The Leopard Hunts in Darkness

  ‘It’s not too late yet.’ Peter Fungabera unbuckled the flap of his holster and drew his pistol. He placed the muzzle against the wire, only inches from the adder’s head. ‘Say the word, and I will blow its head off.’

  ‘Damn you to your own stinking Shona hell,’ whispered Tungata. He could smell the adder now, not a strong odour, a faint mousy sweetness tinged with corruption. It nauseated him. He felt vomit rise and scald the back of his throat. He swallowed it down and began to struggle against the straps that held him. The cage shook with his efforts, but the two troopers held his shoulders, and the great adder, alarmed by his movements, hissed again and arched its neck into the ‘S’ of the strike.

  Tungata stopped struggling and forced himself to remain still. He could feel his sweat pouring down his body, trickling coldly down his flanks and puddling under him on the seat of his chair.

  Gradually the adder uncocked its neck, and crept forward towards his face. Six inches from his eyes, and Tungata sat still as a statue in his own sweat and loathing and horror. It was so close now that he could not focus on it. It was merely a blur that filled all his vision – and then the adder shot out its tongue and explored his face with feather-light strokes of the black forked tongue.

  Every nerve in Tungata’s body was screwed up to snapping point, and his weakened body was overdosed with adrenalin so that he felt he was suffocating. He had to cling to consciousness with all his remaining strength or he would have slipped over the edge into the black void of oblivion.

  The adder moved on slowly. He could feel the cool slippery touch of coils across his cheek, under his ear, around the back of his neck, and then, in a final orgasm of horror, he realized that the huge reptile was throwing coil after coil of its body about his head, enveloping him, covering his mouth and his nose. He dared not scream nor move, and the seconds drew out.

  ‘He likes you,’ Peter Fungabera’s voice had thickened with excitement and anticipation. ‘He’s settling down with you.’

  Tungata swivelled his eyes and Peter was on the periphery of his field of vision, blurred by the fine mesh of the cage.

  ‘We can’t have that,’ Peter gloated, and Tungata saw his hand reach out towards the charcoal brazier. For the first time Tungata noticed that a thin steel rod, like a poker, had been thrust into the burning charcoal. When Peter drew it out, the tip glowed red hot.

  ‘This is your absolutely final chance to agree,’ he said. ‘When I touch the creature with this, it will go crazy.’

  He waited for a reply. ‘You cannot speak, of course. If you agree, just blink your eyes rapidly.’

  Tungata stared fixedly at him through the mesh, trying to convey to him the universe of hatred that he experienced.

  ‘Ah well, we tried,’ said Peter Fungabera. ‘Now you have only yourself to blame.’

  He slipped the point of the glowing poker through the mesh and touched the adder with it. There was a sharp hiss of searing flesh, a tiny puff of stinking smoke and the adder went berserk.

  Tungata felt the coils enfold his head, pumping and swelling, and then the great body whipped and slashed, filling the confined space of the cage with crazy uncoordinated convulsions. The cage banged and jarred and clattered, and Tungata lost control, he heard himself screaming, as terror engulfed him.

  Then the snake’s head filled his vision. Its jaws flared open, and its bright yellow throat gaped at him, as it struck into his face. The force of the strike stunned him. It hit him in the cheek below the eye, a heavy punch that jarred him so his teeth clashed together and he bit through his own tongue. Blood filled his mouth and he felt the long curved fangs snag into his flesh like fishhooks tugging and jerking, as they spurted jets of deadly toxin into his flesh – and then, mercifully, darkness took him and Tungata slumped unconscious against the straps that held him.

  ‘You’ve killed him, you bloody idiot!’ Peter Fungabera’s voice was shrill and petulant with panic.

  ‘No, no.’ The doctor was working quickly. With the help of the troopers, he pulled the mesh helmet off Tungata’s head. One of the troopers hurled the maimed adder against the wall and then crushed its head under the butt of an AK 47. ‘No. He’s passed out, that’s all. He was weak from the wall.’

