“They are very fine indeed, Great Leader, but I am afraid I am spoken for in my own lands.”
“Ha – you are in Africa now. No need for posh European ways in Matlalaland. You pick a woman and start a kraal next to mine. Your women stay in the hut and wait for your return from the hunt.” The President noted that Rakul’s attention had been taken elsewhere and he was not quite listening. A very tall woman of sculpted Nilotic features had emerged at the tail of the line of dancing maidens. Her physique was elegantly curved with a small swan neck and tiny waist. Her breasts were not overlarge but full and high-pointed. Her buttocks were perfectly round, her figure exuding youth with sleek muscle tone glinting with fire on an oily sheen. Rakul was enchanted despite his previously nonchalant demeanour. This girl was a head above the girls in line so that she could glance directly at the men watching from the line of chairs. Rakul sat upright and she made contact with his fiery gaze just briefly then looked down, knowing she had him. As Rakul continued to stare she glanced up once, twice, then looked down and smiled as her feet pumped rhythmically to the music below the stately swaying of her head and neck.
The President watched the girl and his new ally flirting across the packed red earth between the seats and the dancing line. A calculating expression grew across his features, then he called her over. She looked around, unsure of herself and that the Matlala chief was calling her. She stepped out of line and walked across, head low but body erect, deeply curved in the lower spine thrusting her shoulders up, bust out. She approached the President and he stood to receive her hand. She stepped up to the dais, taller than the President. He scrutinised her in embarrassing detail then laughed and waved her to sit on Rakul’s chair. Rakul did not speak but made space for her to join him, affecting the manner of the President to these matters. The President turned his head slightly away; had he noticed an air of relief in his new ally as he had passed the girl to Rakul rather than invite her to his own throne? He shrugged, dismissing the thought, took pleasure that his new ally was now invested in the wife-choosing ceremony, binding him to the President to some degree. Soon after, Rakul stood and excused himself from the ceremony. His betrothed stood with him and together they strode back to the residence, eyes watching their tall backs closely.
“Where is General Zam!?” President Mblane shouted once Rakul had left his sight. Zam was sought urgently among the heaving throng and brought to his President. “Come sit with me, Zam,” President Mblane said indicating the seat vacated so recently by Rakul and his bride.
“Yes, my President,” General Zam concurred and took the empty chair uncomfortably.
“I know when you are unhappy, my brother,” said the President. “There is no shame in your failure when you go to war with gods from the heavens.”
General Zam shifted uncomfortably in his chair, knowing the term ‘failure’ could be accompanied by a dramatic fall from grace, often terminally. “I am only unhappy that these gods are playing their own games with us, master of my world. Do we really know if this new god favours the Matlala? When they appeared and stopped our bold attack it seemed to us that these gods were comrades to each other rather than friends of your brave troops.”
“Have no fear, Zam, I have plans. Our new friend must prove himself to be a real brother of the Matlala. The old ways are the best. Tomorrow when he is completely relaxed after a night humping his new Mabele girl we will put him to the test. You did not think your brother Mblane had gone soft with this Rakul? Methinks he may be very useful to us but we must find out the limits of his loyalty. You understand my brother? You will challenge him and lead the Empikas in an olamayio. Then we shall see for real how brave and powerful our new friend really is.”
For the first time since his ill-fated attack on the Nkonki village General Zam smiled broadly. The new man would be tested and Zam himself would supervise the trial. Nothing would please him more.
SIXTEEN
Rakul woke to find his new bride curled against his side as the fiery African morning sun shone hotly through the shutters of his room, motes drifting and disappearing in slatted bars of yellow light and dark shade. Rakul had not considered mating with the local population on this planet but he had been surprised by the sudden overwhelming attraction to the female lying beside him. His new bride was in the first flush of womanhood, still with the taut flesh of youth fired by the fresh hormones of dawning maturity. Her name was Noni and she explained that meant a gift from god, or a gift to a god in her case. When she was impaled on Rakul she knew that this man god above all other men could protect her in the foreign Matlala camp and raise her up above her rivals, other than the President’s wives, and she would be first and most important of Rakul’s harem. She would bear him male children who would be bound to be the chieftains of the next generation; their children would be stronger than those of the President, inspired by the physical majesty of their union. Noni would ensure that this man god would lust for no other woman, well at least as long as she kept her youth, which would be as long as needed to ensure her number-one status.
