by Linda Tucker
There’s a pause.
“No, you’re right,” Harold responds, sounding very sober all of a sudden. “They have their sights set on the minister.”
“Exactly,” Jason replies.
Another pause.
“How seriously should one view all this?” asked Thomas, for whom the political maneuvering and intrigue remains somewhat baffling and academic.
“I’m saying,” Harold continues, pointedly now, “if the minister’s genuinely taking this on, he’d better watch his back. They’ll be gunning for him, and his family.”
A chilling silence is finally broken when Mireille returns with a breakfast tray of plates with steaming eggs and sausage on toast, sprinkled with chives and parsley from Nelson’s surviving herb garden outside the kitchen door.
“Yum, that looks yummy!” Xhosa observes, standing up to help.
Relieved and grateful, I pass the plates to the others around the table. Everyone’s focus for the next fifteen minutes is on their food, with occasional grunts of appreciation and disparate chit-chat.
As the plates are being removed, I take a closer look at the front-page story, with the minister’s statement and an account of the dramatic events of the government forum. After the cover story, I turn to page five, where a responsible journalist reports on some of the legalized atrocities perpetrated against wildlife in our country. I force myself to read the article, bracing, as always, even though I know this review doesn’t come close to exposing the extent of the horror.
“So where d’we stand, darling daughter?” chirps Mireille again as I lay the paper down again on the table, shaking my head grimly.
“Well, we mustn’t let our guard down for a moment. This is far from over,” I respond.
Already, Xhosa has discovered advertisements being posted on the Internet, inviting the international hunting circuit to participate in “what could be your last opportunity to trophy hunt the endangered White Lion.” He has printed some gruesome evidence out and slaps the stack down on the kitchen table.
“Like a dead fish,” Harold comments, taking up the papers to peruse the distasteful ads. “Only less appetizing.”
“So what’s the status?” Mireille prompts me persistently, her dishcloth flung over her shoulder. She’s on a mission; I don’t know what it is yet, but I know she won’t stop until she has the answer.
“Unfortunately, to the canned-hunting mind, this’s just another opportunity to exploit,” I summarize grimly. “The international trophy price for lions has increased—as from today.”
“And here in Timbavati, what’s the status?” she insists. “Is this ban on lion hunting going to be enforced?”
“As you’ve gathered, Godmum, we didn’t even get close to addressing the question of trophy hunting in Timbavati in the government forum before all hell broke loose in the canned-hunting sector.”
“Question is, if there’s a moratorium imposed on hunting on our neighboring farms,” Harold asks, “will we consider getting into bed with these neighbors?”
“Not exactly, Harry,” I reply, with a raised eyebrow. “If they commit to a non-lion-hunting policy in some irrevocable way, then yes, of course we’d consider affiliation.”
“But only on the basis that Marah, her cubs, their offspring, and any future White Lions born in the region would be protected by law, in perpetuity,” Mireille comments, backing me up.
“What’s the likelihood of that?” Harold asks. “Even with the nut-crunching pressure of the moratorium?”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t see it happening,” I conclude. “Money rather than ethics is the driving factor.”
The Mail and Guardian article has printed a statement issued by the spokesperson for our neighboring private nature reserves, demanding the government revoke its moratorium because of the financial impact on their private reserve. Picking out a relevant sentence, I read: “We [the Timbavati Association] have sold permits for hunting to overseas visitors, and we have clients hunting in the veld as we speak.”
I turn to Mireille. “So, to answer your question, Godmum, that’s the current status.” I pass the newspaper back to her with a shudder. “Hunters are in the field as we speak.”
“So, to answer your question, Godmum: that’s the current status,” I pass the document over to her. “Hunters are in the field as we speak.”
Outside, the incessant monotonous call of the tinker barbet, also known as the suicide bird, is starting to worry me because of its distinctive communication, like a tap drip-drip-dripping in one’s head. For sanity’s sake, I’ve been trying not to think of Aslan, King of kings, and the price that must have been escalating on his royal head.
