A Pride of Lions

by Isobel Chace

  “We’d better get going with the others,” Hugo panted, when he had finished. “Patel, could you get the first lorries lined up?”

  The Indian was only too pleased. He rushed away to see that the first lorry was properly backed into the entrance of the fenced-off area. A ramp was laid for the lions to walk up and yet more net was placed all round the area. The lions were then tempted, one by one, to walk into the lorry.

  It was a very long process, but finally the lorries and their outraged cargoes were being driven away down the dirt track towards their new homes, leaving only the Mzee and the three females with, their cubs that Hugo had promised to leave him.

  It was well into the afternoon before the last lorry had gone.

  “I am very hungry,” Abdul Patel complained, rubbing his stomach. “Have we time to have something to eat?”

  “We’ll make time,” Hugo assured him.

  I went over to the acacia tree, ignoring their cries to me to come on, to take a last look at the king of the lions. But he was no longer there. Some time during the morning he must have come round and had taken himself off into the safety of the bush. I could see his tracks leading away from the tree, but they were soon lost in the dust. For me, it was a sad moment. There was, after all, no reason why I should ever see the lion again.

  Mr. Patel was a dab hand at making curry out of practically nothing, and he set to work with a will back in the compound, with Katundi acting as his assistant. In actual fact there was little to do but blow on the glowing embers and wait for the rice to cook, a job which Katundi insisted was his own.

  ‘You can make the curry paste and cut up the meat,” he told Abdul, faintly contemptuous of the Indian’s methods, “but none can make the fire go like I can!” With this, he sat back on his heels and watched the water boil.

  I sat down on the nearest chair, completely exhausted by our efforts.

  “I wish we didn’t have to go back today,” I said.

  Mr. Patel looked modestly down at the meat he was attempting to cut into little pieces. “There is no need for you to return today,” he said in a totally expressionless voice. “You and Mr. Canning can return tomorrow. There are two Landcruisers.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said quickly.

  His dark eyes flickered over me. “As you wish.”

  Katundi shaded his face from the sun. “You must follow the thread of your life, mama. Now that the great lion has spared you, there is none on the land to harm you—”

  “None?” I repeated. But how could there be? I asked myself. It was strange how all people rated the lion as king of the beasts, the proudest and the most gentlemanly by reputation. Even in far-off China, where no lion had ever been seen, even in the days when they were commonplace in Europe and forced the lords of ancient Babylon to take the field against them to protect their farmers, the Chinese had carved their distinctive statues of lions from hearsay, to protect their temples and their Emperor.

  Katundi shook his head. “None will harm you now,” he said positively.

  “But no one was trying to harm me anyway!” I retorted aggressively.

  “The Mzee would try, but now he cannot succeed.” Katundi was well away, lost in the muse that all storytellers share to a greater or lesser extent. “Once,” he said, “the great lion guarded the way into the hinterland. This was before the white man came. Then they built the railway line from Mombasa to Nairobi, going along near here, close by the road.” He glanced at Abdul Patel. “That is when your people came to build the railway. But they could not. For years the great lion defeated them. Many of them were killed. He would walk into a signal box and slay the signal man. He would delay the trains. For a while, they even thought of going round another way, but in the end the lion was shot. It is clear that the Mzee holds the same spirit as the great lion.”

  It was a charming fancy. Who had not heard the story of the railway? That lion, too, must have had the magnetism and the intelligence of the Mzee. Perhaps, one day, the Mzee would share much the same measure of fame.

  Hugo came and joined us by the fire. It was one of the few times I ever saw him looking hot. His shirt was wet with sweat and his hair was standing on end, red with dust. He threw himself into a chair, staring moodily at the fire.

  “Isn’t it hot enough?” he asked caustically.

  “We are eating curry for lunch,” Abdul Patel answered him calmly. “It is very good for the heat. We shall all feel much cooler after we have eaten.”

  Hugo groaned. “I’d sooner have a beer!” he murmured.

