Creative Writing: Holman, Hayden

The Last Lonely Night

A shadow flickered under a bush to his right. It was the third time he had seen it. Well,

“seen” only in a sense; it was never visible, not as darkness, only as movement. His eyes traced

back and forth along the brush, never focusing, never stopping, taking in all stillness and

disregarding it, normalizing the swaying of the tips of the grass, searching for anything out of

sync, anything not in harmon—there. Three yards further north.

He blinked and shook his head, his eyes rebelling against him. They could not keep up

the unfocused all-encompassing vigil that they used to, and he did not know why. It bothered

him, made him feel weak and old. He may be old, but by George he was not yet weak. Not yet.

A deep throated cough from behind startled him from his reverie and he spun around,

eager for the fracas, the pistol flinging from his holster as if of its own accord, his thumb towards

the hammer and his eyes searching—then a hand caught him on the shoulder and steadied him.

“Woah, b’wana. Only me.”

Startled, he met the gaze of M’penda, his gunbearer, who had appeared out of nowhere.

M’penda’s gaze was steady and unblinking. If Michelangelo, having just finished David, had

decided to carve a 30 year old African warrior, he would have envisioned M’penda with his

smooth brown skin, lean arms and handsome, sharp face.

“My apologies, my friend. I thought…”

His voice trailed off and he glanced back to the bush. M’penda followed his gaze and,

understanding, said not a word but walked a few paces back down the path and pointed.

“No simba… only bweha, b’wana.”

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As M’penda talked, the jackal shot out of the bushes and high-tailed it across the plain.

Aha. He hadn’t even noticed those tracks. Sighing once more, he began to turn back towards the

hotel but another flash stilled him. The jackal was gone, and yet the shadow had still been there.

It must have been there. He looked directly at the crack in the bushes where it had been, and sure

enough, covered in shadow, was the shallow, four-toed print momentarily immortalized in the

sand. It was as clear as an old friend calling to him. No, it was not simba.

He rubbed a leathery, large-knuckled hand against the white stubble covering his sharp

chin, tickling the ends of a thick mustache. M’penda held out his hand. Nodding in thanks, Jim

slipped his .275 Rigby from his shoulders and handed it to him. Then they turned back to the

path and began to walk.

“Thank you for coming. It’s been what, three weeks?”

M’penda nodded.

“How’s your family.”

M’penda considered for a second. “Ready for ‘de next hunt.”

Jim looked up. “Cola and Ducha already eat through the last one?”

“They are young and too much energy.”

Jim chuckled. “Well, I daresay you’ll be able to stay home with them for a while after

this one, friend.”

Now M’penda looked up. “Who hunts?”

“No hunting this time. The Royal Princess of England is touring the Provinces.”

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M’penda raised his eyebrows.

“We are their protection. They want to stay a night at the Treetops.”

M’penda nodded and looked down to the grass road they were walking along.

Jim grabbed a stalk of grass and snapped it off as they walked by, rolling it up between

his fingers.

“I want to apologize beforehand. I won’t be in charge, really. If they are anything like

nobility in India was… I met the princess once, actually. Back in India, when she was a child. A

lovely, well-mannered child, as a matter of fact—Maggie was thoroughly impressed. We’ll see if

that’s stayed true.”

M’penda gave a soft smile and shrugged. “We will see. No need for any sorrys. Will be

worth many hunts, no?”

Jim looked up at a passing cloud. “Yes, it will be a lot more money than the average hunt.

Doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it.”

The hotel was situated on the edge of the reserve, and it was only a few more miles walk.

After a little over an hour walking through the bush, they came upon the clearing of which the

hotel sat in the interior, another 400 metres in. The clearing consisted of a huge sycamore

standing a little apart from the rest of the bush, upon which had been built a fabulous treehouse,

the Treetops Hotel, just west of a shallow but large watering hole. When he had first come to

Kenya, he had thought the idea quite humorous—replicating the experience of a machan for

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paying customers made sense, but anyone who had spent a night in a real one would not

recommend it.

“Tembo; left one big, take notice,” M’penda whispered.

There was currently a troop of elephants mulling around the eastern hedges of the

clearing. A few steps apart from the rest, the rather tall bull M’penda had mentioned turned their

way. Its anger at their trespass was obvious, its small, black eyes seeming to flare like coals to

the breath each time the massive ears flapped, spread wide. But, it did not come stomping

towards them; a good sign. A giraffe opposite the herd took notice, and with a deft dip of the

head, bounded away in its ungainly gait. Jim gave M’penda his pistol, trading for the rifle.

