The Daughters of the Darkness

by Luke Phillips

  Catherine’s eyes were glued to the screen. His gaze followed hers, and he saw his younger self on the television. His dark hair now had a little more grey in it, and his bright blue eyes didn’t shine with quite so much arrogance, at least he hoped. He recognised the episode as one of the early ones. The subject of this particular show was Vladimir, a Kamchatka brown bear that had terrorised a Russian mining town in the Olyutorsky district, killing five and mauling many more. Thomas had eventually shot Vladimir after cornering the bear in a platinum mine. Like many of the rural areas of the Russian Federation, the resources of the wildlife department were limited, and mainly centred on hunting permits. Dealing with killer bears had proven beyond their remit. They also feared and revered the bear, giving it something of a mythical status, as was often the case with many of the man-eaters he faced during the course of the show. An animal had only to survive an attempt to kill it, or prove more cunning and confident than its counterparts to be elevated to legendary status by the local people. Not that Vladimir hadn’t been impressive in the flesh though. Kamchatka bears, the biggest sub-species of brown bear in Europe, were almost as large as their Kodiak cousins in Alaska. They also featured oversized, broad heads, giving them a rather formidable appearance. Vladimir had measured over nine feet in length and weighed 1,437lbs. The bear’s 17-inch-long skull sat on a shelf in his study.

  “How’s your girlfriend?” Catherine teased, not looking up.

  “Stubborn and determined,” Thomas sighed.

  “No wonder the two of you get along,” Catherine smiled cheekily, this time looking round to meet the playful, mock look of annoyance he was fixing her with.

  He leaned over the back of the sofa and bent down, kissing her softly on the lips.

  “I’m going to get some air, want to come?” Thomas asked.

  “I wanted to go for a run later. I’ll pass if that’s okay, unless you want company?” Catherine offered.

  “Meg will suffice. Although now I’m thinking of you getting back and hitting the shower,” he quipped, raising an eyebrow.

  Catherine fingered the open top of his shirt and pulled him closer, returning the kiss.

  “Best not be too long then, hey,” she whispered.

  Thomas held her gaze for a moment. He glanced at Arturo, who looked up at him with amber coloured eyes, his head still resting on Catherine’s lap.

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t move if I was lying there either,” Thomas laughed. “Come on Meg. Let’s leave these two to it.”

  Meg barked, wagging her tail with obvious enthusiasm. Thomas walked back through to the hall. He pulled on his leather walking boots whilst sitting on the stairs and stood up, looking out of the windows on either side of the front door to check the weather. It was a fresh, early September afternoon and the sun was shining brightly. He could see the wind moving the tops of the Scots pine trees along the track, and he pulled a black fleece gilet from the rack, putting it on unzipped over his shirt. He opened the door and stepped out.

  Meg rushed past him, heading for the path that would take them to the secluded south-western shore of Loch Mullardoch.

  “Good choice,” agreed Thomas, taking after her.

  He looked up at the imposing peak of Sgurr na Lapaich before it disappeared from sight amongst the trees. There was no snow at this time of year, and its rust and moss-dappled coloured summit stood tall in the centre of the other Munros of Glen Cannich. He followed Meg into the shade and seclusion of Mullardoch forest. A calming breeze touched his skin and he let out a long breath, enjoying the taste of the fresh heather and spruce-tinted air. Meg stopped a little way ahead and turned back to look at him.

  “Go on, I’m coming,” he reassured her. She trotted off again with a bark.

  Thomas looked around at the familiar scenery. The forest floor was carpeted in long, lush clumps of cocksfoot and dogstail grass, dotted with the tall stems and purple bells of foxglove. As he walked further in, he caught the scent of honeysuckle, masked slightly by the thick ozone smell of the rich lichens that clung to the rocks and fallen timber all around him. He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck as he let go of all the anxiety and bluster he’d felt build up during the conversation with Keelson.