Against this grim political backdrop, Marah’s unique story is playing itself out. Watching the odds mount against her survival in the wild, my frustration has built up to breaking point. In my dreams, I’ve already opened the gate to her freedom, over and over again. But the reality is more challenging. This step may have seemed utterly simple, but the consequences could be catastrophic. By opening the gates and releasing the lions into our extended property, in defiance of the permit process, I could seal Marah’s fate by bringing about law enforcement action against us.
“Trouble is, as our lawyers keep saying, ‘Lions are dangerous animals, so they should be contained until we get full permission,’ ” Thomas points out.
“Yup—that’s our lawyers’ opinion,” I reply.
I rethink their argument one more time. Keeping four dangerous animals captive on our land without the final permit is one matter; allowing these dangerous animals to roam free on this same land—which, though well fenced, is also surrounded by antagonistic neighbors—is another matter entirely.
“Their view is that this rash action could provide precisely the ammunition our opponents are waiting for,” I explain further.
“So that’s our legal advice, then?” Mireille asks.
“Yes,” I explain. “But while their caution’s valid, I’m starting to see the issue differently.”
“How so? Please tell,” Mireille encourages.
“Well, if I look back, I don’t regret a single step I’ve taken,” I explain. “But I know I’d live a lifetime of regret if I avoided taking action and failed to move the lions to our property when we had the chance.”
Based on hard experience, as well as intuitive knowledge, I know there was no option but to forge ahead.
“True,” Harold concedes. “Doors have slammed behind us. Thank our brass monkeys we took the gap. That momentary lifeline we seized of transferring lions into a sanctuary’s now dead and buried. Problem is, we still don’t have a permit.”
Mireille backs me up. “Okay, so we still don’t have a permit, but the royal family’s safe. That’s all that’s important.”
Jason sits opposite me at the table and he clears his throat, thinking carefully before he speaks. “Agreed, the lions are safe in our care. But I’m afraid we have to accept that keeping the pride in a five-acre safe haven’s not the solution.”
Everyone looks up at him keenly, anticipating what he’s about to say.
“So, where to from here?” my godmother prompts.
“What’s our alternative?” Harold inquires.
We all know the answer. It’s been nearly a year, without the authorities making any decision on the future of Marah and her cubs. If there’s any hope for Marah’s future in the wild, we have to take the next bold step to freedom. Jason and I have been carefully weighing up this outcome, agonizingly watching the pendulum swing again and again.
Gathering my strength, I look at my colleagues hunched around the table like a war council worn out from attrition. It’s much the same group that was gathered in council the day after our dramatic arrival in the DC3 troop carrier eleven months ago. But something in the bunker has shifted.
“Is there anything whatsoever still to be done vis-à-vis the permit process?” Mireille prompts Jason. “Any stone unturned?”
&
nbsp; “Sadly, no, Godmum,” I confirm, thinking back through the arduous and seemingly endless process. “We’ve done absolutely everything imaginable—and everything possible—to get that permit stamped.”
“Stonewalled,” observes Xhosa. “Simple. Been through the same process one hundred times now. There’s nothing more that can be done, realistically.”
“Interaction with authorities is an inevitable part of this process,” Jason points out, invoking a communal sigh of frustration among our team. “We recognize that.”
“But they mustn’t get cute with us,” Harold snaps. “How long’s the permit process been now, two ’n a half years?”
“The bureaucratic red tape, or should we say red herrings, never ends,” adds Xhosa. “Something’s wrong.”
“Chin up everyone. It’ll all work out,” Mireille affirms, with her most stalwart expression. “As for Marah, with our loving confidence and pride in our lioness’s unusual abilities, she’ll surely manage in the wild, and impress us all, when the time comes.”
“No doubt about her unusual abilities,” Jason concurs, with an unusually somber tone in his voice. “But all things considered, it’s unrealistic to expect Marah’s natural survival instincts to remain intact, especially after the sustained human imprinting she’s had to endure.”
