Jackal's Dance

by Beverley Harper

  Eben sighed. No point in thinking about Ilsa. The marriage had lasted a short eighteen months before she ran away with a fellow student. Eben blamed the boy for tempting his wife. There was no possibility that his own behaviour might have been the cause. But a short temper brought on by asthma, coupled with his love of a regular dop had been significant reasons for Ilsa’s defection. Eben, set in his ways and used to complete obedience from the young, had simply refused to listen when she complained about his breath and bad moods, thinking she’d learn to live with them. After all, she was his wife. What else could she do? Eben’s rigid Afrikaans upbringing left him unqualified to deal with the new-age freedom of expression. Women were owned and controlled by their husbands, simple as that.

  Ilsa, who had gone into the marriage with very little thought other than being the wife of a university professor, and no resolution to make the union work, woke up one day to confront the truth. She was saddled with a cranky, ugly, brandy-drinking old man with smelly feet. Not short of admirers, Ilsa began an affair with a fellow student. Eben had no idea, although his wife’s antics were common gossip on campus. A few months before Ilsa’s twentieth birthday, Eben came home and found a breezy little note which ended with the words, ‘I know you will wish us both well’. About a year later he heard on the grapevine that she’d left the luckless student for an even younger boy, a singer in an unsuccessful rock band. By then Eben didn’t care.

  With Ilsa gone, Eben let himself go. He’d gained a little weight during their eighteen months together but quickly reverted to mainly liquid nutritional habits and lost it all. A hairy man, while married to Ilsa he’d had regular haircuts. In the interest of appearance, and with his wife’s urging, he’d even laboriously plucked sprouting nostril and ear hair, a painful exercise but one he was happy to do for her. Not any more. All were allowed to grow again. Sports shirts and slacks encouraged by Ilsa found their way to the back of his wardrobe and, once again, Professor Eben Kruger’s dress sense revolved around denim jeans and crumpled matching shirts. The old professor was back – a little more fond of a dop, a little beaten up emotionally and a whole lot more cautious. It was as if Ilsa had been a speed bump in his dry academic life, an unavoidable obstacle approached too fast. He’d gone flying for a brief time, landed with a thump and was now firmly back to earth. And the more unattractive he looked the less chance there’d be that he’d ever again become involved with a woman. That was fine by him. Women were trouble.

  Eben looked around the tent, checking for anything he might need during the morning. He didn’t see the tangled sheet, the jumbled mess of dirty clothes or the untidy stack of notes stained by spilt mugs of coffee or brandy. If his long-suffering maid back in South Africa were less diligent, his flat would look the same. Eben didn’t notice chaos. His analytical mind simply cut through it to reach the rarefied air of academic dissertation and theoretical experimentation. It was of no interest, indeed, it was completely irrelevant, that his tent was a scorpion or snake’s paradise. Students through the preceding years could only conclude that the reason he’d never been bitten was that neither could stand the smell of his feet.

  Collecting up his puffer, coffee mug, binoculars, camera, notebook and pencils, Eben left his tent and stalked, in his usual jerky fashion, towards the fire.

  Megan Ward dressed, as she usually did, to hide herself. An oversized man’s shirt, sleeves rolled up, disguised, she thought, a size 42C bust. Megan hated her breasts. They reminded her of balloons about to burst. One day she intended to have them reduced in size. However, there was nothing she could do about her right leg. The effects of polio cannot be reversed. Muscles, wasted and paralysed to the extent that all reflex had been lost, resulted in a shortened, almost withered appearance so that she walked with an exaggerated limp. The doctors had been elated that her creeping paralysis had confined itself to this one extremity only. In a worst case scenario, they had explained to her parents, the respiratory muscles could become affected, resulting in certain death.

