Lionheart

by Kate Roman

  “Stop that, stop that, the lot of you. Bloody heathens.” Gerald hung the whip back on his belt. “Chapungu. Damned birds are sacred or some such rubbish, and any time one comes about, you can’t get anyone to do a lick of work. Drop everything they’re doing to cast spells at the bloody things, saying they’re soul-stealers. I’ve been trying to get them to see the error of their ways, but apparently I need to try harder.”

  The stricken native was helped to his feet by the others, and Ash winced in sympathy at the dark stripe of blood on the man’s torso where Gerald’s whip had left its mark.

  “Eyes front, boy.” Sir Roland’s voice was low and menacing, and Ash complied at once. An overfondness for the lash was a trait the Haywood brothers shared, yet Ash surreptitiously searched the wide violet sky for the great black eagle, barely able to make out a pair of huge wings soaring silently away into the morning.

  They marched three hours, letting the sun catch them at the horizon, before Gerald’s upraised hand brought them to a silent halt among a small stand of trees. Ash peered through a fringe of vegetation and froze, awestruck.

  A pride of lions lounged in the sun, less than thirty yards away.

  One of four females rolled in the dust, snarling softly. A large male lion with a black mane lay stretched out like a dog, gnawing a bone held between his front paws. Behind the drowsing adults, two youngsters leaped about, play-fighting with excited squeaks, miniature, practice versions of their mother’s throaty growls. The noises carried easily across the savanna to the hunting party.

  “Good find, brother,” Sir Roland murmured. “Fine head on that big male. The black-maned are better sport.”

  Gerald gestured, and Peter, the native bearer, appeared at his elbow with a rifle.

  Ash looked from the weapon to the majestic harmony of the group of big cats. “No!”

  A heavy hand connected hard with the back of Ash’s neck. “Quiet,” Gerald hissed. “Game startles easily. Now take your gun, nephew.”

  Unhappily, Ash turned back to Peter and accepted the rifle.

  The whispered “thank you” earned him another blow to the back of his neck. “Don’t thank them,” Gerald said quietly. “It’s beneath you, and it’s bad for them.”

  Ash crept miserably along as Gerald led them to a spot that would provide a good shot at the lion he’d set his sights on. The idea of killing the noble beast under any circumstances filled Ash with revulsion, but sneaking up on the animal as he lay with his family struck Ash as particularly mean and cowardly.

  Gerald waved his brother and his nephew into positions on a small rise, close to the cats and downwind.

  Ash clutched his rifle. If he could get a warning shot off, hopefully it would scare the lions into running away, and perhaps his father and uncle would believe he was simply overeager and had missed his shot. It would be worth it to save the life of such a magnificent beast.

  The big cat got to his feet and stretched, shaking the huge coal-dark mane. As Ash watched, he clambered onto a rocky promontory and opened his mouth as though to yawn, then let loose a mighty roar that echoed across the veldt.

  With a yelp of surprise, Ash dropped his rifle. The crack as it went off was followed by a roar of pain from Gerald.

  “What the hell!” Sir Roland spun around, consternation and anger chasing themselves across his face.

  Gerald was clutching his buttock. “Dammit, Rollie! Your bloody boy’s gone and spoiled everything.”

  “Old man!” Roland rushed to his brother’s side. “What is it?”

  “Just a flesh wound. Here, Thomas.” Gerald summoned another bearer. “Bring the medical kit. Quick, understand?”

  Ash sank slowly to the ground. He looked back out across the veldt and noticed mechanically that the lions were gone. An image of the black-maned lion filled his vision, so real Ash could almost smell the animal heat of it.

  A native ran up bearing a leather-wrapped bundle, and between them, Gerald and Roland treated the wound. Ash’s bullet had grazed Gerald, leaving a long, bloody slash through his canvas shorts, stiff now with drying blood. Gerald scrambled to his feet and took a couple of limping steps. “Good as new,” he proclaimed, then bent and picked up Ash’s gun. “Here, Peter, put this away. Young master won’t be needing it again.”

  Ash looked up nervously at his father and Gerald, standing over him. “I’m sorry,” he tried.

  “Not good enough,” Sir Roland said, fury raising his voice. “Every time—every time—I ask you to behave as befits a Haywood, you disappoint me. You’re a namby-pamby, weak excuse for a man, and I’m ashamed to call you son.”

