by Linda Tucker
“Linda, thank god you’re here!” Brad exclaims. “We couldn’t reach you en route to the congress. You miscalculated the time by an hour. South Africa close of business is twenty-five minutes off. A call has just come from South Africa—sounds desperately urgent!”
He’s holding out the receiver in his hand.
“They’re still on the line!”
I step forward anxiously.
The South African caller is Marianne’s sister and acting personal assistant, Marlene. Her voice is tense.
“Thank heavens it’s you, Linda! Here’s the status: in one moment, the South African Bank’s going to ring you at this number in Sante Fe. Marianne’s had a lot of trouble convincing them to push this thing through in time. They won’t—because they want to confirm it’s really you who’s the signatory of these documents, okay?”
“Okay! Anything you say!” I respond, my whole body convulsed with anxiety.
Marlene too sounds as if she’s barely suppressing a panic attack. “Please listen carefully. Bank’s on the phone to Marianne right now as we speak. They’ll ring you in a couple of seconds! Everything depends on you saying yes!” She draws breath for the first time. “Got it? Yes?”
“Yes, yes. Understood,” I respond. “I’m completely—”
But she interrupts me, “Oops, gotta go—Marianne’s just put down the phone to the bank.”
It is literally the last hour of the last day of the last extension of the extension. How is this possible?
I stare at Brad and Leslie, and they stare back at me.
“The bank’s waiting for authentication.” I explain breathlessly.
Both nod in silence. They know what’s at stake. Time’s ticking by. An elegant, old walnut grandfather clock in the hallway taps out the time with the exaggerated tick-tock, tick-tock of bygone eras. Meanwhile, destiny has sped up and is racing ahead, the cogs of great and small Mayan calendars, churning, turning, and grinding at an incomprehensibly inexorable pace.
The phone rings again. It’s the bank. Trembling, I give the go-ahead.
The receiver is back in its cradle now. I stare at Brad and Leslie again.
“Bank said they’d put it through right away,” I report back.
Suspended silence. Time standing still. We all turn simultaneously to stare at the grandfather clock. If the hands are accurate, it’s just over twenty minutes to the hour. Close of business, South African time. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. Fifteen minutes, ten minutes, five minutes to the hour.
Suddenly, the phone rings again. It’s the bank again—to confirm that my authorized instruction has been authenticated. Heaven knows how many arms were twisted and regulations broken, but the remaining funds were transferred into the sellers’ attorney’s account, effective immediately.
The professional voice at the other side of the receiver confirms that the transaction was on record in the sellers’ attorney’s account.
“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” I say long after I put down the receiver. Then I look up at Brad and Leslie who are standing holding onto each other, wide eyed and expectant.
“We’ve done it!” I splutter, stunned.
This, moments before the sounding of the final gong!
A little door on the grandfather clock springs open, and a partridge pops out its colorful, decorated head, crying: “Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!”
“Just in time for Christmas!” Brad announces, hugging me enthusiastically in congratulations, shaking with laughter and relief.
“What an incredible birthday present for Marah!” Leslie exclaims warmly. “Christmas baby!”
“What an incredible gift for humanity!” Brad pronounces.
“We’ve done it!” I repeat, on the point of tears.
Marah’s sacred lands have been secured. The Bethlehem baby is safe. I can shut down completely. I can simply stop. I imagine I can hear Xhosa singing a Marley jingle: “Everything’s gonna be all right; everything’s gonna be all right now. Everything’s gonna be all right; everything’s gonna be all right now.”
“No woman, no cry,” I say to myself.
All the energy has drained from my body. I’m ashen and trembling, moribund with fatigue. Next thing I know, I’m crumpling into bed. I intend to sleep for a week. I imagine that Marianne and Mireille must be doing the same in their respective countries, but I have no strength to even lift the phone. Brad and Leslie will contact the organizers of the congress and offer my apologies. I’m unable to present. I cannot stand, let alone think, a moment longer.
In an exhausted delirium curled up in bed, I delve deep into the collective unconscious for meaning behind this grossly unnatural crunch on timing. Faith tested to the ultimate extremes of endurance seems so unnecessary, with all the other challenges the White Lions have to face.
From the ancestral realms, I hear Maria Khosa’s voice and familiar, uproarious laughter, “Why, you ask? Ha! Because you wished it would happen with all your heart, yes—good—but your head still doubted you could do it. Now you have done it anyway. Ha! You see, daughter? Reclaiming the sacred lands is, after all, your destiny.”
I’m vaguely beginning to understand. Somehow the whole exercise seemed yet another of Maria’s Herculean initiations, but I am still unsure of the lesson.
“So why’d I have to be bailed out by Mireille a second time?” I demand in my mind. “It seems so unfair that she should be the one to make the sacrifice all over again.”
I see Queen Maria now at the head of an ancient engraved stone table, in full ceremonial regalia with lion headdress and ankh in hand, seated beside a council of esteemed elders, who remained somewhat hazy in my vision.
“It was always ordained,” she pronounces. “For your godmother of light, it’s not a sacrifice, daughter. She gives unconditionally. This is who she is.”
I am confused and aching to understand. Does this mean I didn’t have to go to all that inhuman effort to try to get an alternative form of funding? Too exhausted for decorum, I demand of Queen Maria, “So could I simply have spared myself, knowing all along that the savior of the day was always going to be Mireille?”
“Not so, daughter. You needed to prove your commitment. She needed to see your dedication. You needed to be yourself in order for her to be herself.”
The vision fades, and everything fades. I simply allow myself to dissolve into nothingness.
CHAPTER 17
Highway Hennie
BACK IN SOUTH AFRICA, I FEEL REFRESHED, confident, calm, and very focused. January 4, 2005. Two weeks after the property deal went through in the closing, penultimate, twelfth-hour moment. I’ve spent almost a fortnight resting and celebrating, and even the thirty-two hours of return travel seemed like a cruise. After receiving the fabulous news from the bank, I slept for days, waking momentarily, then dropping off again in the tranquility of Corelight’s refined and peaceful premises. For the first twenty-four hours, I slept around the clock in the cocooned, nurturing environment. When I finally emerged, it gave me an opportunity for quiet discussions with Brad and Leslie, which put a lot into perspective. Highly enlightened individuals, who have raised significant funds for humanitarian causes including conservation and AIDS relief, Brad and Leslie encouraged me not to underestimate what has been achieved. In their view, raising money is relatively easy—if one doesn’t calculate the cost. By contrast, giving or receiving unconditionally, like unconditional love, was one of the most rarified attributes humanity could ever learn.
We also had a chance to talk through the implications of the White Lion work, and what it means to have reclaimed the hallowed heart of Marah’s kingdom. In the course of my work with Nature and the White Lions, everything I thought I understood about the teachings and dogmas of Judeo-Christian doctrine has required reinterpretation and reevaluation. I suspect Brad and Leslie have gone through a similar process, in their own way. They spoke about the concept of Christ consciousness not being limited to the masculine
principle, but equally represented by the feminine Christos force in Mother Nature herself. In the context of Marah’s arrival on Christmas Day in Bethlehem, and the belief among the African elders that she’s the sacred lioness for whom they’ve been waiting, Brad and Leslie’s enlightened philosophy made a great deal of sense. Right from that awesome moment when Maria Khosa prophesized I was destined to become the guardian of the Lioness of God, I’ve lived with the fear of being misunderstood. And this fear grew stronger with the fulfillment of Maria’s prophecy. Following on Marah’s birth on December 25, 2000, in Bethlehem, and the subsequent all-consuming rescue mission, the sanctity of Mother Nature became radiantly apparent to me, as did the inherent symbolism behind this divine birth as a manifestation of the Goddess. But at the same time I found it understandable why others might dismiss me as totally delusional. Suddenly, I no longer care if I am misunderstood. I have the validation I need, validation of the most heartwarming kind. Mireille has given me her generous backing, not once but twice over—despite being the daughter of pious and staunchly conservative Christian missionary parents. And others of high standing have come forward, the most notable being Corelight, prepared to pledge its funding in support of my cause.
