back to World War II.
“Nelson, standing by for Kokwane,” he responds to Mireille’s instruction. Kokwane means “Grandmama”—an even greater sign of respect than “Mama” in Tsonga culture.
“Security men,” Mireille instructs, “if anyone gives us any trouble, just tell them to Foxtrot Oscar!” She catches my eye and giggles delightedly, believing she has wickedly transgressed some social code of her generation.
She concludes the radio communication with “Roger, over and out!”
Nelson and Nelias find this expression very funny because there is no Roger on our staff.
On a daily basis, Mireille’s matriarchal quirks give us many moments of light relief. But no one doubts the seriousness of the situation. Some of Nelson and Nelias’s security report-backs over the past few weeks have been particularly troubling. On one occasion, they picked up from the tracks on the ground in front of our main gate that a large 4×4 had pulled up and a man with army-style boots had gotten out and tested our padlocks before pulling off again in his vehicle. On another occasion, Nelias picked up a device attached to the fence that cut the electric current, indicating sabotage. Such evidence makes me wonder about motives. Suddenly, it seems we have adversaries on all frontiers—some declared, others unknown and secretly subversive.