by Linda Tucker
I think back twenty-eight hours, how she fiercely resisted the tranquilizing drug. God, how my heart wept for her then. She fought and fought the drug’s debilitating effects, requiring three doses from Tindall’s dart gun, before finally succumbing. Now, with the same determination, she is actively fighting off the drowsiness as she emerges from the drug.
I hand the night-vision equipment over to Jason, who takes it, and says, “Look how focused she is!”
“But she’s still staggering,” I point out, concerned. “Her legs seem to buckle under her weight!”
“That’s quite normal for the dosages we’ve used. Remember the Karoo? This time, the journey was much longer, so we unfortunately had to top them up more than once. Don’t worry—” he says, putting down the night sights momentarily and turning to me with a comforting smile. “Don’t underestimate her!”
Her cubs attempt to make their way over to their mother. She’s not far away, but with every step they take they keel over. As usual, I want to rush in and help prop them up—and cuddle them. Fortunately, after staggering a couple of paces, then lolling and toppling over again, they finally reach her. All four huddle together for comfort. They look drowsy and dazed in their new playground but, thank God, they are all very much alive and well!
Being with them on this groundbreaking occasion makes me feel relieved and so very proud. No mother watching her child take his or her first teetering step could possibly feel more proud.
Jason is beaming proudly at them too as he views them through his infrared binocs.
For the first time, I become aware of a long-forgotten joy rising through my body—and suddenly I burst out loud, uncontrollably, “Marah’s home! Marah’s home! Marah’s home!”
Jason turns to look at me, grinning.
I’m bouncing up and down on the seat next to him. I don’t care what he might think of me and my excitement. It’s taken every bit of self-restraint not to leap out and run toward my darling lions with my arms outstretched! I’m forcing myself to hold back.
“Yes, I know, Jase—they have to remain un-human-imprinted!”
Not only does an electrified fence separate Marah from me now, but, more importantly, we have a self-imposed separation, which I have to honor, even if it goes against every imaginable yearning. Once committed to Marah’s rewilding, I have to maintain my purpose—minimize every and all human intervention, so that she and her cubs might return to the wild without dependency on humans. So instead of running toward them—as I continually yearn to do—all I am able do is simply watch!
I stare out at them in the soft dawn light. They are wide awake, bright-eyed and staring straight back at us, their coats translucent in the first light. Morning has broken. The mist has lifted and the skyline is pink and golden. It feels like the first morning on Earth!
Crisscrossing the tall grass and treetops in the lions’ boma are a thousand finely spun nets from the golden orb spider. Sunlit from heaven, the dew droplets catch the first beams of light, suspended on fine golden threads, like twinkling gems, fracturing into a spectrum of different hues. Ah! Sunlight! Dawning of the first day! The mother of the sun herself, Ma Ra, has awoken! And the first rays of sunlight on Earth—Regeus, Letaba, and Zihra—are shining bright as on the day of creation. I am speechless. So is Jason.
Finally, reluctantly, Jason clears his throat and radios to the camp to inform the film crew that the lions are waking up. To settle the lions and encourage them to feel at home as soon as possible, Jason planned to use the same technique as in the Karoo: discretely leave a wild game carcass for Marah and her family to “discover” in the far corner of their boma—their first meal on native soil. He organized with Simon and colleagues to place it here while I was away with the crew filming at the baobab tree. It was a whole kudu cow and the belly has been cut open to assist Marah in picking up the scent. Again, like my first attempt in the Karoo, there is no wind. But this time, Jason expects it to be different.
And sure enough, a little steadier on her paws, Marah determinedly makes her way over toward the hidden carcass, through long, green grass and dense foliage, her head held high to pick up the faintest scent on the air. She looks around her anxiously to check for danger. It’s all so unfamiliar. But then, suddenly, she looks back at me and Jason, and her face softens, as if comforted.
The hungry cubs are not waiting behind this time. Instead, they pad after their mother on unsteady legs.
