by Wilbur Smith
and gathered stiffly in a small group on the lip of the ravine, "There
is Ethiopia, two hundred yards away. It's two years since last I stood
upon the soil of my own country," said Gregorius, his big dark eyes
catching the last of the light.
He stopped himself and explained. "The river rises in the high country
near Addis Ababa and comes down one of the gorges into the lowland. A
short distance downstream from here it ends in a shallow swamp. There
its waters sink away into the desert sand and disappear.
Here we are standing on French territory still, ahead of us is
Ethiopia, there far to the north is Italian Eritrea."
"How far is it to the Wells of Chaldi?"Gareth interrupted.
That for him was the end of the rainbow and the pot of gold.
Gregorius shrugged. "Another forty miles, perhaps."
"How do we get across this lot?" Jake muttered, staring down into the
dim depths of the ravine where the shallow pools still glowed dull
silver.
"Upstream there is an old camel route to J ibuti," Gregorius told him.
"We might have to dig out the banks a little, but I think we'll be able
to cross."
"I hope you are right," Gareth told him. "It's a long way home, if we
have to go back." The view of water that she had glimpsed in the
depths of the ravine haunted Vicky Camberwell during the night. She
dreamed of foaming mountain streams and spilling waterfalls, of
moss-covered boulders, swaying green ferns about a deep cold pool, and
she awoke, restless and tired, with sweat plastering her hair to her
neck and forehead. There was just the first promise of dawn in the
sky.
She thought that she was the only one awake and she crept into the
vehicle and fetched her towel and toilet bag, but as she jumped down to
the ground she heard the clink of spanner on steel and she saw Jake
stooped over the engine compartment of his car.
She tried to sneak away before he saw her, but he straightened
suddenly.
"Where are you going?" he demanded. "As if I didn't know. Listen,
Vicky, I don't like you wandering around out of camp on your own."
"Jake Barton, I feel so filthy I can smell myself. Nothing and nobody
is going to stop me getting down to the river." Jake hesitated. "I'd
better come down with you."
"This isn't the Folies Berg&e, my dear," she laughed, and he had
learned enough not to argue with this lady. He watched her hurry to
the lip of the ravine and disappear down the steep slope with vague
misgivings, for which he could find no real substance.
The earth and loose stone rolled easily underfoot, and Vicky restrained
her impatience and picked her way carefully towards the water, until
she reached a narrow game trail that tipped down at a more comfortable
angle, and she followed it with relief. Her footsteps, falling
silently on to the soft earth, followed faithfully the string of round
five- toed pad marks, larger than a saucer, which had been plugged
deeply by the heavy weight of the animal that had made them. Vicky did
not look down, however, and if she had, it was doubtful if she would
have recognized what she was seeing. The faintly reflected light of
the pools drew her like a beacon.
When she reached the bottom of the ravine, she found that the river was
so shrunken that it was no longer flowing.
The pools were shallow, stagnant and still warm from the previous day's
sun. The storm waters of the awash had cut down through the softer
upper layers of earth until they exposed the sheet of hard black
ironstone that formed the floor of the ravine.
Vicky stripped off her sweat-damp clothing and stepped down into one of
the shallow pools, sighing with the pleasurable feel of water on her
skin. She sat waist-deep and scooped handfuls of water over her face
and breasts, washing away the dust and salt-sticky sweat of the
desert.
Then she waded to the edge of the pool and selected a bottle of shampoo
from her bag. The water was so soft that she swiftly worked up a thick
coating of white suds that covered her head and ran down her neck on to
her bare shoulders.
She rinsed the soap off and bound the towel around her wet head like a
turban, before kneeling in the shallow pool and soaping her entire
body, delighting at the slipperiness of the suds and their fragrance.
By the time she was finished, the light had strengthened and she knew
that the others would be up and chafing to resume the march.
She stepped out on to the flat black rock that surrounded the pool and
stood for a moment to feel the first gentle movement of the morning
breeze against her naked skin, and suddenly she had a strong sensation
that she was being watched. She, turned swiftly, half crouching, her
hands flying instinctively to cover her bosom and her groin.
The eyes that watched her were of a savage golden colour, and the
pupils were glistening black slits. The stare was steady and
unblinking.
The huge reddish-gold beast crouched on a level ledge of rock,
halfway up the far bank of the ravine. It lay with its forepaws drawn
up under its chin, and there was a sense of deadly stillness about it
that was chilling, although Vicky did not readily recognize what she
was seeing.
Then very slowly the dark ruff of the mane came erect, swelling out
around the head and exaggerating its already impressive bulk. Then the
tail twitched and began to slash back and forth with the steady beat of
a metronome.