  He looked up sharply as he heard a group of siskin making their way through the boughs above, their trilling and wheeze-like chatter making them hard to miss. Their bright yellow and black colouring stood out against the dark branches and tree tops. One paused momentarily on a high sprig to look down at him, chirring cautiously to the others. They moved off, flitting from tree to tree until they disappeared altogether in a noisy babble.

  He soon came to the mountain stream that led down to the loch. It didn’t take too long to reach the stony shore from there, the path through having been flattened by the many excursions over the last few weeks. He found the rocky seat he’d used on each occasion, cushioned as it was by moss and lichen, with pinkish heads of butterwort flowers poking up from the crevices around it. He sat with his eyes closed for a few moments, enjoying the touch of sun on his skin and the warmth it brought. Meg scampered over the rocks, splashing into the cold water lapping the shore. Thomas watched as she chased the brown trout parr through the shallows, each fish no longer than a few inches at this early stage of their life. They were right to stick to the shallows, as their cannibalistic brethren in the deeper waters of the loch would happily eat them. Meg wasn’t having much luck, but he wondered if he might. He got up and carefully started walking along the loch.

  He stepped silently onto a granite slab that stretched out over the water from the shore. He got down onto his knees, and then his belly, dipping his hands into the clear cold water as he started to feel beneath the rock’s lip. It had been eroded away by the water into a perfect lie for a trout. Thomas held his breath so he was less likely to flinch when his fingers found the wet flesh of the fish. He smiled when they did, and he began to stroke its belly, using his left hand to coax the trout into a trance whilst his right one moved towards its head. As soon as he was sure he had it, he grabbed the head and cupped the body of the trout, bringing it up and out of the water with a flick of his wrist. The fish sailed over him and he expected to hear the smack of its body against rock, but instead he heard the light snap of teeth. He turned to find Meg behind him, the trout between her jaws and her tail wagging.

  “You old sneak,” chuckled Thomas.

  Meg stripped the trout expertly, holding the tail in her front paws and ripping the flesh free from each flank. She finished her meal in a few bites, leaving the head, tail and a few tatters on the rock. Thomas picked it up and threw it into the loch, knowing there was still plenty to interest the local otters, but he was surprised by a high pitched, yelp-like call from the trees. He glanced up to see the glaring yellow eyes of a white-tailed eagle in a large pine some fifty yards away. He recognised it as a sub-adult, still growing into its dark chocolate, second winter plumage. Only its nape and beak hinted at the paler colouring it would take on as an adult. No wonder he hadn’t seen it nestled against the bark of the tree. He smiled, glad to see the bird back in Scotland. The reintroduction programme had started in 1975 on the Hebridean island of Rum, and they had slowly begun to colonise the west coast during the late eighties. The east coast reintroduction on the other hand had only started in 2007, and he was fairly certain this was an east coast juvenile that had started heading west in search of a new territory. As he called Meg to him and headed back towards the pines, he caught sight of the eagle as it launched from the tree and drifted down effortlessly towards the remainder of the trout still floating on the water’s surface. An outstretched talon of ebony reached out lazily and plucked it from the loch, a gentle, singular beat of its wings being all the eagle needed to glide to shore and out of sight. Thomas knew it would be eating quickly and in the open, where it could spot danger easily.

  As he made his way back through the trees, Thomas considered what an exciting time it was to be a conservationist in Scotland. Eco-tou
rism was on the rise, and species long since lost to the land were being returned to it with the help of people like him and Catherine. The white-tailed eagle was just one example of a successful reintroduction, after having become geographically extinct in the country in 1918. Its arrival hadn’t been without controversy, with farmers worried about their livestock and even concerns about public safety being voiced. But, as the bird he had just seen had proven, the eagles were as much scavengers as they were predators. No doubt lambs were taken by the ‘flying barn doors’ as they were known locally, but usually as carrion. The Scottish weather was still a far bigger killer of vulnerable animals than the eagles were. The scaremongering vexed him. It led to the illegal shooting and poisoning of the birds. But it was more than that. Somewhere in time, people had lost the awe and reverence they had for the majestic birds. On Orkney, 5,000-year-old early Bronze Age tombs had been discovered, where the worthiest were laid to rest after they had been left for the eagles to feast upon. Later, in the 16th and 17th centuries, Scottish families considered it good luck to have eagles nest nearby. People now were much more skittish and less awestruck. And he knew the public faced a greater challenge to come.

