In his five years as a game guide, he’d seen a leopard in mowed grassland only once. Brett hit auto focus. The clicks startled her and she jumped from the one meter wall into the waterhole clearing. He fired his standard burst of three shots, catching the baboon swinging side-to-side as the leopard lengthened her stride.
Brett mounted the wall to scan the clearing’s acre, the waterhole, the edge of the veld. For the moment, it was empty. Snakes would zip out of his way. Hyenas weren’t interested in him unless he surprised them. Lions--he didn’t hear any at the moment. Lions would be a problem. No time to go grab a gun. He had to follow, no matter how insane it was.
He jumped after her, ticking off the lessons of Ba-Noah, Isaac’s dad: a leopard with her prey was tougher than anything when cornered. Hell, he didn’t plan on cornering her, only getting to know her a bit better.
The leopard skirted the waterhole, heading to the trees. Brett paused at the trail head where he often led tourists on walking safaris, but that was in full daylight. Even though he loved the veld, day or night, in the dark it was her territory, not his. Following her was a crazy stunt, but he doubted he’d ever get another chance like this.
A distant bark sounded like a hyena pack. If they smelled the blood of her kill, they would try to steal it. Her tail curled; she was a pissed off cat. He’d have to be careful not to upset her further. She darted to an acacia tree at the trail head. She jumped, her claws sinking into the bark. The baboon’s body swayed and fell to the ground, barely three meters in front of him. He didn’t breathe--any movement, even backing away would likely trigger her attack--but it was terrific to be so close.
The leopard dropped from her tree with a twist of her spine, snatched the baboon, and leaped higher. Her claws pulled her up, her tail straight down for balance. Brett clicked a full body shot and then focused on her jaws holding the snapped baboon neck. If he got this right, these were the photos of a lifetime.
He stayed out of the moonlight. Never challenge a leopard, Ba-Noah always said. Brett listened to her chewing, a tearing of muscles, some sucking on bone, amid the quiet buzzing of insects. Brett reset to slower shutter speeds.
A perfect night--no boss ordering him about, no tourist asking questions, no father nagging about wasting his time--the animals undisturbed and his camera full of film.
A whistle, a familiar three shorts and a long, carried on the stillness. Brett shrugged it off. Couldn’t be. Isaac wasn’t due back until tomorrow. Again, their signal echoed. Brett glanced at the lodge. The huge dining room windows reflected the full moon; the main building and the two side wings were dark. Isaac stood by the lawn torch.
What the hell. Something was wrong or Isaac wouldn’t be back from his crowd-chasing and jazz hunting in Harare, but it could wait a second or two. God only knew why Isaac thought bloody stupid politics were fun. Brett waved and refocused on the leopard. Isaac whistled again, shrill and fast.
Then Brett heard a huffing sound, dry-throated belchy grunts. Lion. Brett closed his eyes to listen as the noise grew. It was his breeding sound so the male wasn’t alone. Bret considered a run through the trees to the safety of the game viewing platform where he could watch them, but it was too far in the dark. He’d never make it.
Leaves fluttered from the acacia; the leopard was preparing her escape. Brett hated to disturb her, but he clicked on his flash to grab three last shots. The leopard roared, her own kind of roar, softer but more serious than a lion or hyena.
Brett entered the clearing, wondering where in the hell the lions were. Their two dads were split on the leopard’s place in the world. Brett’s dad fumed about stolen chickens on the farm, while Ba-Noah taught Brett the order of the veld, but nobody disagreed about how fast and deadly lions were in the dark.
The big lion huffed and two more eager roars answered him. Lions liked running prey. He’d escaped a young lioness one morning a year ago when he was on foot inside the Hwange National Park. He’d backed away slowly, but that trick only worked because he saw her first, and she was an inexperienced hunter.
The lodge’s lawn was fifty meters straight ahead. Isaac gestured to the south. Brett inhaled the musky odor of lion. Near the south edge, vervet monkeys scurried into the trees. Cape doves and nightjars burst out of the grasses. He’d hug the treeline to the north end of the lawn’s retaining wall, a longer but hopefully safer path. There he’d have a clear sight of the area and it was only steps to the dining room door.
Under the last of the trees, Brett scanned the ten meters of half grown grass at the base of the retaining wall. He didn’t see any lion break, so he made his dash.
“You idiot, you could have been their midnight snack.” Isaac squatted on the wall, balancing on his fingers, his back straight. “The lions were on the lane when I pulled in. I’ve been looking for you. What in blazes were you doing out there?”
“Tracking a leopard. Nabbed some terrific shots.” Brett handed Isaac his camera and vaulted the wall. Brett rolled on the grass and came up laughing, at the idea of game guide as prey and at the lunacy of chasing leopards. Under the torch light, Brett could see Isaac’s left eye was swollen half shut. “What happened?”
“Tangled with the Presidential Guard.” Isaac winced as he handed him the camera. Isaac normally towered half a head over him but not when he was hunched up like this.
“Why couldn’t you hang out with your old girlfriend? Have some fun at a club?” Brett watched as Isaac swallowed and held the back of a chair. Isaac’s politics were about the only thing they didn’t have in common. “Did you get arrested?”
“The bastards asked about the dads,” Isaac whispered. “It seemed like they were going to arrest me and then didn’t.”
“Where did they hit you besides the eye?” Brett asked and waited. Isaac turned away, his way of dodging questions.
“Mugabe’s thugs shut down three more independent newspapers.” Isaac’s voice rumbled over his shoulder. “Nshuma dumped me. Threw me over for her sister’s boss. Didn’t like me running with the opposition guys I know. Never liked jazz either. None of that’s important--we must go home to the farm tomorrow. Here.” Isaac handed Brett a telephoto lens. “You owe me.”
“Thanks. I only wish I’d had it thirty minutes ago.” Brett saw the lions emerge from the trees. They were probably safe as long as they stayed near a torch; lions weren’t likely to jump walls. “So a rotten trip all the way round--no girl, no fun. Going home tomorrow is going to be tricky. A small group of tourists flew in and I’m scheduled for the morning game drive and the sundowner.”
“I have to see the folks. I’ll hitchhike.”
“You can’t do that. We’ll bum a vehicle off David. Tell him we’re road testing the alignment or some stunt.” Brett doubted Isaac could walk to the main road to catch the first ride, much less cover the hundred kilometers of walking and hitching. “How can Harare business affect the folks?”
“The Harare business affects us all. I lied and if the bastards find out, I just don’t know what will come of it.” Isaac sounded so tired.
“No worries. I’ll handle David. He’s in an awful mood with so few bookings. Get some sleep and be ready to go right after the dawn ride. I’ll cut it short somehow.”
“It’ll be good to be home for a bit, won’t it?” Isaac asked. Next to Harare, Isaac was probably happiest at the farm, tinkering with beat up engines and old generators.
“Sure, I’ll tell your father about my leopard.” If his own dad didn’t nag him about coming home to farm. “Look,” Brett pointed to the waterhole where the old male lion was drinking. So bulky and heavy compared to his leopard. Isaac was already gone, inside