The Huntress at Sunset
5. The Waterhole
Hooves pounded and rumbled. Dust billowed and swirled. Zebra scattered in alarm as Nengwalamwe swept in among them, growling and snarling angrily. The barks of the herd drowned under the lion's roars. He rushed a couple of the stragglers, swiping ineffectively at their hindquarters as they kicked up their hooves and accelerated away. Knowing from bitter experience that the lion was not hunting did nothing to reduce their fear or their exertion.
The lion thrashed left and right as the stragglers split away from him. In a few seconds they had escaped his rage and were running; the herd splitting to either side of the waterhole. Most dropped down the slope to the left, weaving amongst the low scrub; the rest pounded over the summit of the rise. The waterhole cut into the side of the rise, it was bordered by a shallow cliff on one side and flowed into the plain on the other. During the rains it extended to a paw-shallow marsh, now, with the rains overdue, there was precious little muddy water left.
Already the head of the surging herd was beginning to coalesce from the slopes onto the open plain beyond. Nengwalamwe slowed and stopped, his chest heaving, his mouth wide open. He stared at the zebra as they thundered away across the bare banks of the waterhole. The dust hung thick.
"You're nothing but a load of dung beetles! Come back and be eaten!" he roared. "What is it with this place? Don't none of you know how to behave to a lion: Falasha, Shana, the whole lot of you!" He sat back, exhaling heavily. Then, to one side, he saw a olive baboon sitting alone no more than ten lengths away, "What do you think you're looking at bald-arse?" The baboon stared hard at him for a moment then grunted haughtily and scuttled off chattering. His arms and legs, so out of proportion to his body, reminded Nengwalamwe of his younger brother Talashi. He almost managed a smile; then it melted and he dropped down onto the earth, filling himself with memories.
The morning grew stifling, the rains were late this year and the earth was cracked and dusty. Soon the winds would come, the rains would fall in their wake. When they did, the earth would rise up into great dust storms that scoured the savannah, until the sun returned to beat down and starve the ground of water. The waterhole had dried to a shallow muddy pool. Nengwalamwe's outburst had left him thirsty. He had lain alone for over an hour, baked by the sun as he wallowed in his memories.
He looked up, then all around. He was alone. He rose, forequarters first, placing his paws and stretching his forelegs out straight ahead. His hind rose up forming a wedge sloping down to his forepaws. He yawned and then brought his forelegs back under his body, placing his paws fore and aft almost in a line directly under his shoulders. He looked around again. As he was still alone, he opened his mouth and licked his dry lips. He blinked, dampening his eyes a little, before trotting off towards longer grass that lay between him and the waterhole.
He had gone some twenty paces when he suddenly noticed something grey sitting on the ground directly ahead. He stopped instantly and slipped down, belly to the ground, folding his legs tightly into his sides.
'Aaaah! It's another bald-arse,' he thought, his mood lifting, 'I could get a taste for baboons. They aren't so bad, if they're fresh.'
The baboon held a short broken stick awkwardly in his hand, his crinkled fingers gripping the thin wood stiffly. He poked at something on the ground. He blinked and recoiled, then watched as it moved forwards. He poked the ground again. Nengwalamwe silently eased half a length forward. The baboon looked up, his close-set eyes scanning from left to right over the long ridge of his nose. He turned his head round in Nengwalamwe's direction and stared for several seconds then inexplicably turned back and poked at the ground again.
'Not a stupid one! Why me? Why? Come on bald-arse, you must have seen me.' He slipped forwards again. He was now within striking distance. It would be a quick kill: the baboon had nowhere to run. The bank of the waterhole lay no more than four lengths beyond the monkey. On the closest bank the ground rose and the sandy gravel formed a sheer cliff a couple of metres high. To either side the ground sloped down gently but offered little cover.
Baboons are exceptionally agile and, for prey, remarkably intelligent… well perhaps not. They are not fast and lack endurance. A lone baboon, split from the protection of the numbers of its troupe, stands little chance in a straight chase against a lion on the flat. Nengwalamwe could taste him already.
Nengwalamwe's patience ran out and he sprang. The ground flashed beneath him as his spine bent and flexed, springing strength down his legs as he burst from cover. He covered the first lengths without a touch of pad on the ground.
The baboon dropped the stick and flashed his head round to the blur of fur and eyes - and smiled. In an instant he swung away from the lion towards the bank of the waterhole.
'What?' thought Nengwalamwe as he covered the fifth and sixth lengths. 'Where's he going?' He expected the monkey to scramble to a halt at the edge and dart away, probably to the left, down the slope. Instead, without any hesitation, the baboon leapt off the bank and dropped from sight. Nengwalamwe tried to slow down; pulling his head back in panic, but the bank came under him terrifyingly quickly. He could do nothing but launch himself over the edge.