“Just in case,” he whispered back with a wink.

They stepped out of the shadows, spooking two young sambar deer drinking at the

waterhole, their graceful grey bodies streaking across the clearing underneath the imposing

figure of Mount Kenya in the distance. He sighed… the sight of the Mountain always raised his

spirits, as for a time he had thought only India could.

M’penda noticed his betterment of mood. “We Massai say, kuru means peace. Brings

peace.”

His step hesitated. Kuru? What did that mean again? Blast it all, he couldn’t even

remember all the animals. He looked at M’penda with his eyebrows drawn in.

“Ni nini kuru?”

M’penda smiled softly and gestured to where the sambar had just run off.

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“Waterbuck, english say.”

Waterbuck, of course. Dammit, there wasn’t a sambar within 5,000 kilometres. Jim

exhaled slowly through his nose. “Elewa,” he replied.

M’penda chuckled. “Almost, b’wana. ‘I understand’ is naelewa.”

As they eased across the clearing, the bull, while clearly agitated, did not respond in

keeping with its mood. Other than a rather loud trumpet as they neared the bottom of the

sycamore, there was no trouble. Except, they realized, for the small matter of the ladder, which

was currently raised.

“Walker, my good man, are you up and about?” Jim called. Presently there came the

sound of creaking doors and someone bumping into furniture. A head popped out from above the

railing.

“Corbett? Good heavens, it’s seven in the morning! Hold on a moment!”

There was a creak and a crack, and then a whole tumbling of rope began to move as

Walker began to lower the ladder with a pulley system that was, well, rather extensive.

“Mind the ladder! Down she comes.”

Corbett turned and raised his eyebrows at M’penda, and then both gave a grin and a

shake of the head. M’penda handed the revolver back to Jim. The large wooden ladder reached

the ground with a thump, and a coil of rope attached to its foot fell to the ground.

“Blast it all! Damn ropes never— Colonel, how on earth did you arrive so early? You

must’ve walked all night!”

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Jim stood smiling as his host bumbled his way down the ladder.

“Yes, certainly. I cannot thank you enough for the invitation, Mr. Walker. And my early

arrival is due to the moon; it was quite bright, so, naturally, I decided to press on.”

Reaching the ground, Walker huffed, rubbed his hand on his jacket, and extended it to

Jim. Then he looked the two of them up and down.

“Naturally, hm, well, I don’t know about all that, anyhow. Well don’t stand about, come,

welcome the Treetops Hotel! I do hope we’ve adequately prepared it for you.” With a look

towards M’penda, he asked, “Do you have no luggage?”

“No, as a matter of fact; I do think this jacket will last the night. This is M’penda, my

gunbearer and friend.”

Ignoring M’penda, Walker took stock of Jim. He did have pants on, light khaki trekking

pants, over soft-soled canvas hunting boots. His pith helmet was wider than it was tall and

looked older and wiser than Jim himself. His oxford had at least used to have been white, and his

dark green tie extended just below his chest before it was squared off. A pistol peeked out from

his left side. Over it all, he wore light tan cotton jacket, with the rifle over his right shoulder.

He’d worn the jacket since he was in his 40’s, and it had seen sunsets in half the provinces of

India. Walker could tell. He raised his eyebrows. “At least it has lapels,” he finally replied.

“Wake, b’wana. Wake. They are nearly here.”

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Jim blinked his eyes open, squinting in the blinding midday african sun. M’penda had a

hand on his shoulder and was looking over the side of the veranda to the south. Jim cricked his

neck. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep on the veranda; what had he come up here to do? He hadn’t

looked over the princess’s room yet. Too late for that, he presumed. Where was Maggie when he

needed her. But as he looked to the south, he saw nothing. The herd of elephants remained not

far to the east, out of sight but the trees around them shook from their feeding. Four water

buffalo had wandered up to the waterhole, their dark tails twitching as they leaned over to drink.

“They are close, M’penda?”

“Yes, a runner came with telegram. They leave Sagana three hours ago.” M’penda

paused, looking back at him. “The room is tight. No room for chui.”

Jim bowed his head in appreciation. The room, then, was secure from the leopard.

