Hunter
By Nathan Mohr
I was a lad of only eighteen when I left hearth and home to seek my fortune. I was young, bold, and had a confidence in both myself and my knowledge in the ways of the world, but I soon found in my travels that there was much I had yet to learn. I will not recount here all the tales of my adventures, but I have seen things that defied all I have ever known or believed to be possible. Were it not for these two eyes, I would have never understood that there are things beyond the comprehension of any man. Like many a lad, I had been raised within the confines of an ordered and structured universe, and when I put my bag upon my shoulder and ventured out beyond the familiar, I found a world more dark and mysterious than I could have ever imagined.
My name is John Henry Thomas. I was born the second son of a wealthy family, and my father had titles and land, which meant bloody little to me, for it was to my older brother that the inheritance was set to pass. In the order of the day, I was to be provided for by means of a small allowance, and my father procured for me a posting in London, working as a clerk for a politician in the House of Commons. It was a dreadfully dull task for which I was unsuited, and I had a lust for adventure in my blood and a yearning to see the world, so after the first month, I thanked both my employer and my father for their many kindnesses, but declared that I was going abroad to seek my fortune.
It was about this time that the Second Boer War broke out, so I traveled to Cape Colony in Africa and joined the British Army. It was shortly thereafter when I discovered that this was not any more pleasant than the clerkship in the House of Commons, only a different kind of unpleasantness. I suffered hardship and disease, and during the siege at the town of Ladysmith, I was forced with others to eat rotten horseflesh and moldy bread. When at last I was wounded and discharged, I traveled to the British East Africa Protectorate (now called Kenya) to stay with a friend of mine, a fellow ex-military man who was working at the supply depot in what was soon to become the capital city of Nairobi. We both had a love for freedom from the dictates of polite society, and we soon found this sort of life to be to our liking. We were both excellent shots and discovered that a good living could be made with our rifles, as wild game was abundant in that area. The British government paid us a retainer to use our weapons to feed the railroad depot; and protect it both from wild animals and any natives who might decide to prey upon the station.
It was during this sojourn that I had one of the more singular experiences of my time in Africa. My companion, a portly fellow named Thomas Parkington, had developed a friendship with one of the African tribes in the region, the famed lion hunters known as the Maasai. These Maasai were fierce warriors, and they looked with contempt upon the use of the bow in hunting lions. Instead, they chose to use a spear, a short knife, and a light shield made of cattle hide stretched over a wooden frame. One of their number, a stout, good natured fellow named Nlongi, took a liking to me. He had been on many hunts and had killed several lions, and bore the scars to prove it. He had a particularly vicious mark along one shoulder, where one of the powerful paws of a lion had smashed through his shield and tore at him. One of his eyes was also pulled down, the result of an encounter he had with a lioness who tore his scalp from top to bottom, and the wound had healed poorly. He could speak pretty fair English, and we became fast friends. He instructed me in the ways of Africa, and I in turn regaled him with stories of my youth in England.
A few months had passed when Nlongi came to me and told me that a man-eater had jumped the boma surrounding their village and carried off an old man in his jaws. The tribal elders were sending a party to hunt down this threat to the village and destroy it, and Nlongi said they had given him orders to tell Parkington and I, so we could be on our guard, and also to invite us along if we wished to join forces with them. That night, the two of us sat around the table in our small shack, smoking cigars and sipping the only alcohol within five hundred miles, a cheap, bitter rum that could blind a man and which was likely more dangerous to us than the threat of the man-eater.
Parkington sat contemplatively for a time, chewing on the stub of his cigar until it was a slick, greasy mess. In character, he was a fine fellow, but in personal habits, a more untidy man could not be found. His bulging, flushed cheeks bespoke of his love for the bottle, and his clothes were often rumpled and stained. He had an uncouth manner of speaking and was prone to releasing foul odors, the likes of which could only be tolerated when not in the close confines of our small shack. These personal vices aside, however, he was a friendly sort and as good a companion as one was likely to find in a godforsaken hell hole like this.