Rakul moved her arm from across the slab of his chest so that he could rise. She moaned softly, even more beautiful in the morning glow, her face unlined, high brow domed in flawless hazel bronze. For the first time in her fragile existence, she was content; at peace. Rakul indulged this simple pleasure knowing that this would likely be fleeting for her as the demands from the Omeyns clashed against his own plans to drive him on his journey. There was no doubt though that this planet Earth continued to beguile his senses. He was the dominant being on the entire world after all. He donned his mock uniform again. He was pleased to see that the uniform flattered his remarkable physique in the dress mirror. He left the clownish cap and tie behind and set off to slake his thirst.
Rakul stepped out of the corridor into the presidential reception area where President Mblane was already entertaining his minions over breakfast. They all fell silent as Rakul arrived. His high cranium with scimitar tattooed runes was striking when seen in the full light of day. This nobly arched head would have overwhelmed a normal frame but Rakul was in no sense normal. His extraordinary height and breadth of shoulder carried his heavy skull with a lightness and ease that allowed Rakul to move with the grace of a distance athlete a fraction of his mass. He swept the breakfast table with his gaze as the diners became subdued into a respectful silence. This was to be expected but there was more; a sense of expectation. Something was afoot. How interesting.
“Good morning, my friend, we hope you slept well – afterwards that is!” boomed President Mblane from his high chair with a wide grin. He was draped in the worn skin of a large cat, tawny and coarse in texture with a ropey fringe of red-brown hair.
“Good morning, Great Leader. I slept the deep sleep of the just and weary only to wake with delight at the treasure you laid before me.”
President Mblane led the group with forced belly laughs at that thought. “Come sit with me and break your fast, you must have worked up a hunger by now.”
Break my fast, thought Rakul. If these people believe one night’s sleep is fasting then they have lived a soft life indeed, but he sat next to the President as directed and tucked into a venison stew and cornmeal which he had to admit was adequate food for a warrior if not for a gastronome.
“We have been thinking how we could honour your arrival as Powerful Ally and Great Friend to our people. There is only one such honour we can bestow for a warrior such as you. General Zam will explain.”
Zam looked shocked. This was his idea but he had not expected to address the fearsome newcomer with the trial they had plotted for him.
“Stand, man,” President Mblane directed General Zam.
Zam was also wearing the floppy hide of a large cat over his shoulders, noted Rakul. This must have some relevance to what they were conspiring. He regarded the uncomfortable Zam who had stood and was attempting to pull himself erect but the hide sat unc
omfortably about him, necessitating strange contortions to keep the hide from falling. He wore a necklace of large yellow teeth that must have once jutted from the upper jaw of a large carnivore, incisors to the front of his neck for shearing flesh, large canines hanging either side for piercing and killing. “Great Ally,” Zam rumbled. “We have a lion hunt, an Olamayio, planned for today. One of our teenage boys was to prove his manhood by killing the lion in single combat but he will stand down to give you that honour. He will take his turn another day. You have nothing to fear; I myself will lead the Empikas hunting party to protect you.”
Rakul dragged out the silence after Zam’s halting declaration and dubious assurance. “A lion hunt you say. What is a lion?”