“It’s time to act,” I conclude.
With her hands on her hips, Mireille looks deadly serious. Then she regards Jason, and every member of our team, in turn, before focusing on me again. “Are you saying we’re prepared to open the gates to Marah’s freedom, with or without a final permit?”
“Precisely,” I affirm. “I’m the Keeper of the White Lions. I know on whose authority I act.”
There’s a solemn and intensely protracted silence.
CHAPTER 30
These Restrictions
NOVEMBER 1, 2005. AFTER A YEAR OF NAIL-BITING SUSPENSE, we are finally going ahead with the final stages of the release program. Tindall is carefully removing a dart of tranquilizing drug from Marah’s flank. The final step of preparation for the lions—fitting their radio collars—is about to take place, in the cool early hours to ensure they are not put at any risk during the heat of the day.
Fortunately, the darting procedure has gone smoothly. To minimize the trauma, Jason and Tindall tranquilize all four members of the pride simultaneously. I’m not objecting—but nevertheless I can’t help hovering over my sleeping cats now, like an overanxious mother. All four cats are asleep beside me. It’s predawn, and I am right in the middle of the boma, together with my lions!
Jason looks up at me, and I note his face is emotional too. In all these months of waiting, he’s often caught me unwittingly fixing my gaze on those metal gates and the ridiculous padlock that has held them shut.
“One little turn of the key—and our family’ll be free.” I whisper to him.
“Yup. Know what you’re saying. Or we could simply leave the gate open ‘by mistake’ and let them walk to freedom right now. Believe me, their time’s finally arriving. The collars are the last step.”
I look down at Jason’s agile hands, lovingly securing the device around Marah’s neck. Jason’s scientific colleagues have generously donated two leading-edge solar-powered GPS collars, which operate on sophisticated telemetry readings—and he’s fitting one now. I stand anxiously, moving from foot to foot—calling on the presence of Maria to protect our sedated and vulnerable Lion Queen. Jason glances up at me with a broad grin. The collar fits. I smile back, nodding. This is an unspoken reference to our initial unsuccessful attempt to collar Marah on the day of her arrival. At the time, Jason argued it was the best opportunity to fit her collar, since she was already tranquilized. For health and safety reasons, he wanted to avoid darting her to do so later. He’d arranged with his colleagues to have the collars carefully made up and sized according to average lioness measurements.
However, when it came to actually fitting the collar that first day after landing in the DC3, Jason discovered Marah’s neck was more than ten centimeters larger than average. Of course, I never doubted Marah was an exceptional lioness, but this came as an unexpected confirmation of her unusual size. Ever since then, Jason has been pondering whether White Lions might, in general, be larger than their tawny counterparts. Determining the accuracy of this hypothesis will require careful ongoing scientific study, which he and his team intend to pursue in due course.
For today, fitting the collars while the pride is still in their boma, asleep, allows us a chance to ensure the device is operating correctly before Marah and her pride disappear into the wilderness. And in order to limit Marah’s period of sedation to an absolute minimum, Jason ensured the GPS function was already activated prior to entering the boma.
I look down to watch Jason tightening the screws with a custom-made device. It is vital Marah’s collar isn’t too tight, because it could strangle her if she gains weight, but it can’t be too loose either, as it might get caught on branches, or her paw could get stuck in it while scratching her neck.
Jason moves on from Marah to tighten the screws on Letaba’s collar now. We decided Letaba should wear the second tracking device, since he’s the most daring of the two brothers and therefore most likely to stray in the eventuality of territorial patrols and showdowns with other lions. With Marah and her one son collared, Jason’s thinking is that we’ll pretty much know where to find the other two family members at any given time. Both collars are on, and Jason and Tindall move on to the other two cubs for routine checks.