  After the discovery of the creature he had killed, other big cats had been tracked down throughout Britain. Although they were recognised species such as mountain lions and leopards, it had quickly come apparent they were relatively few in number. Plans were now being discussed as to how those that remained should be dealt with. Capturing or killing the animals was proving as difficult as it had been before their presence had been officially recognised. So, another scenario was being considered, the reintroduction of a cat that had once been native to the UK. The lynx. It was hoped that although smaller than the pumas and leopards, if introduced and supported in sufficient number, they would put further pressure on the small populations of surviving cats by reducing prey such as deer. Thomas had his doubts. He knew only too well that desperate cats wouldn’t just give up. They’d fight to the death, or turn to other food sources, ones the lynx would be unable to compete with them for. But he also knew he would love nothing more than to be able to walk through the forest and catch a glimpse of the rust coloured, spotted hide of a lynx. Only time would tell if he would one day be able to do so.

  It didn’t take long for the granite and whitewashed walls of the house, named Sàsadh, to come back into view. The trees began to thin and he found himself on the track that led to the house, a few yards further down from where he had first entered the forest. Meg trotted ahead of him, past the converted stables that now acted as a garage, and up to the front door. Thomas whistled, and she looked back towards him.

  “You know better than that, muddy paws,” he said, nodding his head towards the back.

  Meg huffed a grumble, but scampered back over to him as they both walked round to the boot room. He swung the door open and she dutifully stepped through onto the tiled floor. Thomas took off his own boots and grabbed a towel from the rack. He knelt beside Meg and carefully cleaned her paws of mud before letting her scamper down the corridor. He placed the fleece gilet back on the rack as he passed, and headed back to the study. Meg was there before him, sprawled in front of the desk. He made himself equally comfortable in the leather desk chair and clicked on the keyboard to bring the Apple laptop to life. He went to his inbox, thinking he should let the local RSPB officer know about his sighting of the eagle, but was surprised instead to see a new message waiting for him. It was from a friend he had not seen in seven years. They weren’t regularly in touch. Jelani had been part of the tracking team on Hunter Hunted. There was no subject to the message, just the date and time. Kenya was two hours ahead, so it had been sent in the late afternoon. Thomas began to read it, his curiosity giving way to horror almost immediately.

  Thomas, my friend

  I know you were fond of my brother, Jabari. I am writing because I thought you would want to know that yesterday evening, he was taken by lions. The lions. The lions that took Amanda. The pride now numbers at twenty-two and they are growing bolder. My staff fear a local crime lord and self-proclaimed witch doctor named Kanu Sultan, who they believe sent the ‘critters of the bush’ after myself and Jabari for running a business that caters to Europeans and Americans. Most of my staff have fled, leaving me with few to run a camp and lead safaris. I do not believe I will last long – something that is undoubtedly in the hands of Kanu.

  I have sent word to O’Connell for help, but do not know if or when he will arrive. I know you have painful memories of Tsavo, and I do not ask for your help lightly. But in my heart, I feel it is the right thing to do for both of us. We both now have unfinished business with the Simba Giza.

  Your friend, Jelani.

  Thomas’s brow wrinkled as he read through the email again. Simba Giza. The Daughters of the Darkness. It was the name the local population had given the pride, and it was an apt one. The reason he and Amanda had gone to Tsavo in the first place was because of the legendary man-eaters that had brought terror to the region in 1898. Colonel John Henry Patterson had spent nine months trying to hunt them down as they picked off his labourers from the camps of the Uganda railway. Although not proven and often disputed, Patterson put the number of people killed at 135. Thomas had no problem believing it. A recent study he’d written for Scientific American had found that man-eating was still an issue in eastern Africa. Over the last twenty-five years, in Tanzania alone, over 1,200 people had been taken by lions. About a hundred people a year still found themselves on the menu for the king of beasts across Africa, and those were just the ones known about and reported. But the Tsavo lions, known as The Ghost and The Darkness thanks to a Hollywood film, were still the continent’s most famous killers.