I was for accompanying the Maasai on their hunt. A man-eater was rare, and this represented a threat to our interests as well as theirs. Parkington wasn’t so sure.
“Laddy, I appreciate your zeal, but it’s plain to see that our help shan’t be needed on this hunt. You’re new to Africa, and you’ve never seen a man attacked by a lion before. And man-eaters are not like most lions. They haven’t any fear of men, white or black, and once the blood lust has got in them, they’ll stop at nothing, and there ain’t a bloody thing that will make them quit. The buggers are relentless.”
I took a long swallow from the rum, feeling the burn in my throat, and it seemed to give me courage. “Stay if you wish. Nlongi has invited us to go, and I’ve a yearning to see the action. This is our problem as well as theirs, and I’ve no wish to let them shoulder all the responsibility and take all the glory.”
Parkington waved his cigar in a grandiose manner at the open door of the hut, and at the inky blackness of the African wilderness outside. “It’s a foolish thing, me boy. The natives will take care of the problem for us and we shan’t risk our necks. It was only a few years ago that those two man-eaters down at Tsavo killed over a hundred poor devils. It is that kind of excitement you are hankering for, and I’m not so hungry for such a thrill that I’m willing to risk my skin for a tingle up my spine.”
“Stay here, if you like,” said I. “I’ve no wish for you to go if you don’t want to. But tomorrow I’ll be with Nlongi and the tribe, and with any luck, we’ll be toasting to my success with this rot gut liquor by tomorrow night.”
For all my braggadocio, I am forced to recount here that in spite of my excitement, there was a gnawing sense of fear that was eating at my inward parts like a dog worries at a bone. The truth was that I had never before faced a creature with a lust for man flesh, and my own skill with a rifle wouldn’t be a substitute for my youth and inexperience. And Parkington had a point as to the dangers of this hunt. But be that as it may, my thirst for adventure would not be denied, and in the morning, I left with Nlongi and the hunting party to kill the lion.
As it turns out, I was right to be afraid. I was with the Maasai when they cornered the man-eater in a dark wooded grove. As we came upon the grove, Nlongi murmured that it was a place of great evil, and it seemed to hang in the air all around us, a tangible thing that could be felt. My hands were slick with sweat, and my skin, darkly tanned from months in the African sun, was now bleached white with fear. I clutched at my rifle, drops of sweat beading along the hickory stock, and felt the anxiety that had been gnawing at me explode like a torrent of fire in the middle of my stomach. At the same time, I felt a rush of excitement such as I had never known, and the realization that this was what I had been born for. I stood on the other side of the grove from where the Maasai were, as they marched into the thicket, and felt the hot sun upon my back, soaking through my cotton shirt and burning into my skin.
I was unprepared for what happened next. As the line of Maasai warriors had disappeared into the thicket, the lion sniffed the air and smelled them coming. But in the hot stillness, he had also smelled another smell, a smell that he was not familiar with, for white men were still new in that country. But rather than be afraid, the tawny, thick maned beast sensed an opportunity, and padded through the grove to where I waited, my heart pounding and my eyes wide and alert. To my right, a bird burst out of the thicket, and my gaze was averted to that right corner, and like a fool I focused intently upon that spot, when suddenly the lion burst from the opposite corner and was upon me. I swung my rifle to meet him, but the powerful swipe of his paw caught my chest and sent me sprawling, and threw the rifle far from me.