The lone tree that sheltered hidden below the gravel bank at the edge of the waterhole had never grown tall. It was still young but bushy, fed by the near continuous supply of water seeping through the thick mud bottom of the waterhole. It had suffered much over its few years. It was used to abuse. The drinking herbivores nibbled and pulled at it, playing, even jumping and leaping from its branches. Nothing could have prepared it for being landed on by a fully-grown lion.
Nengwalamwe crashed belly first, his eyes tightly shut. His legs slipped and scraped neatly around the tree's bushy branches. Its hard twigs dug painfully into his belly and loins. His tail thrashed desperately, he was as helpless as the day he was born. The tree, while just strong enough to hold his weight was pliable enough to offer no pawhold; he was ungracefully, painfully stuck.
He lay in the breezeless still of the morning sun. For a while he could not work out what had happened. The ground had simply disappeared and been replaced by a thousand hard points that inexplicably held him from the mud below. He didn't understand how he could be so far from the ground and yet no fall any farther. Before he could fathom what force could do this a movement caught his eye. He looked to the bank where the ground fell, meeting the water gently. A baboon stood at the water's edge - that same stinking bald-arsed baboon.
The baboon stooped down, scooped up a handful of brown-clouded water and lifted it to his mouth and slurped it noisily. As he drank he looked warily back at Nengwalamwe. He reached for another gulp of water. He dropped his head down a little on hunched shoulders, but never taken his eyes off the beached lion.
"YOU!" Nengwalamwe called furiously. "What are you doing here?"
"Drinkin'. What's it look like?"
"You got me up here, you can get me down!" roared Nengwalamwe, his eyes aflame with rage.
"How? Come on? What do'ya think I am huh?"
The tree shook violently as the lion roared again, "GET ME DOWN NOW!"
"Kay, kay, cool it big boy, the whole darn world don't need know you're stuck up there." The baboon flicked his wet fingers at Nengwalamwe. A sharp bark rose up out of the distance. The baboon suddenly grew tense and looked around anxiously. "Yeah," he said quietly, "keep it down. I'll think of sometin'. Just hang out bro." He turned round to face across the pond as another bark reached him. "Yeah, yeah. I'll think of sometin' quick."
"You had better! Well? What are you going to do bald-arse?"
"I told ya, I'm thinking, what do you think I am? An elepha… yeah, that' what I need. Yeah..."
The baboon lurched off, Nengwalamwe called after him, "Where do you think you're going? Come back here and get me down!" He thrashed his tail again. The baboon stopped and looked back with fear in his eyes.
"Calm down. How am I meant to save you huh? I'm just a baboon. How's a baboon meant to be able to get a lion down from up there? Come on, you tell me! Just stay there and chill, otherwise I ain't gonna help you at all. You can fry up there alone."
"No - no, don't leave me up here. Look, I'll do anything if you get me down, just do it quick."
"Ok, I'll do my best, but you're not going to like this." The baboon laughed to himself, "Just hang loose bro" as he ran off leaving Nengwalamwe stranded like a beached whale. Nengwalamwe thought he caught the baboon's words as he scuttled away: "No wonder they ain't nuffin' around here! And they call me dumb!"
The whale struggled to gain a paw hold. His claws caught on the branches below, but they bent when he tried to put any weight on them. As the sun beat down on his back, the tree stuck up through his underfur. He lay looking at the still water of the hole. The few animals that had been drinking, smaller grazers mostly, had long since scattered. Even the birds had put to flight at the terrifying sound of his unrestrained roaring. There was no one to help him. Even the lionesses had not answered his panic calls.
"I'll teach them to make a fool out of me. That baboon's going to make lunch when he's got me down from here. When he comes back he'll learn not to mess with Nengwalamwe, son of Nengwala. If he comes back at all that is. He's got to be addled or something. If I were him I wouldn't save anyone but myself."
The sun burned into Nengwalamwe's back. He tried to roll over but he was sure he'd fall if he did, and the ground looked a long, long way. His view of the waterhole was unfamiliar and unsettling. He had only ever seen water from just above the surface as he stretched down to drink. Looking down at such a steep angle on to the ever-changing flashing and scintillating surface was out of the lion's experience and imagination. The unknown frightened Nengwalamwe, raising his aggression uncontrollably. He roared repeatedly, his roars carried over every hillock, every kopje and every gully. Despite the fury with which they were made, they carried hope and light into almost every animal that heard them. It was as if they had seen the first break in the last storm clouds of the rains.