“Then the only place I must guard is the main hall. A chair by those potted daisies in the

corner would provide an adequate view of the veranda and the stairwell, I suppose.” He sighed,

then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a tin of cigarettes. Drawing one, he gratefully

accepted a match from M’penda, who had already produced it seemingly from thin air. Reaching

down, he struck it on the side of his shoe, cupped his hand around his mouth, and took a few soft

puffs. Satisfied, he waved out the match, licked his thumb to wet the matchhead, and threw it

into the brush below, taking a deep draw. The cigarette tickled his mustache and his eyes shone

through the smoke.

“Not very likely for a leopard to get past that rope contraption, but itakuwa behatar,

having it in view.” He looked to M’penda with his eyebrows raised.

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M’penda smiled softly. “Itakuwa bora, b’wana. It would be better. Chui is smart; rope is

no problem for him.”

Jim’s face fell as he looked down and took another puff. He’d learned six different hindu

dialects with ease and had never gotten them confused— apparently that was his limit. “Well,

then at the very least we’d get a little excitement, eh?”

The Royal entourage did not arrive for another hour and a half, over an hour after they

were expected.

“Aha! I hear the motorcar!” called Walker from the roof. Jim was in the dining room—

which was really just a large open space between the two rooms of the treehouse—with a map

spread across the table, trying to decide the most likely direction in which to strike out in search

of them himself.

“Thank heavens,” Jim muttered, pulling off his reading glasses and dropping them on the

table. He looked at them with disdain. His body was slow but his eyes were still sharp as the

saurus; just not at close distances, when trying to read microscopic print. He often thought about

the large, crane-like bird that had fascinated him in his youth; its blood red head lead gracefully

down its neck to a soft grey, almost white, plumed chest and body. It was said that the red was a

crown earned by the young hunters when they displayed their prowess with fish, a crown of

blood. The crown then had to be maintained or their head would fade back to grey. He looked

down at his hands. Surely, as yet they had not faded much?

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“Colonel, Colonel! Did you not hear me? The motorcar has stopped! Send out the beaters

so they can get those rambunctious elephants out of here!”

Jim looked up sharply. Walker typically greeted his more esteemed guests by having

beaters and spearmen surround the clearing, driving out any uninvited visitors. Particularly

visitors that were huge, deadly, and already riled up. He hadn’t been too worried about the

elephants that morning, but they had become continually more agitated as men had been sent out

on search parties, even charging one of them. The man had stayed in a tree for half an hour. And

now, the elephants had moved from the forest to the watering hole and as such were mere metres

away from the bottom of the stairs.

“M’penda,” Jim called, his voice raising, “my rifle!”

Dashing onto the veranda, M’penda was already there and clicking bullets into his .275

Rigby. Slamming the bolt home, he handed it to Jim. Jim took it and toyed with the safety,

looking down at it. Blast it all, what he would give for his Jeffery .450 Nitro. But of course, he’d

been thinking of leopards, not elephants.

“B’wana!”

Looking up, he saw the royal party emerging from the forest, the princess striding tall a

few steps ahead of the duke.

“Dammit, where are the men? PRINC—” Walker had emerged on the veranda beside

them and begun to shout in warning, but Jim quickly shushed him.

“Quiet. Noise most certainly will not help.”

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The Royal party had noticed the elephants and stopped in the middle of the clearing. The

elephants fanned out behind the lead bull, who had begun his ominous ear-flapping once more

and was slowly stomping in their direction.

“Is there any way down other than that blasted ladder? It’s noise will send them into a

riot.”

Walker was paralyzed for a moment. Then coming back to life with a sputter, he

exclaimed, “The-ther-there’s a rope ladder! My wife made it years ago!” and went running back

into the hall.

Turning his attention back to the clearing, the elephant had advanced towards the party

until it was at a distance of about 40 metres. The Princess and the Duke stood side-by-side,

hunched slightly in fear but neither looked of panic. Good; to take off running now could be

suicide.

“Where is it? Hold on a moment!” Called Walker from inside.

As he watched, the two royals slowly bowed low and began to shuffle sideways towards

the sycamore. The rest of the entourage, three in all, followed suit. The elephant stood watching,

ears wide, head lowered, but still except for his twitching trunk swiveling back and forth. Jim

raised the rifle. Could he try a Bell shot? It was a one in a hundred chance, and yet if the old boy

charged, hellbent on fury… who among us would not try it?

“Got it!”

Jim could hear Walker running back toward him. But in that moment, another thing

caught his eye… a flash. A familiar flash.

