'A few years,' came the laconic reply.
'Are you good?'
A shrug.
'Are you afraid of lions?'
'Sometimes.'
'Ever killed one with that spear?'
'No.'
'I see.'
'This is a new spear, Mr. Pendergast. When I kill lion with spear, it usually break or bend, have to get new one.'
A silence settled over the camp as the light crept up behind the bush. Five minutes passed, and then ten.
'What's taking them?' asked Pendergast, annoyed. 'We don't want to get a late start.' Mfuni shrugged and leaned on his spear, waiting.
Suddenly Helen appeared. She quickly seated herself.
'Did you set the blighter straight?' asked Pendergast with a laugh.
For a moment, Helen didn't answer. He turned to her quizzically and was startled at the whiteness of her face. 'What is it?' he asked.
'Nothing. Just... butterflies before a hunt.'
'You can always remain back in camp, you know.'
'Oh, no,' she said with vehemence. 'No, I can't miss this.'
'In that case, we'd better get moving.'
'Not yet,' she said, her voice low. He felt her cool hand on his arm. 'Aloysius... do you realize we forgot to watch the moonrise last evening? It was full.'
'With all the lion excitement, I'm not surprised.'
'Let's take just a moment to watch it set.' She took his hand and enclosed it in hers, an unusual gesture for her. Her hand was no longer cool.
'Helen...'
She squeezed his hand. 'No talking.'
The full moon was sinking into the bush on the far side of the river, a buttery disk descending through a sky of mauve, its reflection rippling like spilled cream over the swirling waters of the Luangwa River. They had first met the night of a full moon and, together, had watched it rise; ever since it had been a tradition of their courtship and marriage that no matter what else was happening in their lives, no matter what travel or commitments they faced, they would always contrive to be together to watch the rise of the full moon.
The moon touched the distant treetops across the river, then slid down behind them. The sky brightened and, finally, the gleam of the moon vanished in the tangle of bush. The mystery of the night had passed; day had arrived.
'Good-bye, old moon,' said Pendergast lightly.
Helen squeezed his hand, then stood up as the DC and Wisley materialized on the path from the kitchen hut. With them was a third man, hollow-faced, very tall and lanky. His eyes were yellow.
'This is Wilson Nyala,' said Wisley. 'Your gun bearer.'
Handshakes. The bartender from the previous night came from the kitchen with a large pot of lapsang souchong tea, and steaming cups of the strong brew were poured all around.
They drank quickly in silence. Pendergast set his cup down. 'It's light enough to take a look at the scene of the attack.'
Nyala slung one gun over each shoulder, and they walked down a dirt path that ran along the river. Where it passed a dense stand of miombo brush, an area had been marked out with rope and wooden stakes. Pendergast knelt, examining the spoor. He could see a pair of enormous pug marks in the dust, next to a puddled mass of black blood, now dry and cracking. As he looked about, he reconstructed the attack in his mind. What had happened was clear enough: the man had been jumped from the brush, knocked down, bitten. The initial reports were accurate. The dust showed where the lion had dragged his thrashing victim back into the brush, leaving a trail of blood.
Pendergast rose. 'Here's how it'll work. I'll stay eight feet behind Jason, slightly to his left. Helen will be behind me another eight feet, to the right. Wilson, you float just behind us.' He glanced over at his wife, who gave a subtle nod of approval.
'When the time comes,' he continued, 'we'll gesture for the guns--bring them up with safeties on. For my rifle, detach the strap--I would rather not hitch it up on brush.'
'I prefer my strap on,' said Helen curtly.
Wilson Nyala nodded his bony head.
Pendergast extended an arm. 'My rifle, please?'
Wilson handed him his rifle. Pendergast broke the action, examined the barrel, dunked in two soft-point .465 nitro express cartridges--big as Macanudos--closed it, locked it, made sure the safety was on, and handed it back. Helen did the same with her rifle, loading it with .500/.416 flanged soft points.
'That's a rather big gun for such a slender woman,' said Woking.