  Between them they lifted Tungata and carried him to the camp-bed against the far wall. With exaggerated care they laid him on it, and swiftly the doctor checked his pulse.

  ‘He’s all right.’ He filled a disposable syringe from a glass ampoule, and shot it into Tungata’s sweat-slicked upper arm. ‘I’ve given him a stimulant – ah, there!’ The doctor’s relief was obvious. ‘There! He is coming round already.’

  The doctor swabbed the deep punctures in Tungata’s cheek from which watery lymph was oozing.

  ‘There is always risk of infection from these bites,’ the doctor explained anxiously. ‘I will inject an antibiotic.’

  Tungata moaned and muttered, and then began to struggle weakly. The troopers restrained him, until he came fully conscious and then they helped him into a sitting position. His eyes focused with difficulty on Peter Fungabera, and his confusion was obvious.

  ‘Welcome back to the land of the living, Comrade.’ Peter’s voice was once more smooth and richly modulated. ‘You are now one of the privileged few who have had a glimpse of the beyond.’

  The doctor still fussed over him, but Tungata’s eyes never left Peter Fungabera’s face.

  ‘You do not understand,’ Peter said, ‘and nobody can blame you for that. You see, the good doctor had removed the creature’s poison sacs, as you suggested he might have.’

  Tungata shook his head, unable to speak.

  ‘The rat!’ Peter spoke for him. ‘Yes, of course, the rat. That was rather clever. Whilst he was out of the room the doctor gave it a little injection. He had tested the dosage on other rodents to get the correct delay. You were right, my dear Tungata, we aren’t ready to let you go just yet. Maybe next time, or the time after that – you will never know for certain. Then of course, we might miscalculate. There might, or instance, have been a little residual toxin in that adder’s fangs—’ Peter shrugged. ‘It’s all very delicate – this time, next time – who knows? How long can you keep it up, Comrade, before your mind snaps?’

  ‘I can keep it up as long as you can,’ Tungata whispered huskily. ‘I give you my oath on that.’

  ‘Now, now, no rash promises,’ Peter scolded him mildly. ‘The next little production that I am planning involves my puppies – you have heard Fungabera’s puppies, every night you have heard them. I am not sure how we can control them. It will be interesting – you could easily lose an arm or a foot – it only takes one snap of those jaws.’ Peter played with his swagger-stick, rolling it between his fingers. ‘The choice is yours, and of course it only takes one word from you to end it all.’ Peter held up one hand. ‘No, please don’t tax yourself. There is no need to give an answer now. We’ll let you have another few days at the wall to recuperate from this ordeal, and then—’

  Tungata had lost track of time. He could not remember how many days he had spent at the wall, how many men he had seen executed, how many nights he had lain and listened to the hyena.

  He found it difficult to think further ahead than the next bowl of water. The doctor had judged the amount required to keep him alive with precision. Thirst was a torment that never ceased, not even when he slept, for his nightmares now were filled with images of water – lakes and running streams which he could not reach, rain that fell all around him and did not touch him, and raging, intolerable thirst.

  Added to the thirst, Peter Fungabera’s threat of delivering him to the hyena pack festered in his imagination and became more potent for every day that it was delayed. Water and hyena – they were beginning to drive him beyond the borders of sanity. He knew that he could not hold out much longer, and he wondered confusedly why he had held out this long. He had to keep reminding himself that Lobengula’s tomb was all that was keeping him alive. While he had the secr
et, they could not kill him. He did not entertain for even a moment the hope that Peter Fungabera would keep his promise of sending him to safety once he led them to the tomb.

  He had to stay alive, it was his duty. As long as he lived, there was still hope, however faint, of delivery. He knew that with his death his people would sink deeper into the tyrant’s coils. He was their hope of salvation. It was his duty to them to live, even though death would now be a blessing and a release, he could not die. He must live on.

  He waited in the icy darkness of pre-dawn, his body too stiff and weak to rise. This day they would have to carry him to the wall, or to whatever they had planned for him. He hated that thought. He hated to show such weakness in front of them.

