Short Story: Limpopo Legends

Short Story: Limpopo Legends

Marissa wishes that the British pound would devalue. She starts to put her hair up and reconsiders. No. What she really wants is for the South African rand to become stronger. That way she could be the rich traveller instead of the at-their-beck-and-call tour guide.

She looks in the mirror and adjusts the collar of her khaki shirt. The appeal of working in the bush is starting to wear off. She still loves the way the sky changes, the smell of the land, the exhilaration when they spot a cheetah in a tree or a leopard runs in front of the tour truck. What she hates is sharing this with the tourists, especially the British and Germans who compare everything to home and find it lacking. Why do they bother travelling?

Marissa picks up the itinerary and checks she has everything that she needs. Day Three. Only another two until she’ll be saying goodbye to the travellers and have one precious, free day all to herself before the next lot arrive, sweating and dazzled by the African sun.

Phil stares at the plate of food in front of him. “Do you think it’s ostrich?” his wife, Miriam, whispers.

“Ostrich? It’s bloody mince,” he hisses back.

They are sitting in the high-ceilinged dining room at Letaba rest camp in the Kruger Park. Phil knows it was a mistake to send Miriam to the buffet. He’s just waded his way through a bowl of something called maltebella which was more like wallpaper paste than the promised porridge. And now, he’s got a huge plateful of pale, scrambled egg in a sea of mince.

“Don’t they do fried bread?”

Miriam shakes her head, then looks at her watch. “You’d better eat quickly, we’re leaving in fifteen minutes. It’s Limpopo Legends today. And don’t forget your malaria tablet.”

“Right. Let’s just make sure no-one’s gone missing overnight.” Marissa counts heads, most of them balding or grey. “Lekker. Everyone here. So, Erik has looked at the game spotting boards and been on the radio to check what’s out there. We’re heading north and hopefully we’ll see some interesting game today. As we travel along, I’ll be telling you something of the rich heritage of this part of Africa. Today, it’s Limpopo Legends.”

She sits next to Erik who’s driving and turns to look at her crowd of travellers. Ten of them, on a package tour from the UK. All of them hanging on her every word. She’s bet 10 rand with Erik that the first of them will fall asleep within an hour.

“Maybe today.” Miriam pats Phil’s clammy hand. He grits his teeth. Three months before, he wouldn’t have given a toss. There was no way anyone would have dragged him to a zoo or a circus, let alone the wilds of Africa. But now…. now he’s got the bug. He has to see a lion before they leave the game park, or he’ll never be able to face folk back home.

It’s his own fault really. All those years of telling tales to while away the evening shift in the factory.

“Go on, Phil. It’s two hours to go. Tell us another.” Jim was usually the one who egged him on, but he knew the others enjoyed the break in monotony. They could still assemble parts and listen at the same time. Phil had been working there so long he didn’t even have to look at what he was doing, his hands were on automatic pilot and still quicker than all the rest.

Most times he told stories about the kids, or Miriam, some of the daft things they got up to. The day they locked themselves out and one of the boys climbed through the bathroom window setting off the alarm so that the police came round. Or the time that they went on holiday to Benidorm only to discover their next door neighbours were in the apartment opposite.

But one evening he’d started on a different tale. About when he was a nipper. How every Christmas Eve he and his family would visit his grandparents’ house. A fine old house on the corner of Edzell Terrace, with so many dark corners that he and his cousin could play hide and seek for hours. Except for the time that they ventured into the study, which was out of bounds.

That was where Phil saw the lion, its enormous head with that halo of a mane and snarling mouth sticking out above the fireplace. His cousin ran back to his mum, screaming but Phil was stuck to the spot. The eyes held him. The teeth drew his gaze. He could almost feel the warm breath on his face. His grandfather came in and took him back to the livingroom with its brightly-lit tree and candles along the mantelpiece, but that wasn’t the end of it.

“Problem was, that bloody beast gave me such a turn I wet myself, didn’t I!”

The lads roared with laughter. Phil sent another finished unit along the conveyor belt.

“Eight years old. I was mortified. New shorts for Christmas, soaked, and nothing to change into. Ended up in an old blanket smelling of mothballs. And I vowed, one day, I’ll come face to face with a live one of you. I’ll look into your eyes and this time I won’t piss my pants.”

To be honest, Phil had forgotten about sharing this with his workmates until the night of his leaving do.

“Go on, open it. It’s what you’ve always wanted.” Jim’s face was beaming with drink and excitement when he handed Phil the envelope. Miriam stood beside him, her arms full of flowers.

Phil was hoping for a leisurely cruise round the Norwegian fjords, same as old McIntosh in quality control. It certainly felt like tickets or gift vouchers. But when he ripped open the envelope, he found two tickets for a safari holiday in South Africa.

“You’ll get to see your lion at last, eh, Phil?” Jim slapped him on the back. “Must be a dream come true.”

Marissa flicks through her hand-written notes and the well-thumbed book on her knee. The stories about the area are a godsend on days when there’s not much game about. Like today. It makes her smile, the way the tourists take dozens of photos of impala the minute they’re through the park gate, never realising that they’re as common as cows or sheep.

Yesterday, as well as impala, they saw elephant, giraffe, hippo, zebra and kudu. She pointed out a fish eagle, a giant owl and even a kori bustard strutting its way across the veld before flying off. But these people aren’t interested in birds. It’s the Big Five as seen on the tea towels, mugs and t-shirts in the rest camp shops that they want, and number one on their game-spotting list is always lion.

Marissa turns on her microphone and switches on her smile with its matching, up-beat voice. “Right, folks. Ahead on our right is a strange-looking tree.”

Nine sets of eyes turn right. Phil, the red-faced man at the back must be dozing behind his sunglasses already. Marissa gestures towards the sleeping figure slumped in the seat. Erik winks. He’s not mentioned his girlfriend for over a week. Maybe Marissa will accept his nightly offer of a sundowner when she collects her winnings.

“The branches look very strange, don’t you think?” she continues. “A bit like roots. It’s a baobab tree and there are many legends associated with this. It’s said that when the world was young, baobabs were proud and haughty, lording it over other plants and trees. The gods didn’t like this and uprooted them, thrusting the trees back into the ground, roots upwards. According to legend, evil spirits now haunt baobabs, but they are supposed to have some good qualities as well. Some tribes wash baby boys in water soaked in their bark, believing it will help them to grow up mighty and strong.”

Marissa takes a sip of water and notices several on the bus do the same. She has warned them about dehydration in the heat, wishes she got commission on sales of bottled water. If they had a big coolbox, she would buy in bulk, sell on at a profit, but the open-sided bus is so basic there’s room for the first aid kit, gun and essential tools only. She turns back to her notes.

“The baobab tree is also associated with lions. It’s said that they love the sweet smell of the creamy white blossoms. Because of this, if you pick the flowers it may well increase your chances of seeing lion.” A couple behind her nudge each other. “Only one problem, the legend also tells that if you take the flowers, you will be killed by a lion – so maybe not the best thing to do,” she adds, pleased to see that at least some people respond with a smile.

The warning bark of baboons cuts through the rumble of the truