lot of meat,” he mumbled. Khamisi circled back around. The quiet continued to press around him, squeezing the heat atop them.
The woman continued her examination. “I don’t think that’s it. The body’s been here since last night, near a watering hole. If nothing else, the abdomen would have been cleaned out by jackals.”
Khamisi surveyed the body again. He stared at the ripped rear leg, the torn throat. Something large had brought the rhino down. And fast.
A prickling rose along the back of his neck.
Where were the carrion feeders?
Before he could contemplate the mystery, Dr. Fairfield spoke. “The calf’s gone.”
“What?” He turned back around. “I thought you said she hadn’t given birth.”
Dr. Fairfield stood up, stripping off her gloves and retrieving her gun. Rifle in hand, the biologist stalked away from the carcass, gaze fixed to the ground. Khamisi noted she was following the bloody path, where something was dragged away from the belly, to be eaten in private.
Oh, God…
He followed after her.
At the edge of the copse, Dr. Fairfield used the tip of her rifle to part some low-hanging branches, which revealed what had been dragged from the belly.
The rhino calf.
The scrawny body had been shredded into sections, as if fought over.
“I think the calf was still alive when it was torn out,” Dr. Fairfield said, pointing to a spray of blood. “Poor thing…”
Khamisi stepped back, remembering the biologist’s earlier question. Why hadn’t any other carrion feeders eviscerated the remains? Vultures, jackals, hyenas, even lions. Dr. Fairfield was right. This much meat would not have been left to flies and maggots.
It made no sense.
Not unless…
Khamisi’s heart thudded heavily.
Not unless the predator was still here.
Khamisi lifted his rifle. Deep in the shadowed copse, he again noted the heavy silence. It was as if the very forest were intimidated by whatever had killed the rhino.
He found himself testing the air, listening, eyes straining, standing dead still. The shadows seemed to deepen all around him.
Having spent his childhood in South Africa, Khamisi was well familiar with the superstitions, whispers of monsters that haunted and hunted the jungles: the ndalawo, a howling man-eater of the Uganda forest; the mbilinto, an elephant-size hippo of the Congo wetlands; the mngwa, a furry lurker of coastal coconut groves.
But sometimes even myths came to life in Africa. Like the nsui-fisi. It was a striped man-eating monster of Rhodesia, long considered a folktale by white settlers…that is, until decades later it was discovered to be a new form of cheetah, taxonomically classified as Acinonyx rex .
As Khamisi searched the jungle, he recalled another monster of legend, one that was known across the breadth of Africa. It went by many names: the dubu, the lumbwa, the kerit, the getet . Mere mention of the name evoked cries of fear from natives. As large as a gorilla, it was a veritable devil for its swiftness, cunning, and ferocity. Over the centuries, hunters—black and white—claimed to have caught glimpses of it. All children learned to recognize its characteristic howl. This region of Zulu-land was no exception.
“Ukufa…,” Khamisi mumbled.
“Did you say something?” Dr. Fairfield asked. She was still bent down by the dead calf.
It was the Zulu name for the monster, one that was whispered around campfires and kraal huts.
Ukufa.
Death.
He knew why such a beast came to mind now. Five months ago, an old tribesman claimed to have seen an ukufa near here. Half beast, half ghost, with eyes of fire, the old man had railed with dead certainty. Only those as old as the leathery elder took heed. The others, like Khamisi, pretended to humor the tribesman.
But here in the dark shadows…
“We should go,” Khamisi said.
“But we don’t know what killed her.”
“Not poachers.” That’s all Khamisi needed or wanted to know. He waved his rifle toward the Jeep. He would
The woman continued her examination. “I don’t think that’s it. The body’s been here since last night, near a watering hole. If nothing else, the abdomen would have been cleaned out by jackals.”
Khamisi surveyed the body again. He stared at the ripped rear leg, the torn throat. Something large had brought the rhino down. And fast.
A prickling rose along the back of his neck.
Where were the carrion feeders?
Before he could contemplate the mystery, Dr. Fairfield spoke. “The calf’s gone.”
“What?” He turned back around. “I thought you said she hadn’t given birth.”
Dr. Fairfield stood up, stripping off her gloves and retrieving her gun. Rifle in hand, the biologist stalked away from the carcass, gaze fixed to the ground. Khamisi noted she was following the bloody path, where something was dragged away from the belly, to be eaten in private.
Oh, God…
He followed after her.
At the edge of the copse, Dr. Fairfield used the tip of her rifle to part some low-hanging branches, which revealed what had been dragged from the belly.
The rhino calf.
The scrawny body had been shredded into sections, as if fought over.
“I think the calf was still alive when it was torn out,” Dr. Fairfield said, pointing to a spray of blood. “Poor thing…”
Khamisi stepped back, remembering the biologist’s earlier question. Why hadn’t any other carrion feeders eviscerated the remains? Vultures, jackals, hyenas, even lions. Dr. Fairfield was right. This much meat would not have been left to flies and maggots.
It made no sense.
Not unless…
Khamisi’s heart thudded heavily.
Not unless the predator was still here.
Khamisi lifted his rifle. Deep in the shadowed copse, he again noted the heavy silence. It was as if the very forest were intimidated by whatever had killed the rhino.
He found himself testing the air, listening, eyes straining, standing dead still. The shadows seemed to deepen all around him.
Having spent his childhood in South Africa, Khamisi was well familiar with the superstitions, whispers of monsters that haunted and hunted the jungles: the ndalawo, a howling man-eater of the Uganda forest; the mbilinto, an elephant-size hippo of the Congo wetlands; the mngwa, a furry lurker of coastal coconut groves.
But sometimes even myths came to life in Africa. Like the nsui-fisi. It was a striped man-eating monster of Rhodesia, long considered a folktale by white settlers…that is, until decades later it was discovered to be a new form of cheetah, taxonomically classified as Acinonyx rex .
As Khamisi searched the jungle, he recalled another monster of legend, one that was known across the breadth of Africa. It went by many names: the dubu, the lumbwa, the kerit, the getet . Mere mention of the name evoked cries of fear from natives. As large as a gorilla, it was a veritable devil for its swiftness, cunning, and ferocity. Over the centuries, hunters—black and white—claimed to have caught glimpses of it. All children learned to recognize its characteristic howl. This region of Zulu-land was no exception.
“Ukufa…,” Khamisi mumbled.
“Did you say something?” Dr. Fairfield asked. She was still bent down by the dead calf.
It was the Zulu name for the monster, one that was whispered around campfires and kraal huts.
Ukufa.
Death.
He knew why such a beast came to mind now. Five months ago, an old tribesman claimed to have seen an ukufa near here. Half beast, half ghost, with eyes of fire, the old man had railed with dead certainty. Only those as old as the leathery elder took heed. The others, like Khamisi, pretended to humor the tribesman.
But here in the dark shadows…
“We should go,” Khamisi said.
“But we don’t know what killed her.”
“Not poachers.” That’s all Khamisi needed or wanted to know. He waved his rifle toward the Jeep. He would
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