For observation purposes, Jason had his team slash the grass in preparation for the lions’ arrival. But even so, in some places, the cubs are only discernable by the movement in the long grass through which they are moving—and tails flicking up above the grassy fronds.
Marah’s located the carcass.
“Phenomenal progress!” Jason observes proudly.
Although clearly still weakened by the tranquilizer, she’s started dragging her prize back toward her expectant cubs.
“Isn’t she simply amazing!” I bask in her glory.
It is a clear indication that the Queen of Timbavati is settling back into her rightful role—from the moment her paw touched down on her ancestral homelands. Fortunately, she doesn’t seem to need to check the electrified fence this time around.
The sun is starting to rise, and the film crew pulls in. Following our long night of quiet observation, their raucous arrival inevitably feels like an intrusion into our magical world. But this land is so powerful, and the spirits of the place are so very present, that absolutely no one could destroy the magic.
Understandably, the crew didn’t see any message in yesterday’s leopard drama. They looked shell-shocked that a lethal predator should have made a kill so close to them. And they were also equally disappointed at not being able to capture any aspects of the dramatic leopard incident on film. The fact they have nothing by way of record of the incident makes me smile. In shamanic circles, Maria’s elusive appearance and disappearance would be recognized as the work of a “spirit leopard.”
Not surprising that the film crew has nothing of Maria’s visitation on record; but this particular morning, they are being blessed with particularly great lion footage. The cubs are total stars: they’re up and about and playful—truly amazing under the circumstances—running circles around their mother, who expertly provided them with their first banquet on home territory! A delightful scene.
Having filmed for almost an hour, the crew must have captured some really heartwarming interactions. In fact, they seem more than satisfied and have called it a wrap.
We assist them in packing up their camera gear and they head off back to camp, waving their goodbyes and all revved up to join Hennie the hero on his return flight.
BACK AT THE FARMHOUSE, we should be celebrating. We should be cracking the champagne, lighting the fireworks, leaping for joy! Instead, by sheer necessity, we are gathered around the camping table in the dingy kitchen, like an emergency war council, strategizing and planning next steps. Mireille, Xhosa, Harold, and I—together with Jason and his team of scientists. Jason and I returned from the lions’ boma a half hour earlier, having left the pride contentedly asleep in the deep shade, with Simon watching over them. We’ve been joined by Xhosa and Harold, who drove down from Johannesburg to be of assistance. All of us hear the droning overhead now, as the DC3 circles one last time, and I picture Hennie peering down from the cockpit trying to detect his white “puppies” in their boma from the air. Satisfied that the danger period for the tranquilized lions is over, Tindall joined Hennie and the others on the return flight back to Johannesburg.
Feeling the full weight of responsibility for the pride’s safety, I’ve gone quiet and pensive, my head heavy. I can hear the intensity of human voices all around me, but I am making no effort to follow the debate. I watch the armies of ants in a frenzy gathering grass seeds and breadcrumbs from the concrete cracks of the kitchen floor, as if preparing their underground bunkers for a long, hard winter of sustained attrition. They may have been planning ahead, bu
t all I can think of is the heat and stress of the day. Despite the soft, refreshing rain overnight, it is already swelteringly hot. The kitchen door stands open. This isn’t the gracious, colonial, Out of Africa–style farmhouse, with generous yellow wood floors, spacious verandas, and high ceilings. It’s more of a barracks. The floors are concrete, bare, and cracked, allowing through the legions of ants. The previous owners were hard-working Boers who clearly struggled to survive in an environment they must have found particularly hostile. The whole place is barred up, a patchwork of corrugated iron and bricks and mortar, and there’s no real living space. It has clearly been built piecemeal over the years, by a determined hunter-farmer who had no resources, nor any apparent need for recreational space, while toiling and battling the total onslaught of aggressive forces he imagined were invading from Nature outside.
I step outside to phone Marianne.
“Tell her all quiet on the Western front!” Mireille calls after me.
In the blazing heat outside, I have to climb a giant termite mound to get a signal. It is a beautifully erected pyramidal structure, about five square meters at its base, and provides a great vantage point over the expansive Timbavati wilderness to the Drakensberg Mountains. The thought of Johannesburg and my existence in The Cupboard, just one of so many live-in boxes, seems a lifetime away.
“The eagle has landed!” I inform her.
“Phew! That’s lekker news,” she exclaims in delight.
“And Mireille asked me to tell you not to worry: all’s quiet.”
Then I start updating Marianne on the vulnerability of the present status. We don’t know what the next move of the authorities and canned hunters will be.
“Eish! Just keep your head down,” she instructs. “And keep your eyes on the project.”
From my new vantage point, I take an all-encompassing glance over the rambling bushveld wilderness on all horizons, shimmering with midmorning light. I imagine Ian must be anxious to know how our mission fared, having voiced his caution over taking these risky steps. I leave a message on his cell phone, informing him of our success thus far and indicating that I would be grateful to talk through some of the challenges facing us now that we’ve succeeded in avoiding detection from hostile opponents and officials. My next call is to my friends and supporters from the Corelight organization in the States, to inform Brad and Leslie that Queen Marah is safe, and to ask that they continue to pray for her welfare and protection.
I feel bolstered by the support of a dedicated network of supporters and specialists from different fields and from all corners of the globe. But locally, here on the land, on all borders of the ancestral White Lion kingdom, we are under siege.
I’m about to turn back to camp but change my mind. It’s too hot to be out in the midday sun, but Mother Nature lies stretched out to the distant horizons, emitting an overwhelmingly majestic resonance. I take Mireille’s sage advice and settle down in the dense shade under a huge gnarled jackalberry tree to make a list, once again, of everything I have to be grateful for.
First on that list I write: Marah’s safe return! Hallelujah! Unbelievably, I am here—and she is here too. But the real celebration will be the first day the Lion Queen roars her presence over the land, signaling her command over her rightful territory. May that day come soon!
Next, I give grateful thanks for the land itself. It’s hard to believe I’m the custodian of many kilometers of indigenous bushveld terrain, the heart of the original White Lions’ kingdom. The habitat is savanna land, but much denser than the open plains of the Masai Mara—particularly in the late summer months, with the foliage lush and verdant like a jungle in the river areas. Although I can’t see the Tsau River, I can feel its awesome power: the Nile of the south, some two hundred meters spanning bank to bank, carving its way though this great uncharted land. At my very first opportunity, I’ll walk through the dense bushveld terrain to these riverbanks, to place my feet in the water and pay my respects.
I wipe my damp palms on my khaki shorts and continue writing. Next on the list, I scribe one word of my own coining: “lion-love.” There’s no better word to express my thankfulness to the great Maria Khosa for passing on to me some of her wisdom and all of her love for lions. Without her lionhearted lessons, nothing in my world would have made any sense. And I thank her for guarding over this project, forever and always, from the ancestral realms.
Under the jackalberry tree with my pen in hand, I hear the alarm call of the purple-crested loerie in the branches above me and wonder whether its cry signals that a predator is moving this way through the undergrowth. Rather than fear, I realize I feel a warm, loving glow at the thought. Sadly, no lions roam this property as yet, unless they’ve escaped from the neighboring reserves, and most of the other predators resident here—leopard, civet, caracal, genet, serval, and hyena—are nocturnal hunters. So I conclude that, being daylight, the stalker is very likely to be a little black-backed jackal. I stand up slowly to see if I might spot the lovely slinking creature. Nearby, there’s a scurrying, and I catch a glimpse of the black and white coat heading through the lush undergrowth. It’s not a jackal, but a honey badger—unusually out during the day! Certainly a great omen—Maria told me that badgers signify the meeting of day and night, the playing out of light and shadow in God’s plan. Their favorite food is honey, but they’re omnivorous and will eat all sorts of insects, eggs, plants, and even some small mammals. I wonder what he is after. But as I move forward in the hope of seeing him more clearly, the purple-crested loerie suddenly starts into the sky in a flash of wine-colored wings heading for the river canopy, giving a distinct alarm call in reaction to me. It is disconcerting to be reminded that the most ruthless predator, both on the savanna and in the concrete jungle, is, after all, human.