  Obligingly, I opened the cold box only to find that the ice had long since melted into tepid water. I picked out a bottle of Tembo. “Will this do?” I asked.

  Hugo sniffed. “It will have to, I suppose,” he said. He held out his hand for the bottle, opened it with a flick of his wrist, and watched with jaundiced eyes as the froth rose and spilt slowly over the edge of the top of the bottle. Everybody else refused the beer and joined me in having lemonade.

  Abdul’s curry was excellent. The rice was cooked to perfection and made a good bed on which to serve the curry itself. It was very hot, but it left a smooth, almost bland after-taste in the mouth that was very satisfying. Abdul cut up some bananas and oranges to sprinkle over the top, mourning the absence of any good chutney, or any of the other etceteras he was accustomed to. The rest of us were only too glad to have something to eat at all.

  When the meal was over, Katundi took the plates away to wash them up, while the rest of us put our belongings together, ready for the trip back to camp. I went down to my boma, to find the bedding I had hired for the night and to return it to the store in the central building. When I was satisfied that I was leaving the brick hut as clean and tidy as I had found it, I stood for a long moment in the doorway, impressing the view upon my memory. In the afternoon heat, the ground danced into the distance and the lake shimmered, obscuring the birds who were wading in the shallows looking for food. It was hard to believe that in a few hours the place would be alive with animals of every sort. Now was the time to shelter as best they could from the burning sun.

  I glanced over to the green bank of the dam, half hoping to see the lions we had left behind. With a shiver of excitement, I saw one of the lionesses walking sedately along the top of the bank. Then, even as I watched, the Mzee came slowly towards her, his head held proudly erect. He stood stock still for an instant, waiting for her and for the others who were all that was left of his pride. Then, when they were all assembled, even the youngest cub, he turned majestically and led them across the bank and out of my sight and away from the prying eyes of his enemy, man. He was as dignified in defeat as he had been in victory, and I was sorry that it had had to be us who had taken his rightful subjects away from him. Poor Mzee, I thought, the rightful king of all Tsavo, who ought to be able to roam free with his own kind, and had somehow been reduced by us into a promising tourist attraction.

  I was surprised to discover that my cheeks were wet with tears and I brushed them impatiently away and hurried back up the path to find Hugo.

  Abdul Patel, Katundi, and the askaris had already departed. I stood uncomfortably on the edge of the path, under a shady tree, and watched Hugo checking with the caretaker that we had returned everything that we had used.

  “Why have the others gone on?” I asked him as soon as I had the opportunity.

  “I want to go back by Voi,” he answered. “Johnny took the plane up to Amboseli and I want to hear if the lions arrived all right.”

  “Can’t we find out at home?” I argued. Now that the excitement was over, I felt weary and disinclined for going miles out of our way for anything.

  “We could,” he agreed. “But the mail is waiting at Voi. The men have a right to get their letters as soon as possible.”

  I wilted visibly. “I wish Abdul had waited—” I began.

  Hugo grinned. “Cheer up,” he said. “It doesn’t add on all that much, you know. Our headquarters are just by Voi gate
, and we have to go by there anyway. We can take the main road for most of the way after that!”

  “I suppose so,” I grunted.

  I went and sat in the Landcruiser until he was ready. I was oddly nervous at the prospect of a long ride alone with Hugo. Fencing with him could be fun, but I felt my sword was blunted, and my will to get the better of him, once a great motive, had disappeared into nothing better than an urgent desire to sue for peace on whatever terms he cared to offer. Not that Hugo had ever been at war with me. It was I who had resented him and finally fallen in love with him. But I had no reason to suppose that he had fallen in love with me!

  “Penny for them!” Hugo interrupted my thoughts, as he swung himself into the driving seat beside me.

  I blushed. “They’re not for sale!”

  He gave me a speculative look that sent the colour racing into my cheeks again. “Perhaps I can guess?” he said.

  “No! No, you can’t! They were nothing to do with you—or Tsavo—or anything that you know about!”