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About 10 yards to the right of the Princess a growling figure tore from the shadow and

hurtled towards the elephant. Jim threw the rifle to his shoulder as the elephant took off, the great

rolling grey mass came smashing towards the group, the Duke pulling the princess behind him

waving his arms closer thundering feet and flapping ears and the flash of white tusks showing

over the front sight of the Rigby — and a cloud of dust, slowly ballooning out towards the group,

as the great bull skidded to a stop with a loud trumpet and a shake of the head. The leopard was

gone. Turning from the group, the old bull looked straight at Jim. Then he sank into the forest

like a great grey ghost.

“Come, come! Make haste!” called Jim, thanking the heavens for false charges. What the

bloody hell was that leopard doing? He leaned against the side of the veranda with his left arm

and with his right retrieved a cigarette. Walker, it seemed, had finally managed to get the ladder

down. The princess strode quickly but calmly to the base of the sycamore and began climbing,

the Duke ushering the others up first before following suit.

As they were all getting situated safely on the veranda, Walker introduced himself and

began to blab on about the hotel and its grandeur.

“Thank heavens you all are safe! I am so terribly sorry for such danger! There will be no

more close calls on the princess’ health, I can assure you that. Well, what a story that will be to

tell the king, eh? Or, perhaps don’t mention it. My name is Eric Walker, pleasure. We’ve a royal

night planned ahead of us. The Treetops has been specially outfitted…”

The Royal entourage still seemed a little out of breath. The princess, however, stood

erect, her cheeks flushed but her demeanor calm. Her wide-brimmed hat was tilted ever so

slightly to the left, and her short sleeved checkered dress was tied at the waist. The duke wore a

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white safari jacket of the old style, with two chest pockets and a shirt collar, belted at the waist.

His thin blonde hair had been combed neatly but now appeared a bit tousled by the trek. The

other three, a young woman of roughly the same age as the princess, an older gentleman with

thick round glasses and a thicker mustache, and a middle-aged native guide, seemed quite ready

to go inside and enjoy a cup of tea, in peace if you please. The young woman caught Jim’s gaze

and raised her eyebrows, wiping her brow with the back of her hand.

“I think that’s quite enough for the royal welcome,” said the princess with a smile,

interrupting Walker’s speal. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Walker.”

As the others began to come back to life and introductions began, the princess turned

towards Jim and M’penda.

“Colonel James Corbett, I presume? It is such an honor! Your exploits have kept me

spellbound into many a late night.”

Jim smiled. “It is I who am honored, your Highness. Please, call me Jim.” Bowing

slightly at the waist, he then indicated M’penda. “This is my gunbearer and good friend,

M’penda Adebowale.”

The queen returned a curtsy, and then turned slightly and curtseyed in the same manner to

M’penda. “It is an honor, M’penda Abebowale. Thank you for helping the Colonel protect us on

our visit.”

Jim, taken aback, quickly hid his surprised expression. She had repeated M’penda’s full

name with perfect pronunciation, even better than his own. M’penda stepped back with his left

foot and bowed deeply to the princess. Jim couldn’t help but notice the smile that sprouted across

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the princess’s cheeks. M’penda, his red, yellow, and blue patterned tunic tied at the waist, dark

lean arms bare from the shoulder, exhibited a regality that Jim had never had, and quite honestly

never been comfortable with. Marvelous, wasn’t it, how royalty extended beyond terms of lapels

and buttons.

“But wait, Colonel, what exactly is a sambar? And how on earth did it tell you that the

leopard was there?”

Around the dinner table, all were enthralled as Jim drew them into the world of old India

and the Leopard of Panar. The King himself had commissioned Jim to hunt it, as it had by that

time killed and eaten over 400 native Indians, and a few Englishmen.

The Royal party had changed into their dinner wear, and Jim had to admit that his jacket

was a little out of place. The Duke sat at the head of the small oval table, now dressed in a

double breasted dinner jacket and ascot, with the princess to his right, in an elegant yellow gown.

Walker sat to his left, and the other two of the entourage surrounded the remainder of the table,

their native guide having taken his leave, leaving Jim at the opposite head, closest to the where

the ladder was drawn up, and M’penda standing in the corner with the Rigby tucked in his arm.

