things. I too think of many things and so does Lakweit. But your plan is a good one. We will try it.’
Arab Maina lifted his head a little higher, turning it only enough to keep the lion within the scope of his vision. He placed one sinewy leg in front of the other, and stiffly, like a man walking the trunk of a tree that bridges a chasm, he began to move. One after another, we followed. My hand still lay upon Buller’s neck, but Arab Kosky let the dog and me slip past him to walk between the two Murani.
‘Stay close to me, Lakweit’ — Arab Maina’s voice was anxious. ‘I fear for you when it is not possible to see you.;
Arab Kosky burst into forced laughter.
‘There is a tale about a rhino who needed a needle to do her husband’s sewing…’ he began.
‘So she borrowed one from the porcupine…’ said Arab Kosky.
‘And swallowed it,’ I contributed. ‘I have heard that tale before, Kosky!’
The Murani laughed louder. ‘But perhaps our friend the lion has not. Look at him. He is listening!’
‘But not laughing,’ said Arab Maina. ‘He moves as we move. He comes closer!’
The lion had stalked out of the donga. Now, as we walked, we could see that he guarded the slain body of a large kongoni. Smears of blood were fresh on his forelegs, his jowls, and his chest. He was a lone hunter — an individualist — a solitary marauder. His tail had stopped swinging. His great head turned exactly in ratio to the speed of our stride. The full force of the lion-smell, meaty, pungent, almost indescribable, struck against our nostrils.
‘Having swallowed the needle …’ said Arab Kosky.
‘Silence — he attacks!’
I do not know who moved with greater speed — Arab Maina or the lion. I believe it must have been Arab Maina. I think the Murani anticipated the charge even before the lion moved, and because of that, it was a battle of wills instead of weapons.
The lion rushed from the fringe of the donga like a rock from a catapult. He stopped like the same rock striking the walls of a battlement.
Arab Maina was down on his left knee. Beside him was Arab Kosky. Each man, with his shield, his spear, and his body, was a fighting machine no longer human, but only motionless and precise and coldly ready. Buller and I crouched behind them, my own spear as ready as I could make it in hands that were less hot from the sun than from excitement and the pounding of my heart.
‘Steady, Buller.’
‘Do not move, Lakweit.’
The lion had stopped. He stood a few strides from Arab Maina’s buffalo-hide shield, stared into Arab Maina’s eyes challenging him over the top of it, and swung his tail like the weight of a clock. At that moment I think the ants in the grass paused in their work.
And then Arab Maina stood up.
I do not know how he knew that that particular instant was the right instant or how he knew that the lion would accept a truce. It may have been accomplished by the sheer arrogance of Arab Maina’s decision to lower his shield, even if slightly, and to rise, no longer warlike, and to beckon us on with superb and sudden indifference. But however it was, the lion never moved.
We left him slicing the tall grass with his heavy tail, the blood of the kongoni drying on his coat. He was thinking many things.
And I was disappointed. Long after we had continued our trot toward the place where we knew there would be warthog, I thought how wonderful it would have been if the lion had attacked and I had been able to use my spear on him while he clawed at the shields of the two Murani, and how later they might have said, ‘If it hadn’t been for you, Lakweit …!’
But then, I was very young.
We ran until we reached the Molo River.
The river took its life from the Mau Escarpment and twisted down into the valley and gave life, in turn, to mimosa trees with crowns as broad as clouds, and long creepers and liana that strangled the sunlight and left the riverbank soothing and dark.
The earth on the bank
Arab Maina lifted his head a little higher, turning it only enough to keep the lion within the scope of his vision. He placed one sinewy leg in front of the other, and stiffly, like a man walking the trunk of a tree that bridges a chasm, he began to move. One after another, we followed. My hand still lay upon Buller’s neck, but Arab Kosky let the dog and me slip past him to walk between the two Murani.
‘Stay close to me, Lakweit’ — Arab Maina’s voice was anxious. ‘I fear for you when it is not possible to see you.;
Arab Kosky burst into forced laughter.
‘There is a tale about a rhino who needed a needle to do her husband’s sewing…’ he began.
‘So she borrowed one from the porcupine…’ said Arab Kosky.
‘And swallowed it,’ I contributed. ‘I have heard that tale before, Kosky!’
The Murani laughed louder. ‘But perhaps our friend the lion has not. Look at him. He is listening!’
‘But not laughing,’ said Arab Maina. ‘He moves as we move. He comes closer!’
The lion had stalked out of the donga. Now, as we walked, we could see that he guarded the slain body of a large kongoni. Smears of blood were fresh on his forelegs, his jowls, and his chest. He was a lone hunter — an individualist — a solitary marauder. His tail had stopped swinging. His great head turned exactly in ratio to the speed of our stride. The full force of the lion-smell, meaty, pungent, almost indescribable, struck against our nostrils.
‘Having swallowed the needle …’ said Arab Kosky.
‘Silence — he attacks!’
I do not know who moved with greater speed — Arab Maina or the lion. I believe it must have been Arab Maina. I think the Murani anticipated the charge even before the lion moved, and because of that, it was a battle of wills instead of weapons.
The lion rushed from the fringe of the donga like a rock from a catapult. He stopped like the same rock striking the walls of a battlement.
Arab Maina was down on his left knee. Beside him was Arab Kosky. Each man, with his shield, his spear, and his body, was a fighting machine no longer human, but only motionless and precise and coldly ready. Buller and I crouched behind them, my own spear as ready as I could make it in hands that were less hot from the sun than from excitement and the pounding of my heart.
‘Steady, Buller.’
‘Do not move, Lakweit.’
The lion had stopped. He stood a few strides from Arab Maina’s buffalo-hide shield, stared into Arab Maina’s eyes challenging him over the top of it, and swung his tail like the weight of a clock. At that moment I think the ants in the grass paused in their work.
And then Arab Maina stood up.
I do not know how he knew that that particular instant was the right instant or how he knew that the lion would accept a truce. It may have been accomplished by the sheer arrogance of Arab Maina’s decision to lower his shield, even if slightly, and to rise, no longer warlike, and to beckon us on with superb and sudden indifference. But however it was, the lion never moved.
We left him slicing the tall grass with his heavy tail, the blood of the kongoni drying on his coat. He was thinking many things.
And I was disappointed. Long after we had continued our trot toward the place where we knew there would be warthog, I thought how wonderful it would have been if the lion had attacked and I had been able to use my spear on him while he clawed at the shields of the two Murani, and how later they might have said, ‘If it hadn’t been for you, Lakweit …!’
But then, I was very young.
We ran until we reached the Molo River.
The river took its life from the Mau Escarpment and twisted down into the valley and gave life, in turn, to mimosa trees with crowns as broad as clouds, and long creepers and liana that strangled the sunlight and left the riverbank soothing and dark.
The earth on the bank
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