The Daughters of the Darkness

by Luke Phillips

  “I also want you to get familiar with the handguns, just in case we have a close call. That one on top is for you. It’s not necessarily legal for you to have one here, but I’d rather you had it,” he said quietly.

  Catherine instinctively slung the strap of the rifle over her shoulder, which made him happy. She picked up the revolver, a Smith & Wesson 686 Deluxe with a three-inch barrel. It was finished in stainless steel and had textured wood grips. He reached behind the rack and pulled out a small, red leather clip holster and handed it to her. She fitted it to her shorts and placed the gun into it, where it became partially covered by her blouse.

  “Let’s fire a couple of shots off down at the range. It would be a shame not to after Jelani has set everything up,” he said.

  Thomas pulled another holster from the rack, already containing his own revolver, a Colt Anaconda with a six-inch barrel. It looked similar to Catherine’s, except his was an older and much larger gun.

  “Ideally, I don’t want guns on the rack that we haven’t shot, and we never take a gun into the field that hasn’t been fired, okay,” Thomas explained.

  “Why’s that?” she asked.

  “It doesn’t make sense to trust your life to an untested gun,” he shrugged. “Colonel Patterson found that out for himself when he was hunting man-eaters here over a hundred years ago. He borrowed a doctor friend’s more powerful rifle, only for it to misfire on him when one of the lions ambled up. He was very nearly lunch.”

  They picked up their guns and ammo and walked down the path that led to the working side of the camp, where Jelani had set up the firing range in a small avenue between the scrub opposite the tents. Some empty oil barrels with sandbags on top of them marked where they were to fire from, and a table with a soft leather top and fleeced blankets hung over its side provided a place to put the guns. It was only a short walk, but the weight of the weapons made it a hard one, and they were both glad to reach the table.

  Thomas looked over the range. Jelani had been thorough, setting up steel targets along the banked curves at various distances. There were numerous animal shaped ones, with Cape buffalo, coyote, boar and bird plates dotted around at various distances. Double-tap duelling trees and gongs were lined up in banks extending down the range. A little closer there were even some zombie shaped targets, as well as traditional card and paper bullseye ones. Thomas put the boxes of ammunition onto the table, then each of the guns, pointing them down range.

  “Why don’t we try that lever-action out first?” Thomas suggested.

  He picked up the gun and grabbed a handful of bullets from the box. He showed her how to feed the six rounds of ammunition into the rifle before shouldering it. He chambered a round with a pull of the lever and snapped it back up quickly. With his eye on a nearby zombie target he pulled the trigger. Catherine flinched at the sound, which almost drowned out the resounding ping as the big bore bullet smashed into the target, just left of centre.

  “Your turn,” he said, carefully handing it over.

  “How much did you want to be John Wayne when you were little?” Catherine sighed.

  “It was Clint Eastwood actually,” Thomas replied.

  He was glad to see she knew what she was doing. She showed no hesitancy or fear as she checked her footing and shouldered the rifle. Something troubled him though, something that had been gnawing away at him for some time. Catherine had changed over the last year. Her softness could disappear at a moment’s notice, her demeanour becoming cold and hardened. He was used to her fire and temper, but not the feeling of being kept at a distance. When she was feeling vulnerable, she closed up and became aggressive. He could see it in her eyes now, a steely determination, and a faraway look that burned with something akin to hatred. She struggled for a moment with the lever action before it broke open, but she snapped it back up confidently enough. She took a breath and held it as she pulled the trigger. A puff of dirt erupted just to the left of the zombie target. Thomas saw the pent-up frustration flush over her face and vanish just as quickly as he stepped forward. There was no struggle or hesitation this time as she reloaded, the gun still at her shoulder. It was Thomas’s turn to flinch, close as he was as the second shot cracked. A metallic ping rang out as it hit the far left of the zombie silhouette.

  “It shot left for me too,” Thomas said quietly. “Let me adjust the scope for you.”

  She handed the rifle to Thomas. The coldness had gone.

  “I thought this might be fun, but if you’re not in the mood...”

  “It’s not that,” she sighed. “I just always wanted to come to Africa, to go on safari. Bringing guns was never part of the dream.”

