tomato and plenty of garlic. We ate it with thick slices of brown bread and yellow tinned butter and it tasted like no other food I had ever known.
‘If you ever need a job, Lo, you can come cook for me,’ I told him around a mouthful. He grinned and went to the Land-Rover to switch on the radio.
‘What was the deal?’ I asked.
‘Just the news.’ He had the grace to look guilty. ‘Can’t lose touch entirely.’
We listened to the strivings and strugglings of a world gone mad. Somehow, in this remote and tranquil place the affairs of man seemed unimportant, petty and transient.
‘Switch it off, Lo,’ I said. ‘Who needs it?’
He reached for the control knob of the set, but checked his hand as the voice of the announcer spoke a familiar name.
‘Lusaka Radio reports that the leader of the terrorist gang which yesterday ambushed a detachment of police in the Wankie district of Rhodesia, killing four and wounding two others, is the self-styled “Colonel” Timothy Mageba who two months ago made world headlines in his dramatic hijacking bid. A spokesman for the Rhodesian police said that Mageba is probably one of the most dangerous terrorists in Africa. A reward of 10,000 Rhodesian dollars has been offered for information leading to his death or capture.’
With a savage gesture Louren switched off the set and came back to the fire. He sipped his whisky before speaking.
‘He’s operating only 100 miles or so north of here, I’d give anything to get a chance at that one.’
News of Timothy disturbed me deeply, and that night I lay long awake with my hands behind my head staring up at the starry splendour of the night sky. Venus had dropped below the horizon before I fell into a sleep troubled with ugly dreams.
The morning sun lit the crests of the kopjes a fresh gold and inflamed the sky with virulent reds and purples, driving away dark thoughts and we talked and laughed together as we picked our way slowly towards the east.
In the middle of the morning we saw the vultures circling off towards the north, a vast wheel of specks turning slowly beneath the hard blue sky. Following the flight of these grotesque scavengers is one of the most intriguing invitations that Africa has to offer. For every time they will lead you to the scene of some desperate incident in the never-ending drama of the wilderness.
‘A couple of miles off,’ Louren commented, peering eagerly ahead through the windscreen. I shared his curiosity. The hell with ruined cities and lost civilizations, this was the stark, raw rule of tooth and claw we were going to witness.
A quarter of a mile ahead of us we saw the hunch-backed bird shapes squatting obscenely in the tree-tops, thick as some devil’s fruit in the orchards of hell.
‘They are off the kill.’ Louren was jubilant ‘Something’s keeping them up in the trees and sky.’
He stopped the Land-Rover, and switched off the ignition. We climbed out, and Louren checked the load of his big .375 magnum, changing the solid bullets for soft-nosed ones that would deliver a heavier knock-down blow.
‘We’ll walk up,’ he said. ‘I’d love a chance at a big black-maned lion.’ He snapped the bolt of the rifle closed, ‘Take the shotgun, Ben, load with buckshot.’
This is my sort of thinking. If a lion is far enough away to warrant the use of a rifle then he and I have got no quarrel; closer than that I like a weapon that I can’t miss with.
Louren set off through the waist-high grass, I followed him, keeping out on his flank to open my line of fire, the shotgun loaded for lion and my pockets bulging with spare shells. We moved in slowly, trying to find the focal point of this gathering of vultures for they were scattered in the trees over an area of half a square mile.
Every step heightened our tension with the expectation of walking on top of a pride of lions lying in the grass. Louren signalled each change of direction to me, as we quartered carefully back and forth over the ground. From the trees around us the birds launched into flight, changing miraculously from ungainly repose into something graceful and beautiful as they entered their true element.
My throat was dry with excitement, and a pleasurable fear. I could see Louren was sweating through the back of his shirt, not entirely from the heat. His every movement was charged with restrained energy, ready to explode at the first sign of the quarry. I loved this part of the hunt, for there is the atavistic urge of hunter still hidden in most of us, it was only the killing that repulsed me.
Louren froze, rifle at high port. He was staring ahead, and I braced myself for the heavy detonation of the shot that I knew must follow; but the seconds passed slowly as dripping oil and still Louren stood with only the slightest movement of his head as he searched.
Quietly I moved up beside him. Ahead of us was an area of flattened and trampled grass. In the centre of it lay the body of a dead buffalo, his belly bloated with gas, and big shiny green flies swarming over his dead eyes and into his open mouth. I could see no marks of claws in the thick hide, with its coarse black hair blotched with patches of shiny baldness and rough scab.
I looked down at the ground, not wishing to tread on a twig as I moved again, and I saw the small childlike human footprint in a patch of ant-turned earth.
I felt the hair at the back of my neck prickle, we had walked into something a damned sight more dangerous than a pride of lions. Quickly I looked back to the dead buffalo, and for the first time noticed two inches of a frail reed stalk protruding from the folded skin of the neck. The flesh around it was swollen tight and hard.
‘Lo!’ I croaked huskily. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here - this is a bushman kill.’
Louren’s head jerked around and he stared at me. I saw the rim of his nostrils fade to china white.
‘How do you know?’ he demanded hoarsely
‘Footprints at your feet.’ He glanced down, ‘Arrow in the buffalo’s neck.’