Suddenly Vicky knew what it was. She heard again in her imagination
the echoes of that terrible sound in the night and she screamed.
Jake had just completed the adjustments he was making to the ignition
of his car and closed the engine cowling. He picked up the fluted
bottle of Scrubbs Cloudy Ammonia to dissolve the grease from his hands.
At that instant he heard the scream and he began to run without a
conscious thought.
The scream was so high and shrill, an expression of mortal terror,
that Jake's heart raced in sympathy and when the scream came again, if
anything shriller still, he leaped the bank and went sliding and
running down the steep slope of the ravine.
It was only seconds from when he heard the first scream until he came
skidding and sliding down on to the rocky floor of the ravine beside
the pool.
He saw the naked girl crouching at the edge of the pool, both hands
pressed to her mouth. Her body was pale and slim, with the small tight
round buttocks of a lad and long graceful legs.
"Vicky," he shouted. "What is it?" And she turned quickly to him,
her breasts swinging heavily at the movement, round and white with
large pink nipples standing out tightly with cold and shock. Even in
the extremity of the moment, he could not help but glance down at the
smooth velvety plain of her belly and the fluffy dusky triangle at its
base. Then she was running towards him on those long coltish legs, and
her face was deadly white, and the speckled green eyes huge and
swimming with rampant
terror.
"Jake," she cried. "Oh God, Jake," and then he saw movement beyond
her, halfway up the bank of the water course.
The wound had stiffened during the night, almost paralysing the lion's
hindquarters, and the torn entrails were leaking poison and infection
into the belly cavity. It had slowed the animal so drastically that
the natural reflexive anger which the sight of a human form had roused
was not strong enough to precipitate the charge.
However, the sound of the human voice immediately invoked memories of
the hunters who had inflicted this terrible aching agony "and the anger
flared higher.
Then suddenly there was another of the hated two-legged figures,
more noise and movement, all of this enough to counter the stiffness
and paralysing lethargy. The lion rose slightly out of his crouch and
he growled.
Jake ran four paces to meet Vicky and she tried to throw her arms about
his neck for protection, but he avoided the embrace and grasped her
upper arm with his left hand, his fingers digging so deeply into her
flesh that the pain steadied her. Using the impetus of her run, he
swung her on towards the path that climbed the slope.
"Run," he shouted. "Keep running." And he turned back to face the
crippled animal as it launched itself from the ledge into the bed of
the river.
It was only then that Jake realized that he still carried a full bottle
of Scrubbs Ammonia in his hand. The lion came bounding swiftly through
the shallow stagnant pool towards him. Despite the wounds, it followed
with lithe and sinuous menace. it was so close that he could see each
stiff white whisker in the curled upper lip and hear the rattle of air
in its throat. He let it come on, for to turn and run was suicide.
At the last moment he reared back like a baseball pitcher and hurled
the bottle. It was an instinctive action, using the only weapon
however puny that was at hand.
The bottle flew straight at the lion's head, catching it in the direct
centre of its broad forehead as it lunged smoothly upwards towards the
ledge where Jake stood.
The bottle exploded in a burst of sparkling glass splinters and a
creamy gush of the pungent liquid. It filled both the lion's eyes,
blinding it instantly, and the stench of concenits open mouth and
flaring nostrils killed trated ammonia in its sense of smell and
shocked its whole system so violently that it missed its footing and
fell, roaring with the agony of scalded eyeballs and burning throat,
into the shallow water where it rolled helplessly on its back.
Jake ran forward, seizing the few seconds of advantage he had gained.
He stooped to pick up a water-worn ironstone boulder the shape and size
of a football, and swung it up above his head with both hands.
As he poised himself on the ledge above the pool, the lion recovered
its balance and came up at him blindly. Jake swung the boulder down
from on high and, like a cannon ball, it smashed into the back of the
animal's neck, where the sodden mane covered the juncture of skull and
vertebrae, crushing both so that the dreadfully mutilated beast
collapsed and rolled on to its side, half in the water and half on the
black rock ledge.
For long seconds Jake stood over it, panting with exertion and
reaction, then he leaned forward and touched with his fingertip the
long pale lashes that fringed the lion's open staring golden eye.
Already the sheen of the eyeball was clouded by the corrosive liquid.
At Jake's touch there was no blinking reflex, and he knew that the
animal was dead.
He turned to find that Vicky had not obeyed his instruction to run. She
stood frozen where he had left her, naked and vulnerable, so that he
felt his heart shift within him and he went to her quickly.