  Megan had slipped through the vaccination net by accident. An only child, because she’d been born when her mother was forty-two, the usual information circuit of young mothers discussing their offspring had not happened. The children of family friends were teenagers whose parents had long forgotten more than they remembered about babies. At the age of five and due for a booster inoculation, which might have alerted everyone that she never had an initial vaccination, Megan was in bed with chicken pox and missed taking home the reminder note from her kindergarten teacher. She was nine when polio struck. By the time she turned eleven, one leg had outgrown the other by so much that walking was no longer a simple limp, rather a lopsided lurch. It had happened so insidiously that Megan didn’t notice the change until one day when she caught sight of herself in a shop window. By the time Megan entered puberty, the inescapable fact was that she would always be different. She became introverted and touchy.

  The Wards tried to bolster their daughter’s waning confidence by stressing her good points – her lustrous mid-brown hair which always looked healthy, clean and freshly brushed; big brown eyes and lashes so long and thick they were the envy of everyone; tall and slim; her lovely smile. Megan was not fooled.

  Despite a naturally sunny disposition, preoccupation with her appearance lasted a couple of years before Megan eventually shook off her depression and decided to make the best of things. There was no way to hide her limp, but she could shield the cause from curious stares. She always wore slacks or jeans – did not own a single skirt or pair of shorts.

  Megan soon realised that while strangers’ eyes might flick towards her ungainly walk before looking away in embarrassment or pity, friends appeared comfortable in her company. She was included in all the girlie discussions, invited to all the parties – although no-one asked her to dance – and the boys in their group were more than happy to sit and talk with her. She could not participate in physical sport but found leisure outlets in pastimes such as chess, learning to play the guitar and joining a debating society. Megan was a well-rounded, genuine and thoroughly nice girl. Those who knew her marvelled at how well she coped with what, it was agreed, amounted to a considerable handicap.

  Through circumstances beyond her control, Megan had discovered early in life that which some people never learn – that while physical perfection may be a great attribute, it was no substitute for a sincere and caring personality. She was outstandingly popular, largely because of her talent for listening. At twenty-two, even people much older tended to confide in her. Megan knew enough secrets to write several scandalous books but never once was a confidence betrayed. She worked steadily towards a degree in nature conservation, was quiet and well-behaved in lectures and tutorials, diligent in submitting assignments on time and had an active, though compared to many, relatively tame social life.

  Not short of male company, a few friendships had blossomed into romance. Megan quickly learned that if she didn’t dwell on her disability, chances were neither would others. In fact, the size of her breasts was a cause of more embarrassment to her than a withered leg ever could be.

  Right now, Megan was between boyfriends. The last relationship had been ended by her because, although he was nice enough, he didn’t challenge her mentally. Megan accepted that some young men would discount her as a potential partner because of her limp but that was their loss, not hers. Superficiality was high on her hit list of pet hates.

  Most nights in camp, sitting around the fire, the others would beg Megan to get her guitar. She’d become a good player, with a range from classical through modern and folk, even writing her own music. Megan’s voice was a sweetly true contralto and when Fletch joined in with a passably good tenor accompaniment, the pair would harmonise effortlessly while their audience fell silent and listened.

  Tea finished, Megan plaited her hair, securing each braid with a rubber band, then, collecting up the equipment she’d need, left her tent.

  Troy Trevaskis was known for posse
ssing an almost legendary libido. He’d read somewhere that men thought about sex at least once every twenty minutes. Bullshit! It was hardly ever off Troy’s mind and his body responded accordingly. Especially first thing in the morning. One of his friends advised, ‘Take a leak. It works for me.’ But on those occasions he woke alone, Troy preferred to take care of early morning erections in his own way.

  Which was precisely what he was doing right now. And to help him along, he was thinking about Angela Gibbs. When he had finished, he was still thinking about her.

  The girl was gorgeous. When she joined the group waiting for the university minibus which would take them the two thousand long kilometres from Johannesburg to Etosha, Troy wasted no time and immediately introduced himself.