I have no intention of ever returning to the city, with its crime rate, street muggings, car jackings, and smoggy skyscrapers flickering with TV and computer screens. Here I am, home at last! Ever since Maria Khosa’s teachings, I’ve lost all fear of Nature. Instead, a sense of wonderment infuses every given moment. As I settle down in the shade of the jackalberry again to complete my list of thanksgiving, I notice two scarab beetles rolling their earthly possessions around with them in neat dung balls near the base of my tree. Like the Ancient Egyptians, the Bushmen people consider the scarab beetle sacred, because it converts waste into wealth and keeps the world turning. From Jason’s description of their characteristic behavior, I determine that the female beetle is standing by, assessing which macho male she is going to partner with. I wish Jason were here. His innate instinct for Nature—and for lion behavior in particular—fascinates me. I’ve always appreciated a natural man. But what I find so rare is the intensity of his feelings for the lions. Over the past few months, it has been something of a revelation to discover that Jason’s overwhelming love for these great cats probably equals my own. First he identified the urgency; now he’s put all his scientific credibility into helping save this genetic rarity from extinction, recognizing that Marah holds the key. I imagine, somehow, that it is Jason’s passionate nature that protects him in life. Without his love for lions, Jason would never be able to withstand the immense personal and professional challenges that he’ll be required to face for involving himself in my project.
Realizing how much time has lapsed, I stroll back through the long, green grass, feeling utterly revived. The air is hot and fragrant in my lungs and the earth, solid and supportive underfoot. And with Jason’s support of the project, I feel bolstered and protected like never before.
The group is still congregated around the farmhouse table. I am beaming again—I feel so lucky to have this team of dedicated supporters, all exceptional people in their own right, all united with me on this intrepid journey. As I join them at the table, everyone’s attention is suddenly focused by my presence. There’s a sense of expectation, and I can tell the group is preparing to settle back into the intensity of tactical discussion. Feeling refreshed from my w
alk, I muster the stamina to discuss the urgent next steps lurking in everyone’s mind.
“Queen Marah has returned to her ancestral heartland—as prophesized by Maria Khosa,” I begin. “But her long walk to freedom is far from over.”
My intention is to set the scene for everyone by applying the symbolic level of my work first, the legendary aspect in which Maria trained me. I can feel how this raises the vibration of the consciousness around the table, with everyone’s attention totally directed. Then I get down to the nitty-gritty.
“Here’s our problem: If our actions are deemed illegal by the authorities, a law enforcement officer could arrive at our gate, without notice, at any time, with a summons to confiscate the lions.”
Understandably, a shudder runs through the group. But it is best for us to be prepared. My guess is that we’d be granted no more than a few days’ breathing space before the legal battle would begin in earnest. I’ve determined from my legal advisors that the only way we could prevent confiscation under these circumstances is through an urgent interdict, which a judge unsympathetic to our cause might not be prepared to issue in a hurry. I know this appalling thought will keep me awake tonight. There’s no getting around that, but I’ve got to be careful not to alarm anyone else and instead equip them to deal with eventualities.
“Be aware, everyone. If any official arrives at our gate, he’s not allowed access to the land—unless he has a legitimate warrant.”
I make a mental note to inform Xhosa, who left to get us more provisions, of this procedure too. “If, in fact, the official is carrying a warrant, with authorized stamps, it’s imperative you notify me immediately—because we’ll need to act urgently in applying for an interdict. We probably have no more than twenty-four hours to stop the confiscation.”
“Everyone got that?” Mireille reiterates.