As Nengwalamwe roared, he imagined in blood-red detail what he would do to the baboon. He saw every sinew as he ripped the ape apart in a fury and ferocity so strong that it consumed him totally. The tree swayed and shook under the thrashing lion, but it stood firm under the onslaught. A lion's fury, however fearsome, is a short-lived outburst of intense feelings. It cannot last, particularly when it has no physical outlet. When Nengwalamwe realised that no one was there to hear and that no one was going to come to help him, his fury began to abate. It turned to fear when something cracked loudly. His hindquarters lurched sideways. He tried to grab hold of something; anything to steady himself but it was no use. He slid, scraped and scratched over the treetop, gathering speed uncontrollably. Seconds later he grabbed desperately with outstretched claws as the support of the tree finally gave way to free-fall. Moments later his rump thumped stingingly onto the ground below, his forequarters swinging through the air towards the water. Lion and waterhole met with a chaotic splash as his head and mane fell heavily into the murky water. The already brown water turned misty as the settled silt that lay over the soft mud of the bottom of the water hole rose and swirled. In his panic Nengwalamwe thrashed about, sending the soft mud and slimy water cascading for lengths around.
Somehow he managed to regain his composure sufficiently to right himself. The water, now thick with silt, settled around his forepaws. He was soaked through from nose to tail-tip. He stood up and, with drooping head, dragging tail and dripping, sodden mane, breathed heavily.
"At least that dung-smelling bald-arse wasn't here to see that."
"D'ya mean me?" said a voice from a length behind him.
Nengwalamwe turned to partly face the baboon. He thought for a moment then, with a tremble that started high in his neck, he shook himself as dry as he could, showering the onlooker with barely liquid splatters.
Nengwalamwe knew there was no chance of taking down the baboon now, not stuck in the mud. Stuck in the mud? What was a lion doing in mud? It suddenly struck Nengwalamwe that a lot of things that were happening were unusual: the talking wild dogs that didn't whimper and run from lions; the baboons who lay dead and yet untouched by scavengers; the lionesses who couldn't care less about a lion and then this - a baboon just standing there. Even that Shalafa was, well – strange. Not that she was different from other lionesses where it really mattered of course. She would do her bit for Nengwalamwe all right.
'What's the point?' he asked himself. 'This… animal,' he thought shaking his head sadly, '...doesn't matter a damn. I'll just get out of here and clean up this stinking mess.' He lifted a forepaw, dragging it out of the clinging mud with a shluurrp. He looked intently at the ground, looking for firmer ground. His rear paws slipped and he slapped his waving forepaw down into the mud to steady himself. It sank down to the wrist. He pulled the other forepaw up and lurched forward. Now there was no question of picking the best spot to place it down, he just thrust it forward and dug into the mud as quickly as he could. His lower belly slid clammily over the mud as he pulled repeatedly on his hindlegs, trying to lift them free. When at the fourth pull one did slip free he tipped forwards, his muzzle pushing down into the slime. Over on the bank the baboon laughed, turning his head away and biting his lower lip.
Nengwalamwe slipped, slid, fell, grasped and scrambled his way over and through the few lengths of mud. The baboon's intermittent laughter continued. When, tired and smothered by half the bottom of the waterhole, he finally reached firm, dry ground he pulled himself to full height and stood still, great clarts of wet mud dripping from his belly. 'I might look like a pratt, but by the stars above, I'll not act like one,' he thought, 'No baboon's going to get the better of Nengwalamwe… and live.' He turned to the baboon and looked at him, opening his mouth to expose his teeth. Then he stepped forward. His pads slipped sideways and he lurched to one side. While the lion barely managed to keep himself from falling, the baboon certainly didn't manage to keep himself from laughing.
Nengwalamwe regained his balance and began closing on the baboon in unhurried menacing paces. He held his head low to the ground and locked his eyes on to his prey. He just wanted to scare the smile from the monkey's long face. He grumbled an extended growl, yet still the ape smiled self confidently. When Nengwalamwe got within a couple of lengths, the baboon simply scurried away. The lion stopped. Then, with a louder rumble, he shook his head, rolling it about the axis of his neck.
'There'll be other times,' thought Nengwalamwe, 'you'll see… you'll see.' He twisted smoothly round, lifted himself back to full height. His forepaw slipped but he managed to regain his footing. He walked off gingerly towards the nearest acacia grove. He tried to hold his tail straight and unwaving.
As soon as he was sure he was out of sight among the trees he stopped and sat down, twisting his head round to clean his belly and hindquarters. The mud caked his fur in a thick, already hardening layer. This was not going to be a quick lick or two, this was going to take serious cleaning - hours of work to undo the damage done by that bald-arse.
