After about a mile the track leveled and became smooth and sandy. They passed a village of five mud huts. Ngoni cattle, with wide horns and hides so prettily patterned they might have been decorated by an artist, rested in the dust. They chewed cud sleepily as they watched the Land Rover go by.
At the edge of the village a crudely written sign indicated that Black Eagle Lodge was one mile ahead, beyond a gate and cattle grid.
Gwyn Thomas exhaled. “Thank goodness,” she said. “We’ll be fine now. Living in such a remote area, Sadie’s bound to have spare fuel.”
Ben hopped out to open the wire gate and they set off again. The grass along the edges of the track was overgrown and the trees crowded close, rapping the roof of the Land Rover with their branches. Seedpods cracked and popped beneath the wheels. The air was muggy and still.
Martine began to feel claustrophobic. She was glad when they finally rounded a bend and found themselves in a clearing at the foot of an imposing, elephant-shaped mountain cast from a single slab of granite. Stone cottages with sagging, rain-darkened thatch were dotted around the foot of it. Two black eagles wheeled overhead. There was no other sign of life.
Gazing upon the empty scene, Martine was struck by the silence. There was something spooky about it. It was a silence so intense she could almost touch it and taste it. It swirled around her like a cloak of fog. It wouldn’t have surprised Martine to learn that there was nothing at all beyond the mountain; that the landscape stopped right here. It was, she thought with a shiver, as if they’d taken a wrong turn and found the end of the world.
5
Gwyn Thomas was the first to speak. “Well,” she said huffily. “I must say it’s not quite the welcome I was expecting. Especially after a two-thousand-mile drive.”
But almost immediately a worried frown came over her face and she added, “Oh, my goodness, what if something’s happened to Sadie? I’d never forgive myself for not getting here sooner.”
Ben said, “I think I just saw a curtain move.”
He didn’t tell them what he’d really seen, which was what appeared to be a frightened face at the window of a house partially concealed by the mountain’s long shadow, just in case he was mistaken and alarmed Martine and her grandmother unnecessarily. Before he could make up his mind what to do next, the door of the house opened and an attractive woman, who appeared years younger than the sixty Gwyn Thomas had told them she was, swung out on crutches. She had on a floral sundress that had seen many summers. It flared over the bright pink plaster cast encasing her left leg and foot. The sandal she was wearing on the other foot had apparently been crafted from a piece of recycled car tire.
“You can wipe that sour expression off your face for starters,” was her opening remark to Gwyn Thomas. “I know what you’re thinking. I’ve driven all the way from the Western Cape and Sadie hasn’t put the welcome mat out. Well, I’m sorry. Service is not quite what it used to be at Black Eagle, and it’s even worse when I’m out back trying to do the laundry on one leg.”
There was a brief pause, during which Martine expected there to be an explosion of some kind from her grandmother. Instead Gwyn Thomas’s nut-brown face creased into a huge smile. “I see that apart from the cherry-pink cast nothing much has changed,” she retorted. “Still as crusty as ever!”
Then she rushed forward and embraced the other woman, taking care to avoid Sadie’s injured leg. “It’s wonderful to see you, my dear,” she said. “It’s been far too long. Sadie, I’d like you to meet my granddaughter, Martine, and her best friend, Ben.”
Sadie hugged them both. “Hello, Martine and her best friend Ben. I’ve been counting the hours until you all arrived. When the sun started to set today with still no sign of you, I began to feel quite desperate.”
There was so much emotion in her voice that Martine, recalling her grandmother’s words about Sadie being the proudest, most independent woman she knew, wondered if Gwyn Thomas had been correct in her suspicions that there was something more going on at Black Eagle than a broken leg.
“We came as soon as we could,” Gwyn Thomas responded. “But I felt it only fair that Martine and Ben get to see one or two sights along the way.”
“Of course, of course. And I don’t mean to sound selfish. I’ve just been so looking forward to your visit. Anyway, you’re here now and that’s all that matters. I’m actually surprised that the national park guards let you through the main gate. I’ve had a few difficulties with them recently. Having said that, one of my ex-employees recently started working on the gate and if you’re lucky enough to come into the park when it’s his shift, he’s always a sweetheart.”