  As much as he had been looking forward to the field trip, until that moment Troy had been glumly sizing up Kalila, Josie and Megan. None of them was his type. He’d just come to the regrettable conclusion that he was in for three weeks of celibacy – his friends were going to love that when they found out – when Angela appeared. Blonde, slim, a figure and face to die for, the forthcoming field trip was suddenly looking brighter. Troy took it upon himself to lay an early claim. She’d responded by flirting with him and they sat together through the three-day journey. Troy was convinced that, as soon as was humanly possible, he’d get lucky. He made the mistake of mentioning it. ‘I can’t wait to be alone with you. I want to kiss you all over.’

  Great stuff! The line usually worked. Angela had cold-shouldered him ever since, leaving Troy wondering what on earth had gone wrong. The problem obviously couldn’t be him so, as he watched her flirt, first with Fletch, then the professor, he finally concluded that she must be a prick-teaser. Fletch appeared oblivious of her signals and the old man simply frowned with disapproval and moved away. That didn’t stop Angela. She continued to ignore Troy but play up to the other two.

  The more she avoided him, the more he wanted her. He was not used to this treatment and she became the focal point of his sexual fantasies.

  Early morning exercise over, Troy located the Kleenex box, dragged a handful of tissues out and mopped himself up. Looking down at his body, he felt the usual sense of satisfaction. Brown as a berry – he worked on his tan all year round – flat stomach, well muscled, abdominal hair starting just below his navel to give the girls an inkling of what lay further south, and a penis which invariably drew admiring stares when Troy showered with the rest of the team after a game of rugby. He was very well endowed and quite used to comments like, ‘Jesus! You must tickle a few backbones with that thing.’ Just over six feet tall, thick black hair, brooding dark eyes, a nose someone once described as cute and a sensuous mouth, Troy’s Greek heritage had certainly handed out its best for him. Girls fell on their backs as soon as he crooked a finger at them. At twenty-two, Troy Trevaskis had been sexually active for eight years, having been initiated by a friend of his mother’s. That experience, and the woman’s obvious reluctance to end the affair, left him confident that he had what it took to please the ladies.

  When he wasn’t thinking about sex, which wasn’t very often, Troy could be lured into performing for the Wits University rugby team, or even concentrating on his studies. His ultimate objective was to become a veterinarian, specialising in wild animals. Friends found it difficult to connect the playboy with his stated ambition and tended to think it was a passing phase. They could not imagine how he could settle for a life in the bush, turning his back on the bright lights where he seemed to thrive. Some accused him of wasting the privileges he’d been born with. To them it seemed that life for Troy was as simple as deciding what he wanted and it would be his. Indeed, it appeared to many that Troy had been born with a complete canteen of silver cutlery in his mouth.

  He came from a wealthy background and, despite his father’s fondest wishes, had absolutely no interest in joining the family law firm, which Troy always referred to as The Factory. In addition to his looks and bedroom reputation, a number of other girl-getting attractions added to his already formidable arsenal of charms – a flashy sports car, the latest wardrobe, money to throw around, a luxurious penthouse apartment and occasional access to his father’s private plane.

  Troy should have been a spoilt brat and, to some extent, was. He was terribly lazy when it came to chores anywhere, not just at camp. He wasn’t overly fond of hard physical work, unless it gave him a chance to strip down and show off his muscles. He also had an annoying habit of playing practical jokes on people – elephant droppings in Josie’s sleeping bag; a baked bean in Megan’s tea which frightened the shit out of her because she thought she’d swallowed an unidentified bug; an overripe and slushy onion in the toe of one of Fletch’s boots; that sort of thing. Harmless, but in the heat and inconvenience of a field study, damned irritating.

  But there was another side to this young man. Somewhere in Troy’s genetic background lurked a spark of something else. His hands, when touching animals, were as gentle as a lover’s. The family cat, an overweight and decidedly spiteful Burmese that would shred an unsuspecting arm when the whim took it, allowed Troy to drape it over his shoulders and walk around the house with it. It would lay in his lap on its back, all four legs splayed, and permit him to tickle its stomach. Vicious dogs behaved like gambolling puppies around him. Animals trusted him instinctively and Troy loved them in return.