  Sir Roland kicked Ash in the stomach, and he sprawled in the dirt with a cry, air rushing out of his body. He gasped for breath, eyes watering.

  “Steady on, old chap.” Ash’s heart sank as he saw Gerald unhooking the heavy bullwhip from his belt.

  “Not in front of the blacks, Rollie,” Gerald said warningly. He handed his whip to his brother with a meaningful nod. “I’ll have the natives strike the luncheon camp while you’re occupied with your son.”

  “Damned white of you, Ger,” Sir Roland said grimly. “Damned white. This pup of mine’s a sore trial to me, and I appreciate your understanding.”

  Gerald sketched a salute and turned away, shouting for the bearers. Ash turned frightened eyes to his father’s face.

  “This time, boy, you have tried me too far,” Sir Roland said coldly. The heavy whip uncoiled into the dirt. “One way or another, I’ll have an end of your failures. Do you hear me?”

  The lash snaked out, vicious and targeted, biting through Ash’s shirt to the skin beneath. A stripe of fire burned from neck to waist, and Ash couldn’t help his scream of pain.

  “Be silent! Have I taught you nothing?” The whip bit across Ash’s shoulders.

  Sir Roland’s eyes glittered with fury and triumph. “You will pay for this day’s work,” he said menacingly, and as the third blow fell, Ash saw murder in his father’s eyes.

  He scrambled to his feet, stumbling under another stroke from the whip. He was no stranger to his father’s blind, demanding rages, but this calculated coldness was foreign and terrifying. Ash threw himself hard to the left, rolling in the dirt as the lash came down again.

  But to no avail. His father’s boot slammed into one knee; then the heavy whip lashed across his back.

  Ash tried to roll, tried to crawl, focusing only on one thing: he had to get away. Out here on the veldt, Sir Roland’s veneer of civilization had fallen away. His rage was unchecked.

  The blows rained down, each whistling lash of the bullwhip laying Ash’s flesh open. He scrambled forward until a heavy boot slammed into his side, tearing the breath from his lungs. He fell again, trying to breathe past the pain, trying to cry for help even as he knew no one would come to his aid.

  Another blow sent him sprawling, the world spinning faster and faster. Pain’s wide jaws opened, beckoning huge and hungry, consuming everything. Ash let them swallow him whole.

  * * * *

  The first thing Ash was aware of was a terrible thirst. The second, as he tried to move, was pain searing through every part of his body.

  Ash cracked open one eye and saw only pale African dirt. Spots of dark, dried blood clustered in the dust and for a confused moment, Ash wondered if he had shot the lion after all.

  He pushed himself to his knees and stars of pain pinwheeled behind his eyes.

  “Young master followed the lions. He must be found. You hear?” The sound of Sir Roland’s voice sent panic thrumming through Ash’s veins. Determinedly, he made it to his feet. He’d wound up behind a low, wide bush with waxy, dark green leaves, and it, along with the thick, waist-high golden grass, gave him ample cover from which to hide from his father and uncle.

  “Easy enough to lose a man out on the veldt, Rollie. The lions will find the body first and after they’ve been at it—well, no one will ask awkward questions.” There was a pause; then Gerald Haywood continued. “
I suppose it had to be done?”

  Ash did not wait to hear the answer. He had to get away, far away, and fast, before his father discovered he was still alive. Arms pressed tight across his chest, he turned his face to the veldt and ran.

  Almost unconsciously, he followed the heading the huge black eagle had taken earlier, away from the camp, away from the Thornside homestead. Into the territory of the lions, the lonely, uncharted grasslands that were Rhodesia’s heart.

  Despite the throbbing pain in his ribs and back, Ash ran until the searing heat made drawing breath all but impossible and a red haze rolled across his vision. Then there was a roaring in his ears like a thousand drums, and he felt himself floating, as though the heat itself lifted him.

  Dimly, he saw a brown, dead-looking tree, its stumpy, foreshortened branches raised to the heavens like a beggar seeking alms. He crept into the meager shade it cast, wondering if some African god would see its plea and come. Dropping to the ground, he concentrated on breathing as slow and shallow as he could, the hot air harsh in his parched throat.

