As soon as it was light enough for the trackers to read the sign, they started back along the chain of bait. Leon and Kermit wore heavy jackets, for the morning was chilly, and perfumed like a fine Chablis.
The first three baits they visited were untouched, although the vultures brooded dark, hunch-backed and morose as undertakers in the treetops around them. When they came to the fourth, Leon halted a few hundred yards from it and, with the binoculars, carefully glassed the pile of branches that covered it.
‘You’re wasting time, pal. There ain’t nothing there,’ Kermit told him.
‘On the contrary,’ Leon said softly, without lowering the glasses.
‘What do you mean?’ Kermit’s interest quickened.
‘I mean there’s a big male lion right there.’
‘No!’ Kermit protested. ‘I don’t see a damned thing.’
‘Here.’ Leon handed him the glasses. ‘Use these.’
Kermit focused the lenses and stared through them for a minute. ‘I still don’t see a lion.’
‘Look where the branches have been pulled open. You can see the striped haunches of the zebra in the gap . . .’
‘Yeah! I’ve got that.’
‘Now look just over the top of the zebra. Do you see two small dark lumps on the far side?’
‘Yup, but that’s not a lion.’
‘Those are the tops of his ears. He’s lying flat behind the zebra watching us.’
‘My God! You’re right! I saw an ear flick,’ he exclaimed. ‘Which lion is it? The young or the old one?’
Leon conferred quickly with Manyoro, Loikot interjecting his own learned opinions every few sentences. At last he turned back to Kermit. ‘Take a deep breath, chum. I have news for you. It’s the big one. Manyoro calls him the lion of all lions.’
‘What do we do now? Do we ride him down?’
‘No, we walk him up.’ Leon was already swinging down from the saddle and drawing the big Holland from its boot. He opened the action, drew the brass cartridges from the breeches and exchanged them for a fresh pair from his bandolier. Kermit followed his example with the little Lee-Enfield. The syces came forward and took the reins of their mounts and led them to the rear, then laid down their waterbags, and squatted to take a little snuff. Soon they jumped up, hefted their lion spears and stabbed the air with bloodthirsty grunts, prancing high with each thrust of the long bright blades, priming themselves for battle.
As soon as all the hunters were ready, Leon gave Kermit his instructions. ‘You’ll take the lead. I’ll be three paces behind you so I don’t block your field of fire. Walk slowly and steadily, but not directly towards him. Make it seem that you’re going to pass about twenty paces on his right. Don’t look directly at him. Keep your eyes on the ground ahead of you. If you stare at him you’ll spook him into running or charging prematurely. At about fifty paces he’ll give you a warning growl. You’ll see his tail start to thrash. Don’t stop and don’t hurry. Keep walking. At about thirty paces he’ll stand up and confront you head-on. At this point an average lion will either run or charge. This one is different. Sparring with the young pretender has put him in a belligerent, reckless mood. His blood is up. He’ll charge. He’ll give you three or four seconds, then come. You must hit him before he starts to move or before you can blink he’ll be doing forty miles an hour straight at you. When I call the shot, take him just under the chin in the centre of his chest. These cats are soft. Even the .303 will put him down. However, you must keep shooting as long as he’s on his feet.’
‘You’re not going to fire, are you?’
‘Not until he starts chewing your head off, chummy. Now, walk!’ They moved out in open order, Kermit leading, Leon a few paces back and the two Masai coming up behind him, marching shoulder to shoulder with their assegais presented.
‘Excellent,’ Leon encouraged Kermit softly. ‘Keep up that speed and direction. You’re doing fine.’ Within another fifty paces Leon saw the lion lift his head a few inches. The dome of his skull was now visible and he raised his mane in a threatening gesture. It was like a small haystack, dense and black as Hades. Kermit hesitated in mid-stride.
‘Steady, steady. Keep moving!’ Leon cautioned him. They walked on, and now they could see the lion’s eyes under the great bush of the mane. They were cold, yellow and inexorable. Another ten slow paces and the lion growled. It was a low, deep, infinitely menacing sound, like distant summer thunder. It stopped Kermit in his tracks and he turned to face the beast head-on, at the same time starting to bring up the long rifle. That movement, and Kermit’s direct stare, triggered the lion.
‘Look out! He’s going to come,’ Leon said sharply, but the lion was already in full charge, rushing at Kermit, grunting in short staccato bursts like the steam pistons on a speeding locomotive, black mane fully erect with rage, long tail swinging from side to side. He was enormous, and growing bigger as he closed the gap between them with every stride.