Jim had asked for a seat at the table for him—in all honesty, more to fluster Mr. Walker than in

actual hopes—and the princess had immediately seconded the petition. But, according to Walker

and the Duke, there were only six chairs, and even so seven people around the little table would

just plainly be too crowded and no one would have room to eat. Jim had bitten his tongue before

mentioning the two chairs on the roof. He didn’t want to hear the other excuses they’d surely

already have made up. M’penda had only nodded, and whispered, “Worth many hunts.”

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“The King actually sent me a fine Rigby rifle when I had got the devil. I still have it

today.”

The Princess tilted her head. “Colonel, why did you leave India? It is obvious from how

you speak of it that it is forever in your heart. I remember hearing you as a young girl; you

would’ve thought you were a native as much as an Englishman.”

“Ah, yes,” Jim replied softly. “India. When it gained its independence some years back, it

just wasn’t the same. We could’ve stayed, I’m sure, but the general attitude towards Englishmen

had become nasty. Not only that, but we would’ve had to be issued papers, passports, visas and

so on. It was just too much.” He paused for a moment.

“So, Maggie and I decided to move here. An English territory, and yet wild in many

similar ways to my homeland.”

“Maggie?” asked the Duke.

“Maggie was my sister,” Jim replied. “Neither of us ever married, so we continued to live

together all our lives.”

“I remember her from my visit,” the Princess added softly. “She seemed very kind.

Colonel, do you happen to remember, before I left that trip, that I gave you a formal invitation to

visit the capital? Maggie had looked quite pleased.”

Jim smiled at her. “Yes, I remember it very well. Maggie cherished that invitation—

brought it with her, even, when we came here.”

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“Well… why, if I may ask, did you not come? You must understand, as a child I was

thoroughly disappointed that my first formal invitation was not accepted,” the Princess looked

down as she spoke.

“My dear, nothing could have pleased me more than to take up your invitation,” Jim

replied softly, “if I had ever found myself on the shores of England. But I never got the chance to

go.”

“Since my Lady was a young girl?” scoffed the older gentleman in thick glasses. “That’s

a bit too long away from the motherland if you ask me. How can you tolerate it?”

“To tell the truth… I have never, in fact, been to England.”

The whole table looked at him in shock. Walker, who had been in the middle of sipping

his wine, nearly spilled it all down his front.

“Good heavens Jim! Why on earth did you never say so? I would’ve been happy for you

to accompany me there!” Walker exclaimed.

After a barrage of questions regarding his history and his loyalties, the Princess decided

tactfully to change the subject.

“Can you still imitate all the sounds of the jungle? When I visited, you whistled like all

the different birds,” she said with magic in her voice, “and you claimed you could imitate the

tiger himself!”

Jim laughed. The princess was fascinated; he guessed she really had read some of his

stories.

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“Now Elizabeth, please, I don’t know if animal sounds are the most appropriate—” the

Duke tried to interject.

“Oh nonsense Philip. Of all the places, this is the one where we can finally break

protocol. Please, show us!”

“Right this moment?” Jim coughed.

“Of course!” the princess laughed.

“I must admit to not having done these in years,” Jim said, smiling. “I do hope you all

will take into account my lack of practice. Maggie couldn’t stand them, so when we moved here

she’d set to whipping me every time a bird got in the house.” He laughed softly. “As a boy, I

could do them almost perfectly, but I’m afraid my smoking has caught up to me, and my lungs

are not what they used to be. Nevertheless, for the tiger… grrrrrrrrrRRRAAHH!”

The whole table exploded in laughter and applause.

“Whatever happened to your sister? Does she still live with you?” the princess inquired.

Jim was silent for a moment, looking down at his napkin. “She passed two years ago.”

The princess was startled. “I’m terribly sorry, Colonel,” she said softly.

After a few moments of silence, Jim emitted a low-pitched growl; the leopard. Everyone

laughed again and the tension, at least in part, began to leave the table.

“I must say old boy, it sounds a lot like our car trying to start,” laughed the Duke.

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Jim smiled knowingly. “It may not inspire fear here, sir, but waving on top of a machan

in the middle of the night, it’ll send chills across the length of your body and set your hands to

shaking.”

“You all may have a similar experience later this evening,” beamed Mr. Walker. “This

hotel was built to mimic the experience of being in a machan. Out in the night, amongst the wild

and the weary. We’ll almost certainly hear some lions.”

Jim stopped his eyes from rolling. Not quite the same experience, he wanted to add, as

being a lot lower to the ground and having the wild and the weary want to eat you.

