The Daughters of the Darkness

by Luke Phillips

  Thomas let the hammering beat of his heart slow before he tried to lift himself off the ground. He slowly made his way over to where his rifle lay and picked it up. He felt slightly less light headed as the adrenaline pumping through his system began to subdue. He dragged his feet a little as he made his way back over to the Big Cat and opened up the driver’s door. He leant the rifle against the passenger seat and hauled himself into the cabin, closing the door firmly behind him. He rested for a moment before rummaging through his pack to find the radio. Catherine was on the other end almost immediately. He told her what had happened.

  “What is it about you and trees,” he heard her exclaim. “Can you drive?”

  “I’m going to try to,” he answered, “but I think it might be a good idea if you attempt to meet me somewhere in the middle. I still don’t know how badly I’m hit. I certainly don’t feel great.”

  “We’re on our way. Stick to the track. If you feel dizzy or tired, pull over immediately and wait for us.”

  “Will do,” Thomas replied, putting down the radio.

  He started the engine and pulled the Big Cat around. His hands were still trembling, but he knew he had to try and get at least part of the way back to camp. He trundled the truck past the two limp bodies of the lionesses he had killed, before hitting the accelerator and tearing up the track as fast as he felt capable.

  ~

  She edged through the grass with silent dedication. The scent of the males was thick and she moved cautiously, each step countered by a flick of her alert and pricked ears. Her whiskers stretched forwards in exploratory eagerness and she licked her muzzle, moistening her nasal passages and enriching the scents carried on the wind. She picked up her feet, bending her paws with precision to cushion their impact on the soft earth. She passed a large tree, and stopped short of breaking from the veil the long grass afforded her. She hunkered down onto the ground and waited, panting softly as she filled her lungs, ready for charge or escape as might be necessary. She lifted into a crouch and crept forward, slowly emerging from the blanket of greenery surrounding her.

  Her eyes bulged as the intensity of the lingering scents bombarded her. She found the first of the dead lionesses lying face down by the side of the track. It was an older female, one that had belonged to the pride she had taken over when she had first settled in the territory. Her snout wrinkled into a silent snarl as her nostrils were stung by the waft of congealing blood that pooled beneath the lioness’s head. She stepped away, finding the body of the second female a few yards from the first. This animal was smaller, younger. And familiar. It had been one of the cubs she had adopted during the storm on the marshland.

  She nuzzled at the neck tenderly, patting at the limp shoulder of the lioness as she tried to roll it onto its feet. It stayed slumped and motionless on the ground. She opened her mouth as if she were about to sneeze, further enhancing her ability to taste and locate scent. She looked to the west, easily identifying the strong, prominent markings of the males from further off. There was an acrid, burning taste in the air too, like the scorch marks left on trees when fire fell from the sky, but much fainter. Then she caught it, the thin, coppery taint lacing a blood splatter on the ground. Man had been here too. She licked at the stained dust, enjoying the sweet and metallic taste that still lingered. She stood alert and restless, looking east in the direction the man had gone. As she padded along the trail after him, she rolled her head from side to side and began to bellow savage, snarling roars of intent that echoed across the savannah and dissipated into the darkness with her.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Kanu Sultan stood in the impressive stone gateway of the former wildlife conservancy and listened to the sounds of the night as they echoed across the marshland. The faint angry roars faded slowly, only to be answered by silence. It was the voice of the queen, the strange one. She was smarter and larger than the others, that they knew. But nobody had ever seen her and lived to tell the details. It served his needs well as its part in the myths surrounding his powers and his domain over the animals, but clearly Thomas Walker was proving a thorn in her side as well as his. When the crickets and reed frogs began their chorus again and the sounds of the African night replaced the silence, he looked back towards the quiet waterway.

  The Galana River led all the way to the east coast resort of Malindi, known as the ‘little Italy of Africa’. But it was in the Gongoni township, on the opposite bank, that his kind of business was done. It was a hive for Al-Shabaab recruiters, who preyed on the unrest of the poverty-stricken locals, forced to give up their children to a vile sex trade and live in a hub for drug trafficking, all fuelled by the mafia-backed resort across the water. Adding to the powder keg was the Mombasa Republican Council, a political separatist group who also manipulated the strained tensions of the township to their advantage. Both groups needed arming and supplying. The government had no sway there and even less presence. It was the perfect destination for his business and a source of constant demand he was only too happy to supply. Adopting both Al-Shabaab and MRC tactics to intimidate and influence the impoverished farmers and villagers of Tsavo had in turn helped him secure his own seclusion from the authorities. But now Thomas Walker was bringing unwanted attention to the region. He lingered no longer and turned his back on the wilderness of the Galana marshes.

  He strolled purposefully through the compound, back towards the lodge that now served as both his personal quarters and the base of his operations. His sharp eyes swept over the space until they came to rest on Musa, who was huddled up against the far wall. Kanu came to a halt a few feet from him, placing his hands on his hips as he surveyed the boy.

  “Come with me Musa,” he commanded simply, striding towards the lodge again. He didn’t need to look back to know the boy would be following obediently.