I looked up into the malevolent, yellow eyes of the killer, and felt fear course through me. He was huge, a colossal force of nature, created in the depths of hell for the express purpose of killing men. His mane was as black as the African night, his snout was caked with dried blood, and in his eyes there was a demented gleam and a desire to kill that I had never seen in another living being. I was bleeding profusely, and smelled the semi-sweet, copperish scent of my own blood, and it seemed as if time were standing still. The lion crouched, and my mind went blank. The only thing at that moment that sustained me was a will to live, and I fumbled at my belt for the hunting knife I usually carried. At once, the mighty beast sprang, and I rolled from his path and leaped to my feet, and in a second I was on him, grasping his mane and plunging my knife into him, again and again. For a brief moment, this act only seemed to enrage him, and he tried to turn his head to catch me in his jaws, but at last one of my strokes caught him deep in the neck, piercing his jugular, and he fell, rasping out his last breaths in a deathly wheeze. I rolled off, and saw his eyes looking at me as the fire faded out of them. I knew that never had anything desired my death more than the man-eater at that instant. I averted my gaze and lay looking up at the sun, bleeding heavily, and the thought came to me then…Africa is not such a bad place to die…and then I knew no more.
When I next awoke, I was in a darkened hut. There was a bitter smell in the air, and as I opened my eyes, it took a moment for them to adjust to the dim light. I lay upon the earthen floor of the hut, and I felt a painful burning sensation upon my chest. I looked down and gasped, for from my chest to my navel, I was slashed and torn. My skin was hot to the touch and I realized then that the scent in the air was that of death, for no man could sustain wounds of that magnitude and live to tell the tale. I lay my head back and felt a euphoric peace overtake me, and I steeled myself to die here.
At that moment, the door to the hut opened and I was blinded by a brief flash of sunlight. Then the dark figure of a man stepped through, and I recognized him at once as the laibon, the shaman of the Maasai tribe. Shabat was his name, and I never had liked the look of him. He seemed to me to have a wicked glint in his eye at times, but I had never had dealings with him before now. He was attired in an ostrich feather headdress and a blood red ceremonial shuka wrapped about him, and it was clear as he looked at me that he thought my situation was grim.
He came to my side and knelt down, and in his hand he carried a small pot with a thick brown paste that looked like bile, which had a distinctly pungent odor emanating from it that made my stomach churn. He applied this paste to my wound, and then began to chant softly in his native tongue. I felt the fever upon my brow, and I began to drift in and out of consciousness. At one point, as he gazed down at me, I noticed his eyes were the same yellowish hue as the lion. I felt panic well up in my chest, for in the feral, malevolent eyes of this African medicine man, I thought I saw the same evil gleam that I had seen in the eyes of the man-eater. It came to me, for one wild moment, that the lion had possessed this shaman, and I struggled to rise, but it seemed as if my limbs were paralyzed, and I could only lie there gazing up at him, and the moment passed. He continued to chant softly, and at last, I fell into an exhausted sleep.
When I awoke again, Nlongi was at my side, bathing my forehead. I looked up. “What happened?” My tongue felt swollen, too large for my mouth, and the raspiness of my voice sounded unnatural to my ears. He smiled kindly down at me. “You lived.”
It took me several weeks to get up and around. My fever had broken, but the wound upon my chest took longer to heal, and they left vivid scars as a testimony to my brush with death. Several times Shabat came into the hut, checking my wounds but saying nothing. His only communication was a grunt and a nod, and I noticed that the feral glare was gone from his eyes, although they still retained their yellow hue. I thanked him for his care, but he gave no acknowledgement of my thanks, and at last, I ceased my praise for his abilities and let him work in silence. Parkington, who had been informed of Nlongi as to my condition, finally came to see me, and he was much more communicative. After an initial appraisal as to the general state of affairs around the depot, he then proceeded to berate my stupidity for first going on the hunt at all, then allowing my attention to wander at such a critical juncture. At last, as his diatribe was winding down, however, he grudgingly admitted the death of the man-eater by my knife had become the stuff of legend, and told me that already news of my accomplishment had traveled far and wide.
“They are calling you Thomas the Lion Slayer even now, laddy. Two track layers just yesterday asked me if I’d heard the tale of how you slew a lion with naught but your little finger. I don’t mind saying that David with his shepherd’s sling couldn’t have achieved the kind of immortality you have with that knife of yours.”