General Zam was confounded by the question. Was this newcomer deliberately making him look foolish? “A lion, Great Ally? Lord of the plains, top predator of this very Africa.” General Zam indicated the pelt that overwhelmed his gross frame. “I took this lion skin myself in the hunt when I became a man. The President, too.” Zam indicated the President who wore his own lion skin. The story was that President Mblane had hunted his lion alone, unsupported by mature warriors of the Ilmeluaya, as befitted his towering bravery and advanced hunting skills. When they were in small friendship groups, or in their own minds, his entourage considered the alternative rumour: that Mblane had been given the hide of a lion that had been hunted by a strong boy of the tribe who had disappeared at the time Mblane had first worn his lion skin.
So this was the little plot from Mblane’s henchmen, thought Rakul. They have some ‘trial by predator’ in mind, hoping I might fail. We shall see.
“I hear you, General Zam, and am honoured that you allow me to attain honour as a man according to your customs. Shall we set off right away?”
General Zam’s large round face looked comically taken aback. He was not expecting such enthusiasm to facing trial with the Lord of the Jungle in mortal combat and was certainly unready for immediate action. President Mblane was regarding him carefully; there was no place to retreat. “We will ready the Empikas for the hunt before dusk today.”
“I will be ready,” Rakul said evenly.
*
General Zam was as good as his word. He returned to the presidential residence as the great red sun of Africa turned the sky dusky pink over the flat thorn trees to the west. He had doffed the bulky lion skin in favour of hunting pelts in mottled brown, black and white across his chest and loins, a leopard skin cap and tail hanging down his back. He carried a long oval shield pointed at the ends and two ceremonial hunting spears. He was accompanied by a band of twelve similarly clad warriors and two smaller bushmen with impish faces wearing only a loin clout. The warriors’ only concession to modern dress was their military boots and socks. The bushmen, however, stood barefoot.
Rakul greeted General Zam in the open area before President Mblane’s ‘throne’. Rakul experienced no sense of nerves. This kind of ceremony was common across the Jarlankan home worlds, where a wide variety of monstrous beasts were hunted for sport.
General Zam offered one of his spears to Rakul. A second warrior was pushing a spare shield towards him also. Rakul took the spear and turned it end over end. It was a stout rod of dark wood with a ten-inch stabbing blade affixed to one end, various thongs at the other largely for appearance, he decided. Rakul took the spear with hands outspread and bent it like he was testing a bow and arrow. The warriors looked sidelong at each other; none could bend such a stave in their bare hands. “Thank you, Zam, but I have my own spear I use for hunting.” Rakul drew his fighting ixwa that was of similar proportion to the native version, but much more capable with its array of hidden blades, drugs and sedatives. “I will avail myself of this sturdy shield though,” Rakul added, taking the proffered shield from the happy warrior.
General Zam took back the spear. The silver-blue metal of Rakul’s ixwa was hardly a traditional hunting weapon, but it was of a similar proportion and capability, seemingly, so Zam had no cause for complaint. He conceded that this intruder was appropriately dressed in tan hunting jacket, trews and boots. He wore no head covering and the blued metal ixwa was the only conflict with tradition. “We will depart for the hunting grounds by vehicle where we will meet other trackers already on the trail of the pride. We will go on foot from there.”
Rakul nodded and followed the warrior troupe outside where a caravan of modern white sport utility vehicles and flatbed trucks with double cabs waited. The warriors boarded the flatbeds to travel in the open air. President Mblane and some of his entourage travelled on the SUVs where a large feast and coolers of Namibian beer were being loaded. Rakul joined with the warriors and climbed onto a flatbed to sit amongst them. The warriors laughed and joked with their celebrity guest. They sat straighter against the sides of their vehicle, pleased to be honoured in this way. They approved of his bravery and the fact he had chosen to sit with the warriors and not the soft vehicles of Mblane’s entourage.