  Thomas nodded, understanding. He looked down for a moment, screwing off the caps for the elevation and windage adjustment on the top and side of the scope. He glanced at the grey indent where Catherine’s shot had hit the target, before turning the windage dial a few clicks. He handed the rifle back to her.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” he offered. “Hit that target in the centre and tomorrow, you get a full day of safari with Jelani and I as your personal guides. No man-eaters and no guns.”

  Her eyes lit up mischievously, making him smile. She shouldered the rifle again. A second later she fired, the satisfying sound of an echoing, bell-like ring signalling she had hit the target well. He almost didn’t need to glance to see she had hit dead on centre. Boosted by the hit, she chambered and fired the three remaining shots at some of the other targets, each marked by a successful ping of impact.

  “See, you just needed the motivation,” he said kindly.

  “And your adjustment of the scope,” she smiled. “Thank you. You’re right, that was kind of fun.”

  They each took turns to shoot, making adjustments to the rifles where necessary. Having fired both his rifle and shotguns satisfactorily, Thomas pulled out the Colt revolver. He loaded it with the silver cased 44. Magnum bullets from the box and cocked the hammer. He took careful aim at a coyote shaped target on the 75-yard bank. Pulling the trigger, he didn’t hesitate or wait for the ping, moving onto the gong targets to its right. He grinned proudly as he knocked the empty casings from the cylinder onto the table. The coyote target had fallen over completely, whilst the weighty gongs were left swinging from the impacts of the heavy rounds.

  “Show off,” smirked Catherine. “Bet you can’t do it twice in a row.”

  “What do I get?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Respect and less of a hard time,” she shrugged.

  Thomas chambered another six rounds quickly. He took aim at another coyote target to the left of the gongs and fired. He shifted his aim, minding his footing and the wind as the gongs swung back and forth from the previous impacts. As the cylinder of the revolver clicked round for the final bullet, he took in a breath and held it. His trigger finger squeezed just as he felt Catherine’s hot breath on his neck, then her wet tongue as she gave a quick playful lick of his nape. He flinched and shot high, his miss being marked by an explosion of the spongy bark of a baobab tree behind the gongs.

  “You’re as good as licked if you get distracted,” Catherine giggled. “You worried the hell out of that tree though.”

  “Cheat,” Thomas scoffed.

  “Come on Rambo,” she laughed, “I’m starving. And as you missed, that ringing sound can only be the dinner bell.”

  They walked hand in hand back up the path to the main camp. Other than the colt which he holstered, and Catherine’s Smith & Wesson, they left the guns on the table. Thomas nodded to two of Jelani’s men nearby, who took up the guns and followed them. Catherine had been right, and they found Jelani and Mansa waiting for them at the top. Out on the kopje a dining table and chairs had been brought out, set up a little way back from the fire pit and its own wooden armchairs. They would be treated to a beautiful sunset view of the gorge as the day ended. Mansa gave them a little bow as they approached and directed them to their seats. Jelani joined them.

  “The range is
fantastic,” Thomas acknowledged.

  “I gathered from the noise you were enjoying yourselves,” Jelani beamed.

  “I’ve promised Cath a day of safari tomorrow if you’re up for coming with us?” Thomas asked.

  “Of course,” he nodded. “O’Connell will be here too by then and can be my assistant.”

  “Let me know how that works out for you,” Thomas laughed.

  The first course was a fragrant salad of mango and avocado served with a chilli dressing. Catherine devoured the food, listening in silence as Thomas and Jelani talked about the camp, and the men who had stayed loyal whilst others had left in fear of the lions and Kanu Sultan. Mansa brought out the main course, roasted guinea fowl, with fried slices of sweet potato and a caramelised onion and red berry gravy. She had hardly eaten on the plane, but she was now ravenous and reminded of her hunger by the wafting aromas coming from the kitchen. As the dessert arrived, a soft orange and lime sorbet, she was startled to hear a lone and curious sounding howl float up from quite nearby.

  “A hyena,” explained Jelani.

  “I know,” said Catherine, her mouth still partially full, “I was just surprised to hear it so close.”