Her eyes widened as Ben and Martine began unloading bags of rice, buttermilk rusks and cans of guavas, smoked tuna and chopped tomatoes, along with their suitcases, from the trunk of the car. “What’s all this?”
Gwyn Thomas smiled. “I wasn’t sure if there were enough groceries in the whole of Matopos to feed these two for a month. They might look undernourished, but given half a chance they’ll eat you right out of Black Eagle Lodge!”
“You didn’t have to do that,” responded Sadie, laughing, “but the more the merrier.” However, Martine noticed that she didn’t protest.
As if suddenly reminded of her duties as host, Sadie exclaimed, “You poor things, you must be worn out. Let me show you to your cottage.”
They ate dinner by candlelight. “More romantic,” Sadie said.
Martine wondered if the real reason was that the electricity wasn’t working, but decided it didn’t matter. It was more romantic or, at least, more magical, to do everything by candlelight.
Night had fallen on the retreat with typical African abruptness. At 6:45 p.m. the red sun slid behind Elephant Rock, the mountain that gave Black Eagle its spectacular backdrop, and by seven an ink-black darkness of the type only found in places far from city lights had descended. Sadie had shown them to their cottage along paths lit by cats’ eyes, which, she explained, were solar-powered, and not dependent on the erratic power supply. There were three bedrooms, a lounge, and a bathroom, all very simple, with faded curtains and threadbare rugs, but comfortable enough. The occasional gecko or blue-tailed lizard skittered across walls of glittering stone.
Over butternut squash stew, Sadie talked to them about the Matopos, an area rich in African history, much of it documented in the cave paintings found among the balancing rocks. Martine’s ears pricked up at the mention of cave paintings, and for an instant she caught herself wondering about the likelihood of finding further clues to her destiny in Zimbabwe. But that, she told herself, was ridiculous, not to say egotistical. The San Bushmen had had better things to do than go around Africa predicting the future of some white child they’d never heard of.
She was curious about what seemed a quite unlikely friendship between Sadie and her grandmother, but Sadie explained that it had come about when they were thrown together at an extremely strict boarding school near White River in South Africa. “We were both lonely and far from home, and Gwyn was the only kid who talked any sense,” she said with a laugh.
Gwyn Thomas nodded. “I felt the same. In lots of ways we were very different and we clashed a fair amount—still do. The best thing about Sadie was that she loved animals as much as I did. While all the other girls were poring over fashion magazines for skin and hair tips, I was dreaming about one day working with wild animals, and Sadie was obsessing over horses.”
“Wasn’t I ever.” Sadie smiled. “After we left school, I returned to Zimbabwe and Gwyn moved to the Western Cape. We’re hopeless communicators. I don’t know who is worse at staying in touch—Gwyn or me.”
“I am,” Gwyn Thomas said. “But the important thing is we’re always there for each other. We can count on each other. I know that I only have to pick up the phone and Sadie will coming running if I need her.”
“And I’m thankful to say that I can say the same about Gwyn,” said Sadie sincerely. “I can’t tell you how thrilled I am
that you’re all here.”
She pushed the pot of butternut squash stew over to Martine and Ben. “Help yourselves to more. Anyway, enough of all this sentimental reminiscing. I’m sure these two are more interested in how they’re going to be spending their vacation. First things first.
“Tomorrow morning, you’ll meet Ngwenya, my right-hand man. He’s the groundskeeper and horse wrangler here at Black Eagle. He’s also the only remaining staff member. Ngwenya is from the Ndebele tribe, and he’s much more of an expert on Matopos than I am, so you should save all your questions for him.”
Gwyn Thomas pursed her lips. “Ngwenya? That’s similar to the Zulu word for leopard—Ingwe. Is there any connection?”
“There is. Ingwenya means ‘leopard’ in Ndebele. Ngwenya has an ordinary name like you and I, but it’s respectful to address him by his clan name. As a member of that particular clan he has a sworn duty to protect and honor all leopards, but that’s a hard thing to do in these difficult times. We used to have the highest concentration of leopards in the world right here in the Matopos, but not anymore.”