  Gradually, the pounding in his chest eased, and his vision cleared. Ash sat up, looking around him at the vast and empty veldt. The golden grassland stretched as far as he could see, intermittent browns and blacks marking patches of scrub or possibly creatures too far distant to identify. Off in the distance sat a tree line identical to the one he’d entered first thing that morning.

  Ash swallowed down panic. He had no water, and thirst already clutched at his throat. He had nowhere to go and no idea how to get there if he did. Uncertainly, he looked back the way he’d come.

  “I can’t go back,” he said aloud, the reality taking shape in his head as he spoke. Looking up at the fierce sun blazing in the infinite sky, Ash felt his fear replaced by calm. In truth, it would be better to die out here on the veldt like a hunted lion than to slink back to his place as his father’s whipping boy.

  Finding water was the most important thing, Ash knew, but his limbs felt heavy, and the baking heat seemed to press him into the ground.

  I’ll rest until it’s cooler. Then I’ll find some water. And the lions. I’ll find the lions… Ash lay back down, letting his eyes drift closed.

  A Bateleur eagle’s haunting scream echoed across the veldt, but the figure under the baobab tree did not stir.

  Chapter Three

  Roy Bennett had slept uneasily, haunted by strange visions and bloodcurdling screams. Not the reeking, gas-drenched screams of the battlefield, for once, but something else. The veldt, his adopted home, was lashed by a storm unlike any he’d experienced, where winds laid the tall grass flat and water mixed with the red soil, running like blood across the savanna. The gray landscape had been empty of all living things save a young lion who’d jumped down from the branches of an ancient tree to land on human hands and feet.

  Roy used the physical exertion that characterized life on the veldt to banish the dream from his waking mind and turned his body to a hard trek across the land. The sun was high in the sky by the time he reached the sparse stand of butterfly-leaved mopane trees deep in the heart of the veldt. Mopane seeds, leaves, and bark were a far cry from the medicines he’d studied in college, but, correctly prepared, were just as efficacious.

  Roy half filled his knapsack with the vital supplies; then a wild shriek made him look skyward. A vast black Bateleur swooped down low, circling on the lazy African wind. Bateleurs were a relatively common sight on the veldt, but this one was truly magnificent, giant beyond proportion, with massive wings that nearly blotted out the sun. And that cry…

  As if he’d called her, Mambokadzi’s own familiar, Onai, shrieked again, her voice sounding the length and breadth of the land. Roy raised his canteen in salute. He’d never known a fiercer bird, nor one as smart. “Good day to you, too, Onai.”

  But the haunting cry was repeated a third time, and Onai swept back down over the tree lending Roy its shade. She settled in the highest branch, and as he craned his neck up to keep her in view, Roy could swear an angry glint shone from the startling green eyes.

  She opened her mouth and gave another raucous cry.

  Roy stoppered his canteen and restored it to his belt. “You have my full attention, Onai. What’s got your feathers so nettled, hey?”

  As if in answer, the great bird took to the sky, staying low over the savanna but heading for the distant edge of the tree line.

  Roy watched her go, puzzled. She seemed to be making a beeline for the Finder’s Tree, an ancient and distinctive baobab that thrust its branches to the sky like angry fingers.

  Roy squinted against the bright afternoon light, keeping Onai in sight. He was right; she’d headed straight there, alighting in a topmost branch. Roy followed the twisted, odd-looking branches down to the thick trunk and froze.

  A young white man with a shock of golden hair lay sprawled facedown at the foot of the tree.

  Roy cursed and ran.

  He covered the distance between them as fast as he could, but still too damned slow. He had no idea what the boy could be doing out here, but it didn’t matter. Africa’s wilds took no prisoners.

  As he reached the tree, Roy dropped to his knees in the dirt. He fumbled for the canteen at his belt even as he cataloged the meager supplies he carried by necessity: water, splint, bandage, gin, petroleum jelly. Revolver.

  “Here, friend.” He shook the young man’s shoulder.

  A weak moan was the only response.

  “Come on,” Roy encouraged. “Come on, I’m here to help.”

  The injured man was rolled into a fetal position. Roy got an arm around his shoulders and half raised him, then froze. The youthful blond in his arms was Ash Haywood.

  Roy pulled himself together, grabbed the leather canteen from his belt, and held it to Ash’s parched lips. “Water.”