  Children too, with their uncluttered perception of adults, adored him. He was innately well-mannered around the elderly and one of those rare young people who actually valued what the older generation had to say. Incurably romantic, even if his attention span to any one woman seemed indecently short, they certainly got their money’s worth while he was focused.

  Troy was also, to the surprise of lecturers and tutors alike, of above average intelligence – when he cared to concentrate. During his first year at university they were so surprised by the quality of set assignments that some suspected others had written them for him. That quickly proved to be untrue. He was one of those lucky individuals capable of hearing or reading something once and committing it to memory. As a result, he was able to produce work of a very high standard with little apparent effort.

  He stretched and yawned. Troy would have loved another few hours’ sleep. Instead, he did three dozen effortless sit-ups and forced himself to rise and face the new day.

  Lighting a cigarette, he pulled a pair of green shorts over his skimpy black bikini underpants, then donned old well-worn takkies, and a white singlet style T-shirt. Over this, but only because he needed pocket space, a faded bush shirt which he left unbuttoned. That was it. No hat, no sunscreen. His Mediterranean complexion simply absorbed the sun’s rays, remaining the same tanned shade the year round. Thick hair, which settled perfectly into place just by running his fingers through it, protected his head. He did a quick mental check that he hadn’t forgotten anything. They were hoping to ear-tag a family of jackals today. It was Troy’s responsibility to make sure they had enough tranquilliser and tags. He grabbed his bush bag, checked to make sure everything was there, drank the by now lukewarm coffee and scrambled from the tent.

  Josie Leah’s period started during the night. Cramps had woken her and she’d rummaged around in the dark trying to locate a tampon. Almost compulsive in her need to keep clean at this time of the month, the thought of going through a full day without a shower was abhorrent, although she knew it would have to be done. Water, as Josie only found out after she signed on for the trip, had to be brought with them. A brief wash was all she had to look forward to and that was not until late in the afternoon. A strip wash only. Josie was always a heavy bleeder for the first two days.

  Sipping coffee, she worried about the logistics of what to do with used tampons in the bush. Totally dedicated to all things environmental, even the thought of burying them was not an option. They might be dug up by a jackal or hyena. The professor had a thing about plastic bags and they were banned from camp. Although Josie kept a few basic medical supplies
in her toilet bag, she could hardly go into the bush with it. The others would know what she was up to. Admitting to having her period was as alien as walking a tightrope across Victoria Falls. She simply couldn’t.

  Josie came from an extremely wealthy Jewish family who owned a string of jewellery shops around South Africa. Her mother, always busy, had largely entrusted the upbringing of her only female offspring to a black nanny. Quiet and confidential mother–daughter conversations rarely took place. Josie found out about the workings of a woman’s body from friends. And, because a lot of giggling and a few old wives’ tales invariably accompanied these whispered discussions, Josie grew up believing a woman’s menstruation time to be something distasteful that nice people didn’t talk about. She always felt slightly dirty when her period arrived, as though visited by something undeserved and quite unsavoury.

  From the age of fourteen, Josie had known there was a definite kink in her sexuality. She’d developed a crush on one of the female teachers and was considerably relieved to discover that half her class felt the same. But two years later, when others were gushing over movie stars, singers and boys from a neighbouring school, Josie was fantasising about the head girl.

  At seventeen, with dogged determination to find out once and for all which way she leaned, Josie lost her virginity to one of her older brother’s friends who had always made it clear that he was attracted to her. It was a terrible experience. His assurance that it would be better the second time made sense. Nothing could hurt that much again. He was right. But it was still terrible. That left Josie with a problem. She didn’t know any lesbians. The dilemma was solved by the same teacher most of her class had fancied three years earlier. The older, more experienced woman knew a potential partner when she saw one.