  He was left quite unmoved by my heated denials. He started up the engine with an amused air that did nothing for my selfconfidence.

  “And I always thought you such a truthful girl!” he said.

  “Well, if you must know, I was thinking that I was too tired to argue—even with you!” I told him bitterly. “And, as that’s all we ever seem to do, I was wishing that I’d gone in the other Landcruiser.”

  His amusement became a broad grin. “I wonder why!”

  I retired into silence. He was inhuman, I thought. Any other man would at least be showing some signs of strain after our efforts of the morning, but apart from looking extremely hot at lunchtime, he was exactly as he always was. Did he never get tired?

  He drove hard and fast to Voi. It seemed no time at all before the neat buildings of the park headquarters in their clearing in the trees appeared before us. A troop of monkeys pelted us with the hard seeds of the tree they were climbing as we slowed down underneath them. One of them dropped with a thud on to the canvas cover over one of the look-out hatches in the back. In a second, he was in the vehicle itself, chattering and swearing to himself, partly with curiosity and partly with fright.

  “Thieving little wretch!” Hugo said fondly. He stopped the Landcruiser and swooped the monkey out of the car. “They’d take the stoppings out of your teeth if you gave them the opportunity.”

  Another shower of missiles fell on to the roof like a sudden hailstorm, making me jump. Hugo chuckled and eased the Landcruiser forward again. A second later, we drew up in front of the office building and a smiling askari came out to greet us.

  Amboseli had sent messages saying they were pleased to receive the lions, and Johnny had said that he was going on to Tsavo West on some business of his own before coming back to camp.

  “There’s a United Nations team holding a postmortem on an elephant over there,” Hugo told me, adding with a grin: “I’ve heard that one of the vets is a pretty girl from Ohio!”

  “And has Johnny heard about her too?” I enquired gently.

  “I guess so. News travels very fast in these parts!”

  It was odd to think that my arrival had probably been noted and discussed in its turn. Somehow one never thinks of people discussing oneself.

  “How do you know she’s pretty?” I asked, intrigued.

  “Well,” Hugo drawled, “she has a fragile air that doesn’t go with cutting up elephants!”

  “But she’s managing just the same!” I retorted with a touch of indignation.

  “Why not?” He laughed out loud. “It hasn’t stopped Johnny going to offer his assistance, has it?”

  His attention was diverted from me to the need to send a message to Duncan Njugi in Nairobi, telling him of the successful conclusion of splitting up the lion pride.

  “Let’s hope it’s the end of the matter,” one of the wardens put in thoughtfully.

  Hugo sighed. “Let’s hope so!” he agreed. “I hate giving any of our animals away!”

  The warden nodded his head. “Amboseli have enough lions of their own! Still, someone has suggested sending us some white rhinos! Did you hear about that? They’re out in the open somewhere and a few farmers are trying to get them to us.” “Can’t we help?” Hugo said, aghast.

  “Unofficially we are!” the warden reassured him. “There were some villains after them, hoping to get their horns, and the farmers sent word to us. We haven’t any jurisdiction outside the park, but we sent a few men nevertheless, hoping for the best.” “Good,” said Hugo.

  “You never know,” the warden went on cheerfully, “our tourist

  attraction may be as good as yours! White rhino are jolly rare nowadays.” He turned to me, his black face shining with sweat. “We may get the poachers as a bonus! We read all about you in the newspapers.”

  “Did you?” I said, much pleased.

  “Hear you’re thinking of staying around here?” he went on.

  “I—I don’t know,” I murmured.

  “There won’t be any problems about your work permit. You’re a citizen, aren’t you?” he pressed me.

  ‘Yes,” I said.

  “Well then, there’s no difficulty. If I’ve got it right, you’re all citizens over at Chui, except for the Dutchman.”

  “Yes,” I said, surprised that it should be so. “I suppose Abdul Patel is a citizen? I never thought to ask him.”

  Hugo grinned at the warden. “That’s right!” he said. ‘You won’t be able to get rid of any of us!”