‘Shoot him!’ Leon’s voice was lost in the sharp crack of the .303. The bullet, hastily aimed, flew over the lion’s back, and kicked up a spurt of dust two hundred yards behind him. Kermit was quick on the reload. His next shot was low and struck the ground between the beast’s forelegs. The lion kept boring straight in, a yellow blur of speed, grunting with heart-stopping fury, kicking up dust and slashing his tail.
Sweet Christ! Leon thought. It’s going to get him down! He swung up the Holland focusing all his mental and physical powers on the great maned head and the open grunting jaws. He was only barely conscious of his forefinger tightening on the front trigger. The instant before the lion crashed his full 550-pound body weight into Kermit’s chest at forty miles an hour, Kermit fired his third shot.
The muzzle of the .303 Lee-Enfield was almost touching the shiny black button of the lion’s nose. The light bullet struck the very tip of the snout and lanced through into the brain. The tan body turned slack and flabby as a sack of chaff. Kermit hurled himself aside at the last instant and the lion piled up in a heap on the spot where he had been standing. He stared down at it, his hands shaking, breath sobbing in his throat. Sweat trickled into his eyes.
‘Shoot him again,’ Leon shouted, but Kermit’s legs gave way under him and he sat down. Leon ran up and stood over the lion. At point-blank range he shot him through the heart. Then he turned back to where Kermit was sitting with his head between his knees. ‘Are you okay, chum?’ he asked, with deep concern.
Slowly Kermit raised his head and stared at him as though he was a stranger. He shook his head in confusion. Leon sat beside him and put a muscular arm around his shoulders. ‘Easy does it, chum. You did a great job. You stood to the charge. You never broke. You stood there and shot him down like a hero. If your daddy had been here he would have been proud of you.’
Kermit’s eyes cleared. He took a deep breath and then he said huskily, ‘Do you think so?’
‘I damn well know so,’ Leon said, with utter conviction.
‘You didn’t shoot, did you?’ Kermit was still as unsteady as a long-distance runner regaining his breath after a hard race.
‘No, I didn’t. You killed him yourself, without any help from me,’ Leon assured him.
Kermit did not speak again but sat staring quietly at the magnificent body of the lion. Leon remained at his side. Manyoro and Loikot started to circle them in a shuffling, stiff-legged, hopping and leaping dance.
‘They’re about to perform the lion dance in your honour,’ Leon explained.
Manyoro began to sing. His voice was powerful and true.
After each line they sprang high with the ease of birds taking to flight and Loikot came in with the refrain. When the song ended they went to the dead lion and dipped their fingers in his blood. Then they came back to where Kermit still sat. Manyoro stooped over him and smeared a streak of blood down his forehead.
He stepped back and Loikot took his place in front of Kermit. He also anointed Kermit’s face, painting red stripes down each cheek then, intoned,
They squatted in front of him and clapped their hands rhythmically.
‘They are making you a Masai and a blood brother. It is the highest honour they can offer you. You should acknowledge it.’
‘You also are my brothers,’ Kermit said. ‘Even when we are divided by great waters, I shall remember you all the days of my life.’
Leon translated for him and the Masai murmured with pleasure.
‘Tell Popoo Hima that he does us great honour,’ said Manyoro.
Kermit stood up and went to the body of the lion. He knelt in front of it as though at a shrine. He did not touch it immediately, but his face shone with a particular radiance as he studied the enormous head. The mane started two inches above the opaque yellow eyes and ran back, wave after wave of dense black hair, over the skull and neck, over the massive shoulders, under the chest, and only ended halfway down the broad back.
‘Leave him be,’ Manyoro told Leon. ‘Popoo Hima is taking the spirit of his lion into his own heart. It is right and fitting. It is the way of the true warrior.’
The sun had set before Kermit left the lion and came to the small fire where Leon sat alone. Ishmael had placed a log at each side to act as seats and another, up-ended, on which he had set two mugs and a bottle. As Kermit sat down facing Leon he glanced at the bottle. ‘Bunnahabhain whisky. Thirty years old,’ Leon told him. ‘I begged it from Percy this time in case something like this happened and we were forced to celebrate. Sadly, he’d only let me have half a bottle. Said it’s really too good for the likes of you.’ Leon poured it into the mugs, then reached across to hand one to Kermit.
‘I feel different,’ Kermit said, and took a sip.
‘I understand,’ Leon said. ‘Today was your baptism by fire.’
‘Yes!’ Kermit answered vehemently. ‘That’s it exactly. It was a mystic, almost religious experience. Something strange and wonderful has happened to me. I feel as though I’m somebody else, not the old me, somebody better than I ever was before.’ He groped for words. ‘I feel as though I’ve been reborn. The other me was afraid and uncertain. This one is no longer afraid. Now I know I can meet the world on my own terms.’
‘I understand,’ Leon said. ‘Rite of passage.’
