Free Zambezi by Tony Park Page A

the middle of the bush without a fence of any kind to keep wild animals at bay. How had it happened? he wondered.
    Had she been careless, and simply left the door of her tent open? Had she left the tent to answer the call of nature? Had the lion, or lions, been brazen enough to rip through the flimsy nylon walls? He chided himself. He was already accepting the official version of events – that Miranda had been taken by one of the animals she was so intent on saving. He wanted so much to believe that she was still alive. He forced the morbid thoughts of her death from his mind.

Chapter 4

    He was the heir to one of the last remaining natural paradises on earth. He lived in harmony with the animals around him, but there was no disputing that he was the boss, and that the environment in which he lived, as beautiful as it was, was there solely for his pleasure and sustenance. It was, if not in name or on paper, his kingdom, and he was, if not by decree or charter, the king.
    Mashumba was a warrior. An old man, as was plain to see, but still a fighter and, when opportunity arose, a lover of note. He had sired more offspring than he cared to remember and had been in more fights than there were butterfly-shaped leaves on a mopani tree in the height of summer.
    He rested by the river now, for the sun was high above the valley and the sands that flanked the shimmering blue ribbon were so bright with reflected light it hurt the eye to look at them. And so, with a yawn, he shifted his position to get back into the shade and, as was his norm at this time of day, drifted off into sleep.
    In his dreams he saw the herd of zebra grazing on the grass of the floodplain, the stallion raising his head and sniffing the breeze. He saw the fleet-footed impala leaping through the bush, the docile water-buck grazing in the marshes. He saw the cantankerous old bull buffalo, the most dangerous prey a hunter could face. He remembered glorious feasts he had presided over, and saw again his offspring and wives and his dear departed brothers.
    His family was gone now. It belonged to others. He and his brother had been kicked out of their own extended clan, replaced by younger, fitter contenders for their fickle wives’ affections. Such was the way of his tribe.
    His world was changing, little by little every year, but he had learned long ago to cope with change. He had learned to live with the white man and his strange ways, and to make little adjustments in his day-to-day life so that he could exist side by side with him. There was room in his valley for everyone, even the whites and their noisy machines. As long as they respected him, he would allow them to visit his home.
    Of his brother there was no sign. He had seen him in the night, but lost sight of him before dawn.
    He too was probably sleeping away the hottest part of the day. They would see each other for a drink in the evening, if not before.
    A fish eagle landed in the tree above him. Its mournful, whining call woke him. He opened one eye and looked at the bird. It was the definitive sound of the valley, but it never ceased to annoy him when he was trying to take a midday nap, or hunt. If he could have reached the bird, he would have killed it.
    Mashumba yawned again and thought about dinner. The thing he missed most about his ex-wives, even more than the coupling, was the way they fed him and his brother. How sweet it was at the end of a hard day or a long night to find a feast waiting for him. It was the natural order of things. He and his brother took care of them – in every sense of the word – and, likewise, they were fed. That was what he missed most.
    He stood, for the sun had caught up with him yet again, scratched himself and then pissed on the opposite side of the tree to where he intended to sleep for the rest of the afternoon. He was very particular about some things. As he was settling down for the remainder of his nap a flicker of movement caught his eye. It was down on the