I smiled at this high praise, but the memory of the fear in my gut and the smell of my blood in the air reminded me that I was lucky to be alive. Lion Slayer or not, no one knew better than I that it wasn’t an act of heroism but rather a matter of survival that I was still alive, and I was grateful for my new lease on life.
Within another week I was able to return to the Nairobi station, and as I left, I thanked Shabat again for his help. Shabat’s English was very poor, so I asked Nlongi to translate, and he conveyed my sense of gratitude for what the shaman had done in saving my life. To my surprise, Shabat had a gift for me. It was an amulet that was attached to the claws of the lion I had killed, and he gave me a prophecy through Nlongi. Maasai laibon were revered for their prophecies, although at the time I gave it little thought. Nlongi, however, translated it with great reverence.
“He say that your soul and lion’s soul have become enemies. He say that soul of the lion will hunt you, and that the spirit of great lion will try to kill you. He say the lion a great evil, and that he will not rest until he have taken you. But Shabat have given you powerful magic, because you were able to defeat the lion. You keep this with you alway, and the lion, he will no be able to harm you. The lion will come for you, but if you wear this magic, it will protect you.”
I thanked Shabat, and tucked the amulet away in my pocket. Despite his good work in saving my life, I had little respect for African spiritualism, and no use for African trinkets. It was only when I returned to the shack, sitting in a rickety wooden chair with Parkington, drinking more of the putrid rum that was our staple in those days, that I was able to study the amulet. It was a necklace made of some kind of animal hide, and had the claw of the lion attached to it, as well as a bone with some strange carvings that I did not recognize. Although I put no stock in the prophecy given by Shabat, from that day onward I hung the amulet around my neck as a reminder of my experiences in Africa.
Nairobi was growing quickly, and with the further construction of the railroad, more and more white men poured into the area. Parkington and I continued to live a life of leisure, hunting for the railroad and drinking rum in the evenings, although with the influx of new faces, a better brand of liquor had become available. I made a few trips elsewhere, but for the most part, continued to stay on in the area, hunting and occasionally lending help to the railroad in one capacity or another.
Almost a year had passed since my encounter with the man-eater, and Shabat’s prophecy had long since fled from my memory, when an official of the British government came and asked for my help in tracking down a man in Kenya who had caused a great deal of trouble for the railroad. Seems this fellow had made advances on the wife of one of the supervisors, and was given a sound thrashing. In retaliation, he had waited one night for the supervisor to leave his office, and when he did, placed two rounds of buckshot from an English shotgun in the man’s chest. The supervisor had died immediately, and the murderer had fled into the Kenyan wilderness. The British authorities offered Parkington and I a handsome sum for bringing him back, and being short on funds and long on a thirst for that better brand of rum, we agreed. We informed Nlongi of the situation, and after offering to supply the Maasai with five head of cattle, they agreed to send a party of men with us to help track him down.
It was the morning of the third day when we found our quarry. We had made a wide circle out from the station, and came across tracks leading to a dark thicket of trees where our man was no doubt laying in wait, hoping to catch us off guard. Parkington went around to the north end of the grove, while I waited in the south end. We stationed the warriors on either side, so that we had our prey neatly boxed in with no chance of escape. Despite the hot day, I felt a chill, and a breeze was blowing in from the south. The thicket had a familiar look, and I realized with a start that it was the same copse of trees where I had engaged in an epic struggle with the man-eater only a year before. The presence of evil was still in the atmosphere, and the air was charged with death.
At that moment, Parkington gave a quick call, and I stiffened. The Maasai had not yet entered the thicket, and yet I could hear the crash of boots on the underbrush, and a rough voice burst into loud swearing. From the north end of the trees, I heard Parkington shout “Got you!” and the boom of his rifle. There was a volley of quick shots from a pistol, and then Nlongi gave a cry. The Maasai began to chant, and I felt the thrill of the hunt pulsing through my veins again. This was an animal of a different sort, but this time, I felt no fear. Instead, a steely determination rose up in me. The wound in my chest seemed to blaze, and I felt in my bones the spirit of the lion in the grove before me.