Leaving The Casa after five days of tranquility and meditative discussion, I headed back via Britain, just in time to celebrate Christmas with Mireille. And boy, did we celebrate! Without doubt, it was the most wonderful and meaningful festive season of my entire life. Gone are those gaping Christmas nonevents of my early childhood, vacantly suspended between Christian and Jewish beliefs, where neither tradition was honored or upheld. Gone are the tinsel commercialism and frenzied shopping sprees characteristic of my student years, in a desperate bid to share the meaningless rituals of our consumer society. This Christmas, I knew something huge had fallen into place. And it felt so right! I didn’t have to prove anything. Christmas was a joyous, momentous celebration like never before.
Then New Year came around—what an unbelievable new beginning! Mireille and I drove through the rolling landscape surrounding Leeds for hours and hours on New Year’s Day, sweeping through the snow-covered dales in her royal blue Range Rover, reminiscing, planning, dreaming, talking, strategizing, and, finally, when we realized we were totally famished, stopping at a hearty roadside pub for lunch beside a roaring fire.
BACK IN SOUTH AFRICA AGAIN, I finally feel ready and more able than ever to take the next unhesitating steps toward securing Marah’s freedom and her homeward journey back to her natural Holy Lands.
When I return to my desk, my very first task is to sweep all the piles of papers with lists in scrawled handwriting—some ticked, others crossed out—directly into the garbage, leaving the surface clear for the first time in six months. What a relief! A tray of fresh tea arrives for me on the pristine cleared surface, and a breezy light streams in through the open window. I literally roll up my sleeves and settle comfortably behind my desk, with a clear plan of action formulating in my head. I can’t help sending an affectionate glance in Xhosa’s direction. There he is, a cuddly bear tucked into his alcove, wearing a bright red woolen beanie cap. I notice he’s put on his academic glasses before turning to me, so I know he has something serious to say. He ambles over, with the file of official-looking documents that have built up while I was away. He hovers a moment, as if trying to find the right words.
“Over the past two weeks,” he tells me, “while you and I and the rest of our team recuperated, our opponents celebrated their victory. Apparently, they thought they’d seized the property and couldn’t register the prize has slipped their grasp, milliseconds before the winning post!”
“I can understand their total disbelief, X. The timing was absolutely absurd.”
He gives a slow, deliberate nod. “Agreed. However, the sellers’ attorney must’ve then conveyed the bad news to our bad guys.”
“Oh,” I respond, bracing myself. I can imagine the trophy hunters’ initial shock and outrage. Then, once the truth hit home, I can imagine how nasty they’ve turned.
“The officials obviously couldn’t get anything issued over Christmas and New Year—so that gave us a breather,” Xhosa explains. “But as soon as the regional authorities were back in their offices yesterday, January 3, the pressure was on. Check out this attorney’s letter.”
Xhosa cringes as he opens the file and slides the fax to me. “It’s for you, boss, and I’m afraid it’s spitting mad.”
“But this is probably more urgent,” Xhosa adds, pulling out the next letter from his stack of officious-looking documents. “You’ll see it was sent to the Department of Nature Conservation.”
I scan cautiously through the contents. In sudden shock, I notice that this letter demands that our White Lion project “should be prohibited from any permissions or permits—under any circumstances.” The opponents are citing as grounds for objection the fact that they, as neighbors, have “the right to be consulted, and the right to protest.”
I don’t feel good about this, and I am trying to assess just how bad I should be feeling.
“Done some homework,” Xhosa continues, pulling out a printed copy of a Government Gazette. “Here’s a copy of new South African conservation policy—being redrafted currently. You’ll see it does allow for the written opinions of interested and affected parties.”