  He heard the camp beginning to stir. The march of the guards, the orders shouted with needless violence, the sound of blows and the cries of a prisoner in the adjoining cell being dragged to the execution wall.

  Now soon they would come for him. He reached out for the water bowl and his disappointment hit him in a cold gust as he remembered that the previous evening he had not been able to control himself. The bowl was empty. He crouched over it and licked the enamel like a dog, in case a drop remained of the precious fluid. It was dry.

  The bolts shot back and the door was flung open. The day had begun. Tungata tried to rise. He lurched up onto his knees. A guard entered and placed a large dark object on the threshold and then quietly withdrew. The door was bolted again and Tungata was left alone.

  This had never happened before. Tungata was stupefied and uncomprehending. He crouched in the darkness and waited for something more to happen, but nothing did. He heard the other prisoners being led away, and then silence beyond the door of his cell.

  The light began to strengthen and cautiously he examined the object that had been left by the guard. It was a plastic bucket, and in the dawn light the contents shimmered.

  Water. A full gallon of water. He crawled to it and examined it, not yet beginning to hope. Once before, they had tricked him. They had doctored his water bowl and he had gulped down a mouthful before he realized that it was heavily laced with salt and bitter alum. The thirst that followed had driven him delirious and shaking as though in malarial crisis.

  Gingerly he dipped his forefinger into the liquid in the bucket and tasted a drop. It was sweet, clean water. He made a little whining sound in his throat, and scooped the empty bowl full of the precious fluid. He tilted back his head and poured the water down his throat. He drank with a terrible desperation, expecting that at any moment the door would crash open and a guard would kick the bucket over. He drank until his empty belly bulged, and pangs of colic stabbed through it. Then he rested for a few minutes, feeling the fluid flowing into his desiccated tissues, feeling them recharge with strength, and then he drank again, and rested and drank again. After three hours he urinated copiously in the toilet bucket for the first time in as long as he could remember.

  When they finally came for him at noon, he could stand up unaided and curse them with fluency and artistry.

  They led him towards the execution wall, and he felt almost cheerful. With his belly sloshing with water, he knew he could resist them for ever. The execution stake had no terror for him any longer. He had stood there too long and too often. He welcomed it as a part of the routine which he understood. He had reached the point where he feared only the unknown.

  Halfway across the parade ground he realized that something was different. They had built a new structure facing the wall. A neatly thatched sun-shelter. Under the shelter two chairs were set and a table had been laid for lunch.

  Seated at the table was the dreadfully familiar figure of Peter Fungabera. Tungata had not seen him for days, and his new-found courage faltered, weakness came back over him. He felt a rubbery give to his knees and he stumbled. What had they planned for today? If only he knew, he could meet it. The uncertainty was the one truly unbearable torture.

  Peter Fungabera was lunching and he did not even look up as Tungata was led past the thatched shelter. Peter ate with his fingers in the African manner, taking the stiff white maize cake and moulding it into bite-sized balls, pressing a depression into it with his thumb and then filling it with a sauce of stewed greens and salted kapenta fish from Lake Kariba. The smell of the food flooded Tungata’s mouth with saliva, but he trudged on towards the wall and the execution stake.

  There was only one other victim today, he noticed, narrowing his eyes against the glare. He was already strapped to one of the stakes. Then, with a small shock of surprise, Tungata realized that it was a woman.

  She was naked – a young woman. Her skin had a soft velvety sheen in the sunlight, like polished amber. Her body was graciously formed, her breasts symmetrical and firm, their aureolas were the colour of ripe mulberries, the nipples upturned and out-thrust. Her legs were long and willowy, the bare feet small and neat. Bound as she was, she could not cover herself. Tungata sensed her shame at her naked sex, nestled dark and fluffy in the juncture of her thighs like a tiny animal with separate life. He averted his eyes, looked up at her face – and at last he despaired.

  It was all over. The guards released his arms, and he tottered towards the young woman at the stake. Though her eyes were huge and dark with terror and shame, her first words were for him. She whispered softly in Sindebele, ‘My lord, what have they done to you?’