  The warden held up his hands in willing surrender. “I wouldn’t try!” he claimed. “We make a very good team together!”

  Hugo gave him a doubtful look. “Sometimes I feel that I’m working myself out of a job,” he said.

  “That would be a pity,” the warden answered. “We need every good man we can get. We have increased the National Parks since Uhuru, but it will be a long time before we have education to make all the people see that there is enough room for both people and animals. The land has been a bone of contention for so many years!”

  “Oh well,” said Hugo, “that’s the Government’s worry.”

  “That’s right,” the warden agreed. “We have worries of our own!” He came to attention and saluted smartly as we went through the door. “Kwa herim!"

  “Kwa hen!” we called back in unison.

  There was some excitement at the Park gate when we reached it. An askari opened the wrought iron gate, decorated with a small but completely lifelike rhinoceros, and waved us through. A small convoy of German tourists were travelling the other way and the drivers of their Volkswagen mini-buses were busy paying their fees and signing their passengers into the Park.

  “Where are you going?” Hugo asked them.

  “Voi Safari Lodge,” they answered. “Have you seen any game today?”

  We smiled wryly at each other. “I saw a cheetah at Voi when I was there,” I encouraged them. A sigh of expectation went round the German passengers. "Good luck!” I called out to them as the Landcruiser started forward.

  “And to you!” they called back cheerfully. When I looked back, one or two of them were still waving. The others were busy photographing each other in front of a notice that said that within the Park the animals have the right of way.

  “I wonder if we should have told them about the Mzee?” I mused aloud.

  “Certainly not!” Hugo retorted. “We owe him that much at least!”

  I snuggled down in my seat, feeling more friendly towards him than I had all afternoon. “Yes, we do don’t we?” I said. “Hugo, do you feel guilty—?”

  He looked amused. “Do you?”

  I felt quite flat with weariness. ‘Yes. Yes, I do,” I said frankly.

  “That’s because of your lion eyes!” he teased me.

  “And yet you’d cage me up in a city, wouldn’t you?” I accused him, without thought.

  He smiled. “Shall we say I’m keeping an open mind about that?” he said light
ly.

  We sped into the little town of Voi and pulled up outside the Post Office. A curious knot of children gathered about us, ostensibly on their way home from school. Hugo left me to chat with them while he went in to collect the letters, newspapers and magazines for the camp. A couple of women came by, berating the children for getting in the way. They carried heavy, woven baskets full of fruit and vegetables, which they placed on their heads to leave their hands free to pull their cotton kangas more closely about their breasts. The children reluctantly followed after them, staring back at me over their shoulders, with fleeting, shy smiles and even more giggles.

  Hugo brought out the mail, bagged in a small canvas sack that locked at the neck. He threw a couple of loose letters on to my knee. “They’re for you!” he said, smiling.

  For me? I had quite forgotten that I too might get some letters. I turned them over between my fingers, overjoyed to see the familiar handwriting of my mother on one of them. The other was addressed in a less familiar handwriting and it took me a few seconds to place it in my mind.

  “It’s Kate Freeman!” I said in surprise.

  He glanced at the letter in my hand. “So it is!”

  I tore open the envelope, pleased that she should have written to me, though I couldn’t remember that she ever had before. It was a simple note, saying no more than that she had seen my parents and had been able to tell them that she had seen me in Malindi and that I was well.

  “What does she say?” Hugo asked.

  “She’s had another son!” I exclaimed. “Oh well, Luke will be pleased!”

  Hugo smiled faintly. “I envy him,” he said softly.

  “Do you?” I murmured, frowning over the last part of Kate’s letter. “Oh! Martin is in Mombasa!”

  Hugo’s smile died. “Oh?”

  I chuckled happily to myself. “Kate is so nice! She wants to know what I’m going to do when Mr. Doffnang has finished with me. She says I can go and stay with her, if I like, and help her with the children. It seems Martin can easily pick me up on his way up country.”