  “It can smell dinner,” he smiled. “They sometimes come into the camp after dark to look for scraps – but the men wash everything down and lock supplies away in metal boxes. We also have a watch throughout the night and keep the fire lit, which keeps them at bay.”

  “That reminds me,” said Thomas, “ask the guys to take the straps off the rifles in the rack will you. Old leather and cloth is almost as good as that guinea fowl to a hyena.”

  “Believe me, it isn’t,” Jelani smiled.

  Mansa and another man cleared away the remnants of the dinner. Catherine slumped up against Thomas, nuzzling her head into his shoulder. She wrapped her arm round his, comfortable and satiated for the first time in 36 hours.

  “I would offer you a sundowner,” Jelani said, “but I think perhaps an early night is calling for you. My men will help your Miss Keelson when she arrives.”

  “I’m going to have a look around first, maybe bag a few birds to replace your diminishing stocks,” Thomas replied. “The food was truly excellent.”

  “I’m definitely heading to bed. I’m bushed,” sighed Catherine happily.

  They excused themselves and walked back to the tent, arms around each other’s waist, their backs warmed by the glow of the sunset.

  “Don’t be too long,” Catherine murmured.

  He kissed her on the forehead as she slipped through the doors and shut them behind her. He turned around and walked over to the gun rack, picking up the Evans 20 bore shotgun and filling the pockets of his lightweight shooting vest with shells. He wasn’t planning to go far, just a little way beyond the firing range into the scrub. He was fairly certain that if he edged towards the river gorge, from there he would find some guinea fowl foraging in the cool of the evening, or even some sandgrouse going to roost in the thorns if he was lucky. He shouldered the shotgun and stepped off the path, into the scrub that ran alongside the shooting range.

  ~

  She stirred, having been awake for some time, but hesitant to move from her spot deep in the thicket until the heat of the day had dissipated. Her thick, smooth coated tail thrashed the ground with pent up energy, as if her muscles and sinews had been storing the solar rays she had soaked up during her rest. She stood, stretching her front paws out in front of her as she arched her back. She rubbed her chin and both sides of her forehead against the dry, dusty ground, marking it with scent from the glands beneath those sensitive areas of skin. She scraped the dry earth with her back legs, raking and disturbing the soil so as to distribute the pungent marking further. Satisfied, and with a deep purr emanating from her throat, she trotted forward through the scrub.

  She had been curious at the sounds she had heard during the day, edging closer before the sun had risen high in the early morning. Although she had raised her head at the explosive sounds that had come later, it was much quieter now and she headed in the direction they had come from. As she entered into a heavier cluster of trees, the rich, honey-like scent she was now familiar with hit her nose and stopped her in her tracks. She dropped to the ground instinctively. She lay with her ears pricked and swivelled towards where both smell and sound came from. She rose into a crouch, ready to spring if necessary, but her curiosity tempted her forward. At the foot of a sausage tree she paused. She could make out the white structures ahead and sensed the movement of animals beyond them.

  New scents were brought to her on the breeze. Metallic and chemical taints that she did not recognise and made her lips roll back, baring her fangs at the unwelcome taste. There was too much noise and open country here. She flanked left, following the land downhill. In her peripheral vision, she could see more white structures further down, before a gully that opened up between the trees. She avoided this, skirting round and away into the shadows. Then she caught the movement in the distance, heading across her path. She hunkered down immediately, craning her head forward with her eyes and ears fixed directly ahead.

  ~

  Once clear of the shooting range, Thomas swung right, heading towards the bank that ran along the gorge. He began to stoop as he went, breaking his upright silhouette and making it harder for him to be spotted. Although stalking birds, he still made occasional changes to his path, staying downwind as much as possible. He was all too aware that the cool shadow of the scrub would be an ideal place to lie up for predators and prey alike.