  Kanu passed the two guards at the entrance to the lodge and strolled through the lobby towards an open room to the left. Musa hesitated at the large double doors that marked the entrance, having never been inside before. Kanu beckoned him in with a look of impatience.

  “Musa, a belief that your life has purpose and power is often the key to survival. Do you believe that?”

  The boy neither nodded nor answered, his eyes wide in fear.

  “There are always sacrifices you will be asked to make. Whether you are willing or not, that’s what will decide your fate,” Kanu continued. “When I was a boy, not much older than you are now, I was already on the streets of Mombasa. My father was a humble man who worked as a porter in a hotel. One day a drug lord came to our house, demanding money for protection. You know what happened then?”

  Musa nodded. He knew the story well.

  “He drove a machete through my father’s chest, in front of my mother and older brother. But that was just the beginning of my nightmare. He then gave my brother and I a choice. Only one of us could live, and only then to prove our loyalty. Having spent years teaching me to fight, my brother hesitated. I did not. I took the machete and killed him. I knew I would become a soldier for the man who murdered my father, and that my mother would be forced to become either a prostitute or a drug mule. I chose life for us instead of death, it was that simple.”

  Musa nodded again, still fearful and unsure why Kanu was telling him a story they all knew.

  “I was willing to kill my own brother to save myself and my mother. I am now giving you a similar choice. But it is not your family, but an outsider I ask you to kill. I am giving you the opportunity to finish the task I gave you seven years ago. So Musa, what will you choose, life or death?”

  Musa said nothing, but turned his gaze towards the wall of glass tanks that lined the far side of the room. His eyes fell to his feet.

  “A good choice,” Kanu huffed. “We will use the critters of the bush to purge the white hunter from our lands. Tomorrow night, you will kill Thomas Walker...with a little help from my friends.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  When Thomas woke, he could hear the so
ft chirrups of the speckled mousebirds as they foraged through the scrub behind the tent. He was lying face down in the bed, one arm dangling over the side and the other buried beneath the pillows he’d thrust aside during the night. He didn’t want to open his eyes yet. The strong light he could detect beyond their closed lids threatened to sting his retinas before they were ready to embrace it.

  He could feel the press of the pad bandaged to his elbow, and the dampness of the dressing on his back. Catherine had administered a strong dose of the hydrogen peroxide from the leopard kit, along with a shot of morphine. She had stitched him up too. He couldn’t remember her doing so, but he felt the results of her handiwork just fine. He was stiff, sore and groggy. As a jolt of pain danced up his left arm and into his shoulder blades, he groaned and sunk back into the mattress. It was then that he felt a warm hand on the small of his back.

  “Try not to move too much, from what I can see you’ll feel every bit of it,” Catherine exclaimed.

  “How bad is it?” Thomas mumbled.

  “Your back looks like a Picasso,” she quipped. “It’s a beautiful blend of swirls of blue, mauve and pink. There’s even a little yellow bit, but I covered it with the dressing unfortunately.”

  “Try not to sound quite so smug.”

  “I’ve spent the night icing your back to bring down the inflammation, and practically showered you in sheep dip to stop you getting gangrene, and I cleaned and dressed your wounds, all of them. So I’ll sound how I bloody well please thank you very much.”

  “Sorry. Thanks. My evening wasn’t exactly a walk in the park you know though?”

  Catherine smiled. He sounded miserable, and he clearly felt it. She peeled back the sheet and softly placed a cold press in the middle of his back, gently dabbing at the purplish bruises. She carefully pulled up the edges of the dressing and checked the four deep slashes. The stitches had held, but there was still a small amount of yellowish discharge staining the padding. She ripped it off with one quick yank.

  “Ow,” Thomas grumbled into the mattress. “I get it, you’re pissed.”

  “I’m changing your dressing Eeyore, to prevent you from upping and dying on us later, is that okay with you?”

  “Only if you can do it without sounding like you’re enjoying yourself.”

  He could hear Catherine sorting through some kind of plastic box as she took out a pack of new gauze. She put it aside, and cleaned the scabbing ridges of the claw wounds with the cold press before patting the skin dry.

  “I’ll let you shower first before I put a new dressing on. You lost a fair bit of blood,” she explained. “You were talking some fairly high grade nonsense when we found you. Something about barbs or brothers I think.”

  Thomas lifted himself up and winced with the pain as he twisted round and sat up. His movement was deliberate and slow. He swung his legs over the bed and gathered his thoughts for a moment.

  “Barbary brothers, that’s what I said, I think,” he grumbled, rubbing his temples.

  “And what does that mean exactly?” Catherine asked.

  “The two males we’ve seen traces of and know are hanging around. I saw them last night. I think they may actually be Barbary lions.”

  “Barbary lions,” Catherine repeated quietly, studying him through narrowed and questioning eyes. “As in the Barbary lion that went extinct in the wild in the 1960s. The same Barbary lion that was only ever found in Algeria and Morocco? Would that be the one you’re talking about?”