Alone with Marah as she sleeps, I linger for a moment in the early morning light, crouching down to press my hands against her taut, muscular body. I feel her heart beating. I glance toward Jason and Tindall, who are putting drops in Regeus’s eyes. On impulse, I lie down beside Marah again, just as I did during that epic flight over the highveld. Laying one arm around her warm, soft flank, it occurs to me this is exactly what Zihra did when dozing with her mother. Again, I breathe in that exquisite talcum-and-fresh-cut-hay scent. I don’t care what anyone else may be thinking. This exquisite creature has determined every step I’ve taken since we found each other, five years ago. And now, for just one brief moment in cosmic time, I am able to be with her again! Words are totally inadequate—only purrs and roars could begin to express how I feel. The tears start welling and I simply can’t stop them. That indescribable yearning to be cuddled up with her, as a member of the royal pride, is actually realizable—just for the briefest star-crossed instant. Every day the mother–daughter bond between us intensifies, and if I were granted just one wish, it would be to shapeshift and join Marah’s pride in lioness form, forever one with my sublime lion family. I can understand why people want to tame, cage, hold, trap, box, and keep captive beautiful wild creatures, in the hope of capturing their essence. But, surely, the greatest gift you can offer your loved ones is freedom, so they can be themselves in all their magnificence.
Jason and Tindall have reversed the tranquilizer on all four lions. Over the past eleven months since the translocation to Timbavati, a new tranquilizing drug—Metadromedine—has been tested, which does not require that lions sleep it off overnight, and can be reversed by use of another drug, Ketamine. Having tested this out a number of times, Tindall is confident this combination is preferable to Dormacan. After he delivers the reversal drug intravenously to Marah and her cubs, he and Jason are promptly retreating, advising everyone else in our team to do the same. With Marah starting to emerge from her drugged state, I feel the full life force returning to her lithe body, and the umbilical bond between us growing ever stronger. When she was a cub, I thought of her as my daughter, but now it seems she is my mother—either way, no love in my life has ever felt so strong. Yet, in defiance of this overwhelming feeling of bondedness, I know I have to withdraw to allow Marah to wake up naturally with her own cubs. Tindall and the scientific team have already pulled out of the boma, and Jason is patiently waiting for me at the open gates, gesturing, with a hint of co
ncern. But I can’t resist lingering just a moment longer. Their moment in the sun will come! Lying here in the long, dry grass, as one of them, I glance toward those gates standing open. My emotions are totally overwhelming me again. Being here among my family, I can so clearly picture these four glorious sun creatures, padding their path into the rising sun, through the open gates, wild and free—as if I am walking alongside them.
Feeling Marah suddenly stir beside me and lift her head, I realize that, in my modest human form, I have to move out—now.
I force myself to extricate and walk swiftly through the grasslands toward the gates.
“Move!” Jason instructs. “Marah’s already on her feet!”
“Soon,” I say as I pass through, remembering those words I once heard Marah speak, while held captive in the dungeons of the zoo. “Soon they’ll be free.”
He snaps the padlock shut behind me.
From the safe distance of the viewing hide, out of sight, Jason and I watch and wait for the rest of the pride to wake. Our team returns to Base Camp, with Tindall on standby should we need him again.
Though the chink in the viewing hide, we observe beautiful Queen Marah move over to her cubs, anxiously, on slightly unsteady paws. Letaba wakes, lifts his head, then flops down again. Zihra shakes herself awake, then staggers over to the carcass Jason left them. Finally, they are all wide awake and we watch closely to see how they respond. The two boys have joined their sister in feeding. They look absolutely fine, including Regeus, who tucks in with gusto. But Marah has positioned herself nearby, standing stern and intimidating, without eating at all. I’m hoping she’ll accept the newly fastened contraption around her neck without too much resistance. Instead I find myself flinching as I observe her displeasure. She shakes her head, without attempting to dislodge it with her paw. She wears her encumbrance with dignity, but from another toss of her majestic head, it’s clear that she’s not impressed. And when the Queen’s not impressed, there are consequences.