  Ash choked a little at first, then seemed to get the hang of swallowing, his head supported by Roy’s shoulder. A little water trickled from his mouth and ran down Roy’s arm.

  Roy took the canteen away before his patient had drunk his fill, and Ash whimpered, moving his head restlessly. “Take it easy. Not too much now. More later. Take it easy.” Gently, he ran a hand down Ash’s limbs and over his body, checking for injuries.

  Ash yelped and jerked in his arms, and Roy looked more closely, surprised. He’d been running his hands over his patient’s ribs, part of the army medical examination that was still second nature to him. And these ribs were cracked, possibly broken.

  But what Roy found next made him see red. Lifting Ash gently, Roy confirmed his suspicion. Ash had been beaten thoroughly and recently, with a coarse and heavy whip.

  “No! No, I won’t go!”

  “Easy.” Roy held on. “Nothing’s going to hurt you now. It’s all right.”

  Ash’s eyes opened slowly, turning up to Roy’s face, focusing with difficulty. “You found me,” he whispered.

  “Yes, I found you. It’s all right now.”

  Then Ash passed out cold.

  * * * *

  Ash awoke slowly and lay still, eyes closed. He shifted his hand and realized he was lying on something soft. Fingering it, he recognized it as a rough blanket, nothing like the expensive bed linen he’d slept in at the Thornside estate.

  “How are you feeling?”

  Ash opened his eyes. “Roy,” he whispered, blinking at the man bending over him. “You came. I was afraid…” He stopped, looking up at the intense blue eyes locked on his. “You’re real? I’m not dead?”

  “You’re not dead.” Roy pushed dark hair back from his tanned forehead and perched on the edge of Ash’s cot. “I found you out on the veldt and brought you back here to my compound. You were hurt…alone. Ash, what happened?”

  Ash opened his mouth, then closed it again. There were no words to explain the rage he had seen in his father’s eyes, his own certainty that Sir Roland had meant to kill him. “An accident,” he said faintly. “We were, uh, hunting.”

  “An accident.” R
oy sounded grim. “I see. Gerald Haywood has a talent for…accidents.”

  Gerald and his father…coming for him… Ash curled in on himself, scrabbling for purchase at the rough mud wall.

  Roy had him in a firm grip in a second, voice low and soothing. “Easy, Ash, easy. Easy. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Shh.” He held Ash close, and Ash let him. Roy was little more than a stranger, but he felt so right, so comforting. Ash leaned into Roy’s chest and luxuriated in the sensation of being held.

  “I see I’ve said the wrong thing,” Roy murmured. “You get something of a talent for it, living out here so far from anywhere. But I promise you, Ash, whatever your demons are, I’m not one of them.”

  Ash closed his eyes, breathing in Roy’s masculine scent, enjoying Roy’s body against his own, no matter how odd the circumstances. “They made me hunt the lions,” he said after a moment. “I didn’t want to. And then…” Ash stopped and closed his eyes again, memories overwhelming him. The huge, black-maned lion roaring on a rock, the cold fury in his father’s eyes, the lash singing its way through the air.

  “It’s all right,” Roy said. “Don’t try to talk about it yet. I have a feeling that whatever you were supposed to be hunting, the tables got turned.”

  More images flashed behind Ash’s eyes, and he burrowed his head against Roy’s chest, uncaring of whether it seemed weak. Roy had already shown him more kindness than anyone else in his whole life. There was something about Roy that spoke of the kind of honor Ash’s father and uncle paid lip service to but could never, ever achieve.

  “If you’re feeling up to it, I’ll leave you for a minute. You need food.” Roy lowered Ash back to the rude cot, and Ash watched as Roy ducked under the heavy curtain at the room’s sole entrance, letting it fall back into place behind him.

  Ash looked around the rest of the space, taking in the rough red walls and the dirt floor. The room contained only the cot, a workmanlike washstand, and an army trunk. Light came from a small, rectangular window covered by mosquito netting, set high in the far wall. A small, functional space, so far a cry from Thornside yet entirely in keeping with the spare, focused demeanor of Roy Bennett. Beyond the curtain, Ash could hear Roy rustling about, stoking a fire, it sounded like, whistling all the while under his breath, a song at once unknown and yet hauntingly familiar.