  He stopped in a dense ring of thorn bushes. He heard a piercing cry, like a child’s squeaky rubber toy. He smiled, recognising it as the call of a crested francolin. It was a species he had thought he might encounter, as they had an inherent trust of man and often foraged for food near bush camps. He crouched for a while, letting his eyes get used to the sepia tones of the little patch of woodland. He spotted the plump brown and cream coloured birds scratching around the roots of a sausage tree about thirty yards away, their dappled tones the perfect camouflage. His eyes darted to the forked trunk of an acacia tree to his right and he slowly edged towards it. Very carefully, he brought the gun up and rested it within the fork. Only the tip of his head was visible from the other side as he broke the barrels and plied them with the pair of yellow, shot-filled cartridges. As quietly as possible he snapped them shut and shouldered the gun.

  Looking down the sights, Thomas could see he had an opportunity to take all three. Two of the birds were standing close together, almost butting heads as they pecked at the ground beneath them. The other bird was standing a little further off, still making the brazen call he had heard. If he was fast with the trigger, he could take the two together with one barrel, and the loner with the other. The foraging pair wouldn’t be a problem, but the strutting cock bird was already on alert and would fly up at the report of the first shot. He would have to pick him off mid-air, but he was up for the challenge. Thomas took a sharp intake of breath and held it. He waited for the two birds scrabbling at the dry earth to line up, as the neck and head of one disappeared behind the other. He squeezed the trigger, and a fraction of a second later saw the birds drop onto their backs, their feet still twitching as he swung the gun upward and fired again. Caught in its ascent, the third bird folded its wings, its head falling forwards in death as it bowled over in the air and began to drop to the ground. It disappeared out of sight on the other side of a thick clump of wait-a-bit thorns. Thomas sighed as he stood up and walked over to pick up the brace, before venturing towards the barbed brush that possibly held the other.

  ~

  She looped in a wide arc around the man she was following. He moved cautiously and carefully, putting her on alert. She recognised his approach and demeanour as that of a predator. She became curious, interested in what the man could be hunting. She again hunkered down, watching. Her eyes were fixed on his position, but she lost him in the distance as he too lowered into the brush. She waited, not daring
to move or give her position away. The man had altered his course several times, forcing her to stay upwind. This made her hesitant, but she slowly relaxed as curiosity took the place of her desire to hunt. As a thunderous crack ran out through the woodland, she flinched with the surprise, the sound muffling her answering snarl. Her tail swished with purpose, its soft, barbed tip brushing the scar on her left flank with each flick. It had been left there by a noise maker just like the one this man carried.

  Spurred into action, she was already up and padding away silently when the second shot rang out. Freezing again, but ready to pounce, she caught the movement above her. Instinct anchored her to the ground as she resisted the urge to spring, instead letting the dead bird crash to the floor a few feet from her. Swiftly she dashed forward, scooping the francolin into her jaws as she passed. She did not look back, quickly putting distance between her and the noise maker as she weaved through the thorny maze of scrub, confident she would not be followed.

  ~

  Thomas paused on the other side of the wait-a-bit thorns. Where he had expected to find the bird, lay only a few belly feathers. Where the rest of it had gone was only too clear. The pug mark was almost as wide as it was long, some six inches either way, not quite as long as his outstretched hand, but considerably wider. He had almost mistaken it for a leopard print at first, but it was far too large. The pads were broadly spread, typical of a male, but narrow and teardrop in shape like a female. It could only be a large lioness he concluded. Suddenly distracted from his thoughts by the shiver sent down his spine as he realised how close the cat had been, he stood up and slowly began to back towards camp, his gun trained on the bush as he went.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Thomas stared at the sky through the mosquito-mesh tent top. The night was filled with sound. Cicada beetles and crickets chirped from the grass, only stopping when stumbled upon by the equally vocal sharp-nosed grass frogs and square-marked toads that hunted them along the camp edges. The creaking call of a marsh owl floated up from the river gorge. He tried to sleep, something Catherine was having no trouble doing. She was sprawled out over the bed with one hand tucked beneath a pillow, the other behind her back and the sheets wrapped around the bottom half of her naked body. Thomas smiled as every now and again her contented snores added to the night chorus. He closed his eyes, drifting away as best he could. Soon he slept, albeit fitfully, as his slumber was penetrated by the screams of startled prey, the devilish chuckles of hyena and the bickering of hippo down in the gorge. Finally, deep sleep came and he fretted no more.