“Leopards?” asked Martine. “Here? In the Matobo Hills?”
“Yes, leopards,” Sadie responded. “Why? Are you particularly interested in them?”
Martine started chewing then, as if her mouth were full and she couldn’t speak, so Sadie continued: “Leopards are nocturnal, which, as I’m sure you know, means they mostly hunt at night. They’re the shyest and most elusive of the big cats. There are rangers in the Matopos who have worked here for twenty years without seeing one. For that reason it’s very hard to keep a count of them.”
“You said you ‘used to’ have a lot of leopards here,” said Gwyn Thomas. “What happened to them?”
“Poaching and uncontrolled hunting has wiped them out.” Sadie’s tone was bitter. “And elsewhere some have simply starved to death because the animals they eat have also been poached and killed. They are on the verge of extinction in Zimbabwe. Here in Matopos, we know of only one. Few people have ever seen him, but those who have say he is the largest leopard ever recorded. He is so cunning and elusive that the locals are convinced that when every other big cat in the country has been hunted down he’ll be the only survivor. They call him Khan. They believe the day is coming when he will be the last leopard.”
“Have you ever seen him?” Ben asked.
Sadie glanced at Ben oddly, as if noticing him for the first time. “Once,” she said abruptly. “I saw him once, but it was so long ago I can hardly remember it.”
They were finishing their meal when Gwyn Thomas gave a tut of annoyance. “Sadie, I forgot to mention that we’re clean out of fuel. We did try to find some in Bulawayo but had no luck all. We limped up your driveway on the smell of an oil rag. I assume you keep some petrol on the premises.”
“I’m afraid not,” Sadie said. “It comes in once a month. My next fuel delivery is not until—ooh, let me see . . .” She stood up with the aid of her crutches and hopped over to a calendar illustrated with local wildlife. “August twelfth, it looks like.”
“TWO weeks away!” Gwyn Thomas burst out, but she caught herself and added more politely: “That’s not for nearly a fortnight. What if there’s an emergency? What if we want to take a drive around the Matobo Hills?”
“That’s what the horses are for,” Sadie told her cheerfully, and Martine had the distinct impression she wasn’t exactly sorry that they were stuck here at Black Eagle for weeks on end—probably wouldn’t be sorry if they were stuck here forever.
“This is a disaster!” cried her grandmother.
“Gwyn, Gwyn, Gwyn,” Sadie scolded reproachfully, as if Gwyn Thomas were a misguided child. “You’re on vacation now. I’m sure you haven’t had a proper break in years. I’m aware that I’ve asked you to help me run the retreat for a month and that there’ll inevitably be a few mundane chores each day, but the present lack of visitors means there should be plenty of time to relax. At least it’s peaceful here. Matopos is so isolated that it forces you to forget about the modern world for a while. We have no television or e-mail, and the phones are hopelessly unreliable.
“As for emergencies, Zimbabweans have a saying: ‘Make a plan.’ It’s our national motto. It means that no matter what life throws at you, you keep smiling and figure out a solution.”
“You might have a point, Sadie,” said her friend. “I’m so used to my routine at Sawubona, where there are always visitors arriving or animals needing attention, that some enforced rest and relaxation might do me the power of good. It won’t do Ben and Martine any harm either. They’re still recovering from a disastrous school trip they took in June. We’re definitely all in need of a vacation. If we have to wait a few weeks for the fuel to arrive, then so be it.”
Martine caught Ben’s eye and saw he was just as stunned as she was. It was one thing being at the end of the world by choice. It was a totally different matter being stranded there.
Later, Martine was climbing into bed in her pajamas when she remembered she’d left her survival kit hanging over the back of her dining room chair. She was so sleepy that she was tempted to leave it till morning, but Tendai had drummed into her the importance of having it with her even when she least expected to use it. “Keep your survival kit with you for when you need it most, little one,” he always said. “When you need it to survive.”