Jim retired from the dinner early, once the conversation had moved to be dominated more

by British politics than old hunting stories. The princess, he was impressed to notice, kept the

same level of involvement in both conversations. Jim smiled. Oh to be young again. He found

himself smiling at nearly everything about her. She was very joyous, to be sure. And he was not

so naive as to think she hadn’t been given a difficult road to walk; the pressures and publicities

of royalty sounded like a nightmare, if you asked him.

It was a few hours before Mr. Walker and the guests decided to turn in. Many animals

had turned up, allowing the Royal couple to see a giraffe—probably the same from earlier that

day, Jim thought—a band of wildebeest, three zebra, and yes, lions, two females. It was nearly

dark when a pair of impala trotted through, disdaining the watering hole as if they had much

better things on their minds. But then the young woman had pointed out something trailing them;

in the failing light, it was barely more than a shadow, although Jim did finally catch a flash of

yellow and black.

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“Leopard,” he had said. Then the shadow had flashed by again and was gone into the

night.

Now, he was making himself comfortable with a cigarette, sitting in the corner by the

potted daisies. His Rigby was stretched across his knees over his blanket, and his pistol he had

given to M’penda. As he began to smoke, Walker turned out the last light and the princess called

out a word of goodnight.

His eyelids were already somewhat heavy. He blinked a few times, then shut his eyes and

counted to thirty, adjusting them to the dark african night. The moon was waxing gibbous, giving

just enough light to touch the tips of the sycamore leaves. You know, as he thought about it, he

wasn’t quite sure when he last spent an all-night vigil in a machan. Perhaps for the Leopard of

Rudraprayag? Probably so. He yawned. At least, thank heavens, this time a shot-less night was

indication of success. There are many more shot-less nights than successful ones, when success

is measured the other way around.

The stars winked at him from above the horizon, spreading out brighter and brighter until

they were interrupted by the line of the roof. He had never sat in a machan with a roof before;

how often he had lamented it, in the rain and the cold and the thought of death leaping on him

from above. And now, finally having obtained a roof, here he was lamenting that he was not out

in the open air, able to see the moon and the rest of the heavens. He silently blew out a puff of

smoke. Well, the grass is always greener on the other side; Maggie had warned him of it many

times.

The clouds blew over around 11, sinking Jim into almost complete darkness. No problem,

as long as it wasn’t raining; he only needed to be able to hear. He loved listening to the sounds of

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the night: especially the birds. Birds were the perennial friend of the dangerous game hunter. As

he let his eyes soften in the darkness, he made out the high-pitched squeal of the Fish eagle, and

then a second later, the soft, mystical gurgling of the Nightjar. The Nightjar had been his favorite

to learn about when he first got here, he remembered. He had mastered its low gurgle in a few

days and had begun calling them onto the windowsill in the early mornings. They were beautiful,

small—

The night went silent. It was as sudden as if someone had turned off the radio.

Jim froze, his hands tightening around the Rigby. He strained his eyes to see through the

darkness. There was no other way to get around but to come around here, to the entrance. He

strained his ears as well. He could swear that he had heard a scraping sound. He dared not move;

he barely breathed. After a full two minutes of complete silence and darkness, a cloud shifted.

Just enough to let a tiny stream of moonlight cast the faintest gloom on the hotel. And there! He

saw a tail twitch, retreating around the side of the tree, only catching sight of it long enough to

blink. He threw his rifle to his shoulder and searched frantically through the night. Where could

it be, it was too close to hide now, it had to come by him, had it seen him, there was nowhere

else for it to go…

Jim remained, rifle at the ready, for another three minutes. He used to wait ten, he

thought self-reproachingly. Then he snuck up by the entrance and checked all around. No chui.

The leopard had vanished. He took a deep breath and sat back down. Slowly reaching down he

lit another cigarette. He wished he had a proper Indian chair. By George, these African seats

were uncomfortable.

His eyes shot open as he felt a hand softly squeezing his arm.

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“Here you go, b’wana.”

M’penda was sitting cross legged beside him, pouring him a drink. When had he fallen

asleep? What time was it?

“What is that, my friend?”

M’penda finished pouring and handed it to him. “Drink,” he said.

Jim took a sip and tasted brandy sliding down his throat. He smiled and sipped it again.

“Thank you. How long has it been?”

“It is 4:30. I have watched, too. There has been no trouble.”

“There was, earlier,” Jim remarked.

“Yes, but he smell you, and go away. He know better now.”