  ‘Sarah.’ He wanted to reach over and touch her dear and lovely face, but he would not do so under the lewd gaze of his guards.

  ‘How did they find your He felt very old and frail. It was all over.

  ‘I did as you commanded,’ she told him in soft apology. ‘I went into the hills, but then a message reached me – one of my children from the school was dying – dysentery and no doctor. I could not ignore the call.’

  ‘Of course, it was a lie,’ he guessed flatly.

  ‘It was a lie,’ she admitted. ‘The Shona soldiers were waiting for me. Forgive me, lord.’

  ‘It does not matter any longer,’ he answered.

  ‘Not for me, lord,’ she pleaded. ‘Do not do anything for me. I am a daughter of Mashobane. I can bear anything these Shona animals can do to me.’

  He shook his head sadly, and at last reached out and touched her lips with the tips of his fingers. His hand was trembling like that of a drunkard. She kissed his fingers. He dropped his hand and, turning, trudged wearily back to the thatched shelter. The soldiers made no effort to prevent him.

  Peter Fungabera looked up as he approached and motioned to the empty canvas chair. Tungata sat down and his body slumped.

  ‘First,’ Tungata said, ‘the woman must be untied and clothed.’

  Peter gave the order. They covered her and led her away to one of the hutments.

  ‘My lord—’ she strained back against their grip, her face turned piteously to him.

  ‘She must not be ill-treated in any way.’

  ‘She has not been,’ Peter said. ‘She will not be, unless you make it necessary.’

  He pushed a bowl of maize cake towards Tungata. He ignored it.

  ‘She must be taken out of the country and delivered to a representative of the international Red Cross in Francistown.’

  ‘There is a light aircraft waiting at Tuti airfield. Eat, Comrade, we must have you strong and well.’

  ‘When she is safe, she will speak to me – radio or telephone – and give me a code-word that I will arrange with her before she leaves.’

  ‘Agreed.’ He poured hot sweet tea for Tungata.

  ‘We will be left alone together to agree on the code.’

  ‘You may speak to her, of course,’ Peter nodded. ‘But in the middle of this parade ground. None of my men will be closer than a hundred yards to you, but there will be a machine-gun trained upon you at all times. I will allow you precisely five minutes with the woman.’

  ‘I have failed you,’ Sarah said, and Tungata had forgotten how beautiful she was. His whole being ached with longing for her.
br />   ‘No,’ he told her, ‘it was inevitable. There is no blame to you. It was for duty, not for yourself that you came out of hiding.’

  ‘My lord, what can I do now?’

  ‘Listen,’ he said, and spoke quietly and quickly. ‘Some of my trusted people have escaped from the scourge of Fungabera’s Third Brigade – you must find them. I believe they are in Botswana.’ He gave her the names and she repeated them faithfully. ‘Tell them—’ She memorized all that he told her, and repeated it to him perfectly.

  From the corner of his eye Tungata saw the guards at the edge of the parade ground start towards where they stood alone in the centre. Their five minutes together was up.

  ‘When you are safe, they will allow us to speak on the radio. To let me know that all is well, you will repeat to me, “Your beautiful bird has flown high and swiftly”. Repeat it.’

  ‘Oh my lord,’ she choked.

  ‘Repeat it!’

  She obeyed, and then flung herself into his arms. She clung to him, and he to her.

  ‘Will I ever see you again?’

  ‘No,’ he told her. ‘You must forget me.’

  ‘Never!’ she cried. ‘Not if I live to be an old woman – never, my lord.’

  The guards dragged them apart. A Land-Rover drove out onto the parade ground. They hustled Sarah into it.

  The last he saw of her was her face in the rear window, looking back at him – her beautiful beloved face.

  On the third day, they came to fetch Tungata from his cell and take him up to Peter Fungabera’s command post on the central kopje.

  ‘The woman is ready to speak to you. You will converse only in English. Your conversation will be recorded.’ Peter indicated the transistor tape deck beside the radio apparatus. ‘If you do attempt to slip in any Sindebele message, it will be translated later.’