Ben and her grandmother had turned off their lights, so Martine tiptoed out of the cottage and along the path to Sadie’s house, which also served as the retreat reception, lounge, and dining area. Cats’ eyes lit the way. The kitchen door was ajar. The survival kit was exactly where Martine had left it. Out of habit, she wrapped the pouch around her waist and secured the Velcro straps. She was hurrying from the building when she heard Sadie’s voice raised in anger. Surprised, Martine crept back along the passage and put an ear to the lounge wall.
Sadie was on the phone. “I don’t want your blood money,” she was saying furiously. “I want you to leave us alone. Nothing you can say will change my mind. Ever. Over my dead body will you take him.”
She slammed down the receiver, and there was the clack of wood as she gathered her crutches. Martine darted out into the night. A key turned in the lock and the kitchen windows went dark.
Despite her tiredness, Martine was awake for a long time, replaying in her mind what she’d heard. Who was threatening Sadie and why? “Over my dead body will you take him,” she’d said. That was a very extreme statement. Who was the “he” Sadie was protecting? Who did “they” want to take? Even more disturbing was the comment about blood money. Was Sadie being blackmailed in some way?
She was just drifting off to sleep when the silence was split by what, even through the fuzziness of half consciousness, she recognized as a leopard’s roar. But it was no ordinary roar. It was an expression of rage and absolute defiance, both the protest of a savage, untamed creature and a declaration of war, and it touched the very core of Martine’s being.
When she woke up in the morning, she had no idea whether or not she’d dreamt it.
6
Tuk-tuk-tuk. Tat-tat-tat. Tuk-tuk-tuk. Tat-tat-tat. “Come in!” Martine shouted for the fourth time, her voice cross and thick with sleep. She couldn’t believe it was already daybreak, and she was very annoyed with whoever it was who kept knocking but refusing to enter. It was only when she took the pillow off her face and sat up that she realized the sound was coming from the window rather than the door. She pulled back the curtain. A black and white speckled hornbill with a big yellow beak was staring in through the window. As Martine watched, its beady eyes slid to her survival kit. She’d opened it to take out her flashlight the previous night and it was still lying on the ledge.
“Don’t get any ideas,” Martine told the bird, zipping up the pouch and tucking it under her pillow, out of view. She checked her watch and yawned. “And next time wait until at least seven o’clock before you even think about waking me up.”
“That’s Mag
nus,” Sadie informed her over a breakfast of butternut fritters and scrambled eggs prepared by Gwyn Thomas. “He loves shiny things and he’s an awful thief, so watch your possessions. The locals say that the person who finds Magnus’s nest will be able to feed everyone in Matopos for a year there’ll be so many rings, rubies, and riches in it. But so far he has managed to outwit us all. I have to warn you he gets very attached to visitors. Don’t be surprised if he starts following you around.”
Martine studied Sadie from under her bangs, but although her grandmother’s friend had dark circles under her eyes and seemed a touch distracted, she made no mention of the telephone argument. If she was being blackmailed or threatened, she certainly didn’t show it.
“‘Over my dead body will you take him.’ Are you sure that’s what you heard?” Ben asked as they walked down to the stables after breakfast. Magnus the hornbill accompanied them, waddling ponderously alongside.
“I’m not a hundred percent certain, because I was tired and listening through a wall,” admitted Martine, “but I’m pretty sure. And anyway she definitely made the comment about blood money.”
They followed the path through a grove of gum trees. The smell of horses, Martine’s favorite next to giraffe breath and baking bread, grew stronger. In front of her, Ben halted. The hornbill paused at the same time. On the far side of the stable yard, Sadie was in deep conversation with a man they assumed was Ngwenya. Their heads were close together and their expressions were serious.
“Maybe it was Ngwenya who Sadie was referring to on the phone,” Ben said in a low voice. “It could be that somebody’s trying to tempt him away to a better job and she’s doing her best to hold on to him. She did say he was her right-hand man.”
Before Martine could answer, Sadie’s companion spotted them. He murmured something to Sadie. She motioned them over with a crutch.
The Last Leopard Page 4