“Understood,” I comment.
In fact, a while back in my efforts to secure this property, when the threats from the hunters in the region first started erupting, I discussed this particular clause with one of our legal advisors, and his advice was that public objections could prove highly influential in the department’s decision-making process—particularly if the objectors were to employ intimidation tactics, bribes, or both.
“Not cool,” Xhosa continues. “But it gets worse.”
The next letter indicated that the irate neighbors are, in fact, threatening the Department of Nature Conservation with legal action if it issues us with a necessary permit.
“Hmm. Looks grim,” I mutter under my breath, feeling my morale about to take a dive. Or should I take my cue from Xhosa, who is still looking quite upbeat for a messenger of bad news?
“Remember, boss, there’s one factor the bad guys haven’t banked on,” he points out, placing his pen behind his ear at an almost smug angle. “We’ve already been granted permits!”
“I’m aware of that,” I say cautiously.
“But d’you remember the reason, boss?” Xhosa asks, revealing a dose of pride and just a little glee.
“I don’t get you yet.”
“It’s an anomaly—that’s what I’d call it. Remember that intrepid decision you took when you risked all our funds by erecting fencing on land you didn’t own, right? Well, that did it! No fencing; no permits. But with the fencing, you’ve beaten them to the goalpost! Bottom line is we’ve already got the permits!”
In a bizarre twist of events, it seems the gamble I took in the trustees meeting, based on that inner knowing alone, could prove the saving grace of the project and the key to the lions’ freedom. I ponder a moment; that must have been why my instinct told me it was such an overriding imperative to erect the fences in advance. On the strength of fourteen kilometers of immaculate predator-proof workmanship, the Nature Conservation officials had already approved our facilities and granted their permission for the reintroduction project. Whether or not I held title over the land at the time was not an issue.
Xhosa produces two more official-looking papers, which he’s kept until last. These two I am, in fact, familiar with. They are our permits. But calming my breathing, I take a closer look at each of the stamped and approved documents, scrutinizing their stipulated conditions in fine print. The first is the export permit. This granted permission to transport Marah and her cubs out of the Western Cape province. The second is the import permit, granting permission to transport Marah and her cubs into the Limpopo province, where Timbavati is situated.
“And the holding permit, X?�
�� I ask. This third and final permit granted the importing party permission to keep the lions on the Timbavati land.
“Ahem. Not yet.”
“What!? I was informed that this would come through while I was away,” I say, tapping my pen on the desk in frustration.
“True. Under normal circumstances,” Xhosa explains, “this final permit is a formality—a procedural consequence of the other two permits. That’s the exact wording the permit officer told me. Naturally, it follows that if an organization has been granted permission to import lions into a particular province, that same organization has permission to hold them there. That’s what he told me. So, at the end of the day, boss, I wouldn’t worry. We’ve got the other two permits, that’s the important thing.”
“Precisely,” I say crisply. “The latter permit is premised upon the former permits. So where is it?”
“I’m saying that’s what the official told me.”
“But it hasn’t been issued?”
“Well, no. Not yet.”
Adjusting his glasses, Xhosa concludes, “I didn’t want to bother you on the day of your return, boss. I’m sure it’s all okay, but.… Well, now that the hunters are knuckle-dusting the departmental officials, Nat Con has—understandably—gone a bit cold toward us for the moment. Don’t expect any breakdancing from officialdom right now. But you already did the fencing and got the permits, so who cares?”
I waste no time in phoning the permit officer in question. In my experience, any effort to get through to bureaucratic departments tends to hit brick wall after brick wall, so connecting with him on my very first attempt now feels decidedly lucky. After the initial formalities, I inquire why there’s a delay on the outstanding permit, fully expecting good news.
But instead the official informs me that, “following hostile action taken by nonconsenting parties to the proposed project, the issuance of the final permit has now been suspended.’ ”