At once, from out of the trees, burst the wild figure of a man, charging straight at me. His clothes were torn, his face was muddy, and his coal black hair stuck out wildly from his head like an untamed mane. But none of this was what captured my attention. What I saw at that moment were his eyes. They were fixed upon my face, and they were a vivid, malevolent yellow. They seemed to be the eyes of pure evil, and I knew at once where I had seen them before. They had the same look in them, that innate, inbred desire to kill, and they were focused upon me. He had a revolver in his hand, and before I could raise my rifle, he pointed it at me and at point blank range, with no chance of missing, he pulled the trigger. I saw the end of the pistol blossom with flame, heard the roar of the gun, and felt something crash into my chest, which caused me to stagger backwards. I could only raise my rifle to my hip, but that was enough. I fired. The bullet caught him in the teeth, and I saw the back of his head explode in a reddish haze, and he fell at once.
I stood there a moment in shock, and then Parkington and the Maasai came crashing through the trees to where I stood. Parkington grabbed my shoulder and shook me. “Are you hurt, laddy? Did he get you?”
I looked down at my chest. There was a great hole in my shirt, but no blood was there. Quickly unbuttoning the top of my shirt with fumbling fingers, I looked down in amazement. For where the bullet would have struck me, underneath the hole where it had pierced my shirt and would have pierced my heart, was the amulet given to me by Shabat, the Maasai medicine man. Parkington gave a strangled cry, and I could only gaze in wonder myself, for the flattened bullet, which was meant to take my life, fell from my open shirt, but the amulet had not a mark on it. Turning it over, I strained to see whether the bullet had even chipped it, but neither on the claw nor on the piece of bone could a mark be found.
Nlongi clasped my other shoulder. “The prophecy, it true! The spirit of the great lion come to kill you, but the strong magic, it protect you.”
I could only nod mutely. My preconceived notions had vanished, for I had no explanation for how the bullet could not have killed me, how it had left no mark on either the amulet or myself. Parkington was white as well, and a thin sheen of sweat had formed upon his forehead. He passed a shaky hand over it, and spoke in a low tone. “I’ve seen some wonders in my day, laddy, but I’ve not even dreamed of such as this. It’s a miracle, my boy, a miracle.”
“He had me,” said I. “He had me, and I thought I was dead. And his eyes…I’d swear his eyes—well, it’s too impossible to be true. They looked just like that bloody lion.”
Parkington patted me on the shoulder. “You lead a charmed life, son. Now let’s look at this bugger and make sure he’s dead.”
He walked over to the body of the dead man and knelt down beside him, rifling through his papers and checking his pulse. I stayed back several yards, still unsure of what I might see were I to look down at him, and still unable to believe what had just happened to me. It was then that Parkington gave a gasp, followed by a rough chuckle.
“I bloody well don’t believe it.” He turned, still crouched on his heels, and held up a letter. I was too far away to make out the name and address, but Parkington had a whimsical look upon his face, and his voice was dripping with sardonic amusement. “Did they tell you what this lad’s name was?”
I racked my brain, trying to remember if that information had been given by the British official who had hired us, but for the life of me, I couldn’t remember that it had. It had not seemed important at the time, and I had not thought to ask.
“I don’t believe they did. Why? Does it matter?”
Parkington withdrew the stub of a cigar from his pocket and made a great show of lighting it. He evidently was bursting to tell me the name, but was intent on making a theatrical spectacle out of it, and so as he lifted the match to his mouth, I sighed and tapped my foot impatiently. When he was done, he stood, ground out the smoldering embers of the match, and handed me the letter. The addressee’s name was printed in stark black ink for all to read, and I felt a chill run through my blood.
The letter was addressed to Mr. Samuel J. Lyons.