With a sob she flew into his arms and clung to him with startling
strength. Jake knew that the embrace was the consequence of terror not
affection, but as his own heart-beat slowed and the tingle of the
adrenalin in his blood receded, he thought that he had achieved a solid
advantage. If you save a girl's life, she just has to take you
seriously, he reasoned, and grinned to himself still a little
unsteadily. All his senses were enhanced by the high point of recent
danger. He could smell the perfumed soap and the stink of ammonia. He
could feel with excruciating clarity the slim hard length of the girl's
body pressed to his and the smooth warmth of her skin under his
hands.
"Oh Jake!" she whispered brokenly, and with sudden aching certainty he
knew that in this moment she was his to take, to possess right here on
the black rock bank of the Awash, beside the warm carcass of the
lion.
The knowledge was certain and his hands moved on her body,
receiving instant confirmation her body was quick and responsive, and
her face turned up to his. Her lips trembled and he could feel her
breath upon his mouth.
"What the hell is going on down there?" Gareth's voice rang across the
murky depths of the gorge. He stood at the top of the bank high above
them. He had one of the Lee Enfield bolt-action rifles under his arm
and seemed on the point of coming down to them.
Jake turned Vicky, shielding her with his own big body and slipping off
his moleskin jacket to cover her nakedness.
The jacket reached halfway down her thighs and folded voluminously
around under her armpits. She was still shivering like a kitten in a
snowstorm, and her breathing was broken and thick.
"Don't worry about it," Jake called up at Gareth. "You weren't in time
to help, and you aren't needed now." He groped in his hip pocket and
Produced a large, slightly grubby handkerchief, which Vicky accepted
with a tearful, quivering smile.
"Blow your nose," said Jake. "and get your pants on, before the whole
gang arrives to give you a hand." regorius was so impressed that he
was speechless for several minutes. In Ethiopia there is no act of
ivalour so highly esteemed as the single-handed hunting and killing of
a full-grown adult lion, The warrior who accomplishes this feat wears
the mane thereafter as a badge of his courage and earns the respect of
all. The man who shoots his lion is respected, and the man who kil
with a spear is venerated. - Gregorius had never heard of one killed
with a single rock and a bottle of ammonia.
Gregorius skinned out the carcass with his own hands.
Before he had finished, the black pinioned vultures were sailing in
wide circles overhead. He left the naked pink carcass lying in the
river bed, and carried the wet skin up to the bivouac where Jake was
fretting to continue the trek towards the Wells. He was irreverent in
his disdain of the trophy, and Greg tried to explain it to him.
"You will gain great prestige amongst my people, Jake.
Wherever you go, people will point you out to each other."
"Fine
Greg. That's just fine. Now will you kindly haul arse.
"I will have a war bonnet made for you out of the mane, Greg insisted,
&nb
sp; as he strapped the bundle of wet skin to the sponson of Jake's car.
"With the hair combed out, it will look very grand."
"It could only be an improvement on his present hair style," Gareth
observed drily. "I agree it's been a beautiful honeymoon, and Jake is
a splendid lad but like he said, let's move on, before I am violently
ill." As they moved towards their respective cars, Gregorius fell in
beside Jake and quietly showed him the mushroomed copper-jacketed
bullet he had removed from its niche in the pelvic bone of the
carcass.
Jake paused to examine it closely, turning it in the palm of his
hand.
"Nine millimeter, or nine point three," he said. "It's a sporting
calibre not military."
"I doubt if there is a single rifle in
Ethiopia that would fire this bullet," said Greg seriously. "It's a
foreigner's rifle."
"No need to blow the bugle yet," said Jake, and flicked the bullet back
to him. "But we'll bear it in mind." Gregorius almost turned away,
then said shyly, "Jake, even if the lion was already wounded it's still
the bravest thing I ever heard of. I have often hunted for them, but
never killed one yet." Jake was touched by the boy's admiration. He
laughed roughly and slapped his shoulder.
"I'll leave the next one for you," he promised.
They followed the windings of the River Awash through the savannah
grassland, moving in towards the mountains so that with each hour
travelled the peaks stood higher and clearer into the sky. The ridges
of rock and the deep-forested gorges came into hazy focus, like a wall
across the sky.
Suddenly they intersected the old caravan road, hitting it at a point
where the steep banks of the Awash flattened a little. The ford of the
river had been deeply worn over the ages by the passage of laden beasts
of burden and the men who drove them, so that the many footpaths down
each bank were deep trenches in the red earth, that jinked to avoid any
large boulder or ridge of rock.
The three men worked in the brilliant sunlight and swung shovel and
mattock in a fine mist of red dust that powdered their hair and bodies.
They filled in the uneven ground and deeply worn trenches,
levering the boulders free and letting them roll and bounce down into
the river bed, and slept that night the deathlike sleep of utter
exhaustion that ignored the ache of abused muscle and burst blisters.