He lifted a hindleg, claws extended a little, up to his chest in an attempt to scratch away the mud. His claws broke through the soft crust and raked through the ooze below, all he succeeded in doing was to spread it farther. He became desperate and scratched repeatedly at his once beautiful fur. Its gentle shining creamy white smoothness had all but gone, now it was deep brown, gritty and stank like a warthog.
Around him the everyday sounds of the savannah rang out; the rasping of insects; the grunts of wildebeest and even, in the distance, a few high 'mewwwrps' of shy and reclusive serval kittens. Another sound reached Nengwalamwe's ears, the excited yelps of a hyena as he, no… she, finally closed in on her prey. It was a sound that reached into him and pulled him out of his desperation. He looked up and around, letting his hindleg drop back to the ground gently.
He reflected on the events of the morning, 'I could have hung around until they'd finished, but why should I; I mean me, a grown lion; give that Falasha the satisfaction. A lion's got to eat… and hyena kill is meat just like any other, he mused on what the kill might have been, 'how many are there?' He listened on; the hyena's yelps died down and became muffled. After a pause, another yelping started. 'Two. No problem, I'll have that kill off them before they can turn to run.' He hesitated for a moment, 'Do they have to see me like this?' Then the second yelping died down. 'Pity, I guess so.'
He got up and headed for the edge of the thicket where the ground rose up in shoulder high knolls and ridges. Some were no more than bumps barely as wide as his shoulders; others were two, three or more lengths. Some stood bare; others were thick with vegetation. Beyond, the thicket thinned before giving way to the plain. In-between laid an area of rough ground, some ten or more lengths wide, covered in low thorn bushes. Now, before the rains, they were little more than leafless woody twigs covered with claw-long thorns. They offered the lion good cover as he wound amongst them. They also partially blocked his view of the open ground beyond. With each turn he regained sight of the hyenas, only to lose it again on the next stride.
Nengwalamwe approached the last rise. Beyond the ground opened out and dropped down gently. The hyenas, and that all-important kill, lay a little way off, hidden from view in a hollow. For precious seconds he couldn't see anything other than the thorn-covered ridge ahead. When his nose had cleared the rise he paused and looked on in dismay as an unpleasantly familiar voice drifted to his ears on the heat haze.
"...zi, you're well out of order. Come on, shift your arse out of here."
Nengwalamwe could only make out the ears of one of the hyenas, and no more than a length away, the blotched head and tail of a wild dog. The hyena stood firm. The lion edged forward.
"You got cloth ears or what?"
By their raised backs and tense ears Nengwalamwe felt sure the hyenas were about to rush the dog, yet they made no move. Two hyenas were more than a match for a lone wild dog, back on Kolata such an encounter was sure to end in a decisive strike by the hyena. The dog would be lucky to escape with its life, all for a piece of wasted bravado. Hunting Dogs were capable of harassing hyena, but only through pressure of numbers. Lone dogs had to be careful to avoid trouble, this one was clearly asking for it.
'It's one of those dogs! What are they doing here?' thought Nengwalamwe, raising his head to get a better look. Sure enough, as he had thought, two hyena stood firm over a kill: a young gazelle. There were also not one, but three wild dogs, the same ones as had tried to chase him the previous day. There was no point in wasting energy chasing off the hyenas and the dogs. As his father used to say, "The weak have only themselves to blame." He decided to let the hyenas do all the work for him.
The lead dog, which Nengwalamwe now recognised as Eddie from the encounter on the kopje, broke the silence, "What yer waitin' for Dung-scratcher? The end of the rains? I said move yerself!" The dog growled, exposing his teeth. Nengwalamwe looked on in astonishment as the hyenas dropped their ears and tails and backed away. The dogs advanced and fell upon the carcass eagerly. The hyenas turned and ran away without even baring a tooth.
Nengwalamwe was amazed, and, though he would not admit it, afraid. The scene he was just witnessing was incredible and disturbing and he wanted no part of it. 'I need to get clean, that's much more important than eating right now.' He dropped back below the ridgeline. 'Yeah, I'll just go back into the thicket and sort out my fur.' He retreated slowly, shaking slightly. His heartbeat filled his chest. There was something about the scene he had just witnessed that terrified him, yet he could not put his paw on what.
He slipped back shakily into the thicket. In its depths he lay down, cloaking himself in the stifling heat and stillness of midday. He consoled himself by grooming: licking - drawing his moist, rasping tongue through his belly fur over and over with a flick of his head at the end of each stroke. With each stroke a breath drawn in and held to the flick. Again and again, washing, swashing, swishing, and wishing it clean until the world around melted away in the heat of the afternoon.