  “The very ones,” Thomas replied, smiling nervously. “That said, the Gaetulian lion of Libyan legend probably had a basis in fact, perhaps even being of the same species. If so, that would mean an extended range east. When we were discussing the Tsavo man-eaters, you mentioned the genetic studies of sub-Saharan lions that looked at mane length. Did you know those same studies detected markers that suggested the presence of Barbary lion DNA in their lineage? All those things point to the dispersal and spread of the species beyond what we have historically accepted as their geographical range.”

  “Jericho looked at the pug marks,” Catherine sighed. “He agrees they were two large males. I don’t doubt what you saw. You were however delirious, and may still be. Do you not think there’s a tiny possibility that might be influencing you?”

  “I know what I saw.”

  “Okay, so how did they get to Kenya then?”

  Thomas could see she was only just holding onto her patience. She was hearing him out probably just because of the condition he was in.

  “Let’s say there was a possible remnant population in Libya, perhaps even Egypt. They have gradually been pushed further inland, into the mountain ranges and more remote arid regions to the south. The Barbary lion is uniquely suited to the environment, having already adapted to the Atlas Mountains and the bordering deserts. Ongoing conflicts and human incursion may have forced them to expand further. And most importantly, Barbary lions don’t form prides. They usually hunt in pairs or small immediate family groups. It would help them be more inconspicuous. Give them fifty years or so and they could have easily got here, either from following the river deltas and mountain chains through Egypt and Sudan, or although less likely, via the more central ranges through Niger and Chad.”

  “Well, your fantasies are always relatively well thought through, I’ll give you that,” Catherine sighed.

  “You would have had to see them to believe them. I’ve never seen lions that big. The first one, with the black mane was just magnificent. He was everything I have ever imagined a Barbary lion to be.”

  “Fancy that,” Catherine cooed teasingly. “I remain to be convinced, let’s leave it at that shall we.”

  Catherine helped Thomas up and tucked his arm over her shoulder as she walked with him to the door of the tent. She grabbed a towel and his wash bag with her free hand.

  “Déjà vu, eh?” Catherine grinned.

  “You really are enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”

  “You know how much I like being right and being able to say I told you so.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She opened the door to the tent with her elbow and pushed it open, helping Thomas as they shuffled slowly across the porch to the steps. He shielded his eyes against the morning light and was thankful as they turned away from it towards the bath huts. Thomas waited as Catherine got the water running and helped him take off the shorts he was wearing. He realised she must have dressed him again whilst tending him during the night.

  “We had to bury your blood stained shirt outside of camp,” Catherine explained. “I imagine you’ll be able to wash yourself, but I’ll help get you dry and then fix your dressing.”

  “Thank you,” Thomas said again as she helped him over to the shower.

  After the initial stinging pulse of the water hit his bruised skin, he found his muscles quickly began to loosen and untwist. He was soon able to move his arms relatively easily and began to wash. He took his time, watching little trickles of blood and mud drain away with the water. When there seemed to be no more, he turned off the water and stepped out.

  Back at the tent, Catherine pushed him down onto the bed and began to dab him dry. She fixed the gauze in place with medical tape, and sighed satisfactorily as she put the box down off the bed.

  “All done,” she smiled.

  “I feel a lot better, albeit very stiff and sore,” Thomas winced.

  When he couldn’t reach the fresh clothes on the rail, she grabbed them and put them on the bed for him. She couldn’t help giggling as he rolled around the mattress, groaning and howling as he straightened out and slipped on some boxers and then the clothes.

  “It’s hammock, chair or bed for you today, that’s it,” she warned as he got up. “I’m sure there’s some breakfast left if you can hobble quick enough.”

  She helped him through the door and down the steps. As he looked out over the kopje towards the breakfast table, he saw Jericho sitting there, his feet up and his Australian bush hat pulled do
wn to shade his eyes, which were closed. Thomas realised it had been a very long night for all of them because of him. He decided they had all earned a day off. He slumped down beside Jericho, who opened one eye and acknowledged his presence with a grin. He sat up and stretched before passing him a cold, open bottle of lager.

  “Finally, some real medicine,” Thomas laughed, clinking Jericho’s bottle in thanks.

  “Tom was just telling me how those big males were probably Barbary lions,” Catherine teased as she sat down.

  “No doubt,” Jericho shrugged tiredly. “I probably couldn’t see them through all the leprechauns.”

  “Alright, I take your point,” Thomas laughed, throwing his hands up in surrender. “Of those here though, who else has discovered a previously thought extinct species of big cat in their lifetime?”

  “Yes, you were right once,” laughed Catherine, rolling her eyes. “You’re yet to make a habit of it. And technically, it was a hybrid.”

  “Fine, we’ll see.”

  Thomas reconciled himself to breakfast, stabbing a pair of thick and juicy sausages from the serving plate at the table’s centre and adding them to his own. He ladled scrambled eggs on top and plucked a still warm chapo from a woven basket containing many more of the sweet flatbreads. As he looked around the table he realised that somebody was missing.

  “No sign of Kelly yet?” Thomas asked.

  “She hasn’t come out of her tent,” Catherine replied. “Mason was here earlier but made himself scarce shortly afterwards. I think he’s going over the footage they got. I’m pretty sure the camera was recording the whole time of the attack.”