  Thomas slumped forward onto his desk, his head in his hands. It had been seven years since he had scattered Amanda’s ashes in sight of Mount Kilimanjaro, in the shade of a flat-topped acacia tree. The wind had taken her from him, disappearing into the red, dust-veiled river gorge. He wondered if he would be able to stand there again as he reached for the phone, hitting redial.

  “I’m surprised to hear from you again today Walker,” Keelson admitted on answering. “Please tell me you’re considering my offer?”

  “I’m not interested in a new series. But what if I were to let you come along on a one-off?” Thomas asked.

  “I’m listening,” Keelson replied.

  “You’re aware from when you interviewed me that I never went after the lions that killed Amanda. I’ve just had word that they are still enjoying themselves immensely, at the expense of a friend of mine. I think it’s time for me to break up the party permanently. Would you be interested?”

  “Are you kidding? This is better than anything I’d suggested,” Keelson said, “We’ll have networks frothing at the mouth for this.”

  “I’m not interested in the money,” snapped Thomas, “but it would be useful to have the political weight of a network behind us, and your connections might help ease a few closed doors open.”

  “I’ll start making enquiries, but I know we’ll get it,” Keelson assured him.

  “Good. I have a number of conditions. You’ll need to get special permits, arrange transportation, and hire people. I’ll send you a list, but check with me if you’re unsure of anything. This isn’t going to be straight-forward, but I’ll put you in touch with the right people where I can,” Thomas said, and put the phone down.

  He sighed, what he had just said and done not quite registering. It became suddenly clear as he noticed the shadow in the doorway. Catherine’s turquoise-green eyes were wide in shock, and burned with fury.

  “Going somewhere?” she snapped.

  “It’s not that simple,” he challenged back. “I have to go. I owe it to my friend, myself even.”

  “And the first person you wanted to discuss it with was Keelson? You didn’t think it was something we should have talked about first?”

  “It’s not like that,” Thomas protested. “I
had to get Keelson on board to get the ball rolling. I was angry.” Thomas said, flushed.

  “So am I. Tom,” Catherine said, glaring. “I’m going on my run. That’s an example of me telling you what I’m going to do before I do it. You may want to start trying.”

  A few moments later, Thomas heard the slam of the front door. He sat at the desk dumbfounded, his eyes glancing at the picture of Amanda that sat in a frame on the shelf. Slowly his gaze moved downwards, coming to rest on the museum replica of a lion skull below it and the pristine, four inch long teeth on either side of the upper jaw. He shuddered. The ghosts and darkness of Africa were all too real for him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Kanu Sultan stepped out into the courtyard of his compound. The sun was all but gone and he let the warmth of the last few rays linger on his skin as night crept slowly from the east. He had chosen his new home well – a dense marshland nestled between the three national parks of Tsavo East, Tsavo West and Chyulu Hills. Several other smaller wildlife conservancies were on his doorstep, but like the one he now occupied, they had been abandoned following his arrival in the territory. It was a hunter’s paradise, benefiting from the movement of animals between the parks and being close to water, offering a place for them to slake their thirst. Thirteen miles from the nearest road, the remote location gave him privacy and security, but was still central enough for him to have a wide influence over much of the area. Roughly equal distance from his native Mombasa to the east and the more tourist-friendly Nairobi to the west, much of southern Kenya was within his reach, as was the border with Tanzania.

  Kanu walked past one of his men, a former Kenyan Army paratrooper who remained statuesque at his post as he went by. Kanu hand-picked most of his men from either the paratroopers or the Presidential Escort Regiment, Kenya’s best. He also made up their number with some local Maasai, and he paid all of them well. Although relatively small, the force was elite enough to make his reputation formidable and kept his activities safe from government interference. Out here, he was the authority. And it was that authority he was about to exercise now.