Jim yawned quietly and stretched his back. Yes, he had most certainly fallen asleep on an

all night vigil before, but still he was disappointed in himself.

“Now, we wait for ‘de sun to be born again,” M’penda said, after pouring himself a cup

as well. Jim felt his eyelids getting heavy again. Then again, M’penda was there. He could

handle it, whatever it was. After a few moments of fighting, he let his eyelids droop back down.

Jim awoke just before the sun did, and thanking M’penda, lowered the small rope ladder

of Walker’s and climbed down into the clearing, slinging his rifle on his back. He touched his

hands to the ground, felt the dirt between his fingers. Africa. He could feel the difference in the

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dirt; his home had thicker soil, more clay than sand, but here in Africa the soil was drier and

crumbly.

He looked to the waterhole and saw the impala from the night before. They had

disregarded his descent, and were calmly lapping the water and eating around its edges. He sat

down and watched them. After a few minutes, he couldn’t stand it. His hips hurt too much. He

tried suppressing the anger welling up inside him. He looked at his legs; do as you’re told, he

warned them. Then looking back to the impala, he had an idea. Taking his rifle in hand, he got

on all fours and began to slide across the clearing, going from scrub to bush, staying in the

shadows. The impala had yet to notice him. He stalked them slowly, patiently. Each hand and

foot had to feel the ground softly, find anything that would make any noise, and scoot it out of

the way before he could put any weight on it. How many times he had snuck up on sambar as a

young boy in India? It was like second nature, even now.

He had made it within 20 metres of the antelope when he heard a bush sigh behind him. It

did not rattle, did not crack; the noise was so slight, it sounded like a sigh. He froze. Slowly, he

sat down and turned around. 6 metres away, he could see a great, yellow eye, peering at him

through the brush. Then it vanished. Hurriedly, he swung his rifle into his hands and crept over

to where it had been. It had to be here somewhere. There! He saw the familiar, four-toed print.

He looked in the direction it had gone; to the west, toward the mountain. The brush only got

thicker. But here he finally had it, this thing with the audacity to threaten the Princess while he,

Colonel James Corbett, was on guard. He set his jaw and took off after the big cat.

He didn’t catch sight of it again for 10 minutes. As he was picking his way around a

thorny Juniper, sweat beginning to bead at the seam of his hat but his rifle still in the palm of his

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left hand, he caught a flash of it going over a rock outcropping, 70 metres off. He was still hot on

the trail.

He came up to the rock outcropping with a sense of foreboding. It was an eerily similar

scene to the one that had led the Leopard of Rudraprayag to leap on down upon him, slamming

him to the ground and his rifle from his hands. He’d barely had time to draw his pistol and shoot

the old bastard.

So he crept towards the outcropping, eyes examining every branch, every lip of rock. His

eyes never stopped, flitting to, fro, and back again. A hornbill thrush called shrilly. Then, as he

was stepping around a sycamore, he heard a low, deep growl. From directly behind him.

He whipped around, his rifle automatically finding his shoulder. Their gaze met and

neither looked away. Jim felt no fear and no excitement. He regarded the leopard, its powerful

muscles rippling through its legs, with admiration. How easily it could have ripped through the

rope contraptions and entered the hotel. It was a huge leopard, easily 140 pounds. Later that day

the Princess would be gone. She’d be having a lemonade with the Duke on their veranda in the

city. She’d be getting on a plane, going back to the land of dresses and curtsies. He’d go back to

his house, M’penda would go back to his family. Mr. Thick-glasses would go back to whatever

bloody paper-pusher job he came from.

Later that day, he thought, that very same day, the leopard would be laying in the shade

of a juniper in the middle of the reserve, quietly cracking the bones of a recently killed impala. It

would be standing, frozen, on the edge of a path, watching with glinting eyes a child going to the

river to wash.

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It would be padding down a secret tunnel through the brush, following the call of its

mate.

It would be backing the Princess into a corner, its jaws red, having taken the last color

from his fading hands.

What would it be doing? Who was he to take the shot? Who was he not to?

The leopard did not seem as impressed with him. It licked its nose. After what seemed an

eternity, the leopard stood up tall, and turned and looked to its left. Then it turned back towards

him. Jim blinked back at it. He had it dead to rights; it was only a matter of pulling the trigger.

But he stood there, rooted to the ground, frozen. The leopard stared back at Jim. Then, slowly

and smoothly, it slid back into the shadow of the African morning and was gone.

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