‘Has it happened to you?’ Kermit asked.
Leon’s eyes narrowed with pain as he remembered the pale naked bodies lying crucified on the baked earth, heard again the flitting of Nandi arrows and remembered the weight of Manyoro on his back. ‘Yes . . . but it was nothing like today.’
‘Tell me about it.’
Leon shook his head. ‘These are things we should not talk about too much. Words can only sully and belittle their significance.’
‘Of course. It’s something very private.’
‘Exactly,’ Leon said, and raised his mug. ‘We don’t have to labour it. We know it in our hearts. The Masai have a description for this shared truth. They say simply, “brothers of the warrior blood”.’
They sat for a long time in companionable silence, then Kermit said, ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight.’
‘I’ll keep vigil with you,’ Leon replied.
After a while they began to recall and discuss the tiniest details of the day’s hunt, how the first growl had sounded, how big the lion had appeared as he rose to his full height, how swiftly he came. But they skirted the emotional aspects. The whisky level sank slowly in the bottle.
A little before midnight they were startled to hear horses approaching the camp in the darkness, and voices speaking English. Kermit started up. ‘Who the hell can that be?’
‘I think I can guess.’ Leon chuckled as a figure in riding breeches and a slouch hat came into the firelight. ‘Good evening, Mr Roosevelt, Mr Courtney. I was just passing and thought I’d drop in to say howdy.’
‘Mr Andrew Fagan, I hope you don’t mind if I call you a bloody liar. You’ve been shadowing us night and day for almost two weeks. My trackers have picked up your spoor on most days.’
‘Come, come, Mr Courtney.’ Fagan laughed. ‘Shadowing is too strong a word. But it’s true that I have a more than passing interest in what the two of you have been up to, as has the rest of the world.’ He removed his hat. ‘May we visit with you for a spell?’
‘I’m afraid you’ve come a little late,’ Kermit said. ‘As you can see, the bottle is well-nigh empty.’
‘By some remarkable twist of fate, I have a spare in my pack.’ Fagan called to his photographer, ‘Carl, will you please find that bottle of Jack Daniel’s for us, then come join the party?’ When they had all settled down in the firelight and taken the first taste from their mugs, Fagan asked, ‘Anything interesting happen today? We heard some shooting from your direction.’
‘Tell him, Leon!’ Kermit was bubbling over, but he didn’t want to appear a braggart.
‘Well, now that you mention it, this afternoon Mr Roosevelt managed to shoot the lion we’ve been looking for since the start of our safari.’
‘A lion!’ Fagan spilled a few drops of whisky. ‘Now that’s real news. How does it compare with the one taken a week or so ago by the President?’
‘You’ll have to judge that for yourself,’ Leon said.
‘May we see it?’
‘Come this way,’ Kermit told him eagerly and, picking up a burning brand from the fire, he led them to where the lion lay. Up to now it had been hidden by the night. He held the flame high to illuminate the scene.
‘Well, damn me to hell, that’s a monster!’ said Fagan, and turned quickly to his photographer. ‘Carl, get your camera.’ For almost another hour he persuaded Kermit and Leon to pose with the trophy, although Kermit needed little persuasion. Their vision was starred with the multiple explosions of flash powder when finally they returned to the fire and took up their mugs again. Fagan pulled out his notepad. ‘So, tell us, Mr Roosevelt, how does it feel to have done what you did today?’
Kermit thought about that for a while. ‘Mr Fagan, are you a hunter? It will make it easier to explain if you are.’
‘No, sir. I’m a golfer, not a hunter.’
‘Okay. For me this lion was like you shooting a hole-in-one in the Open Championship, during a playoff with Willie Anderson for the title.’
‘Wonderful description! You have a gift with words, sir.’ Fagan wrote swiftly. ‘Now tell me the whole story, blow by blow, from when you first saw that huge beast to the moment of the kill.’ Kermit was still wrought up with excitement and whiskey. He left nothing out, and did not stint on the use of hyperbole. He appealed regularly to Leon for confirmation of the finer details. ‘Isn’t that so? Isn’t that exactly what happened?’ And Leon backed him up loyally, as a hunter is duty-bound to do for his client. At last, when the story was told, they sat in silence digesting the details. Leon was about to suggest that it was time for everybody to turn in when a thunderous roar came from the darkness.
‘What was that?’ Andrew Fagan was alarmed. ‘What in God’s name was that?’
‘That’s the lion we’re going to hunt tomorrow,’ said Kermit, offhandedly.
‘Another lion? Tomorrow?’
‘Yup.’
‘Mind if we tag along?’ Fagan asked, and Leon opened his mouth to refuse, but Kermit beat him to it.
‘Sure. Why not? You’re welcome, Mr Fagan.’