Rakul waited for the convoy to exit the compound. The SUVs went first, trucks to the rear. The tarmac expired within a few hundred yards of the compound and the vehicles thudded into the packed red dirt road that curved sinuously between low bushes with narrow desiccated leaves and vicious white hook thorns. The warriors kept their arms in the vehicle, well aware of the slashing tug of those thorns as the trucks brushed their branches. Rakul saw the threat and kept his elbows in likewise. Even gods don’t like hook thorns. Despite the roll and thump of the uncomfortable ride Rakul could see real beauty in this land. The sky was turning violet above as the lowering sun turned the red rock kopjes to flame and shadow as they plunged between the bush and low trees that reached for the sky. There was dust in the air but even that was hot and scented with a herbal maquis that pleased Rakul’s senses and reminded him of Jarlankan pastures. He peered over the side to see the progress of the convoy like an aristocratic hound given the opportunity to stick its head out of the window on a car trip.
Just as Rakul was settling in to the hypnotic rhythm of the evening game ride, it came to an end at a wide clearing edged by a few baobabs, trees enormous in girth with smooth purple-grey hides resisting the heat. Two small bushmen waited there for the hunting party, anxious lest the quarry they had sought all day moved too far as they waited for the presidential party to catch up. Rakul waited his turn to drop from the back of the truck among the selected warriors. Further on below the monster trees the SUVs were being emptied of their feast. Tables and seating were being erected by white-coated staff as their leaders looked on impatiently. Cushions and linen cloths were arranged on the tables and chairs and the President seated himself followed by the rest of his family and friends. They started on the cans of beer in picnic coolers as the food trays were passed around, only loosely aware that the warriors were checking their boots, laces and equipment in readiness for the ordeal ahead.
Soon all was ready and General Zam sought President Mblane’s approval to begin the hunt. President Mblane gave his send-off with gravitas, waving a guinea fowl breast from his piled platter on high, a green tin of Windhoek lager grasped in the other hand resting on the table. He did not rise as General Zam took his leave and Rakul was soon loping along in the centre of the file of warriors. They followed the trackers who were moving at pace, staring at the animal paths through the bush that closed in on all sides. No one spoke and they made good speed at this stage of the pursuit. The tracking group paused at a ridge that provided a long view across the next valley. The brightest stars were already showing through the soft dusk that robbed the landscape of its primary colours and turned them to pastel shades softening into deep shadows. Rakul looked up as a booming moan issued from somewhere in the wide space below them. The sonorous groan filled the air, at once distant and commanding, crossing the valley and rising up the hillsides.
“The leader of the pride, the leader of the pride we seek,” General Zam said, cocking an ear towards the sound.
“Yes indeed. The trackers know this beast and have followed him through the day. We are less than an hour away and he is not moving just now.”
The warriors hefted their shields and tested their lances at the thought. Rakul took note and did the same. His ixwa glowed with blue runes as it detected Rakul’s heightened combat readiness, offering him a range of offensive alternatives. The other warriors watched the glowing pewter, aware that the guest of this hunt was also priming himself for the ordeal they knew so well. They knew this Rakul lacked the training they had gained throughout boyhood to face this moment. He knew nothing of the awesome power of mature lions so his easy confidence was likely foolishness. Would it endure in the face of the male lion booming out below or would he crumble and run so that they would have to risk all to cover his retreat?
Rakul found himself intrigued by the bushmen trackers. They could follow a spoor at some pace, occasionally pausing to determine the outcome of a melee of paw prints in the dusty ground, or to sample malodorous slimy predator stools. They did not speak but clearly communed with each other regarding the path before setting off again in unison at a long, loping gait. The Matlala warriors clearly had great confidence in the trackers and never questioned them. The imp-faced trackers wrinkled their features in the growing spoor of the pride as they approached. They had selected this direction of approach so that the pride was upwind of them. They slowed the group down as they neared the lions and were in danger of being seen. The dominant male boomed out again, this time so close, it seemed their chests resonated to the bass bellow. The trackers stopped the hunting group; the pride ahead was not moving. Crunches and cracks and fruity slobbering sounds carried from a wadi ahead where the lions were feeding out of sight in the shallow depression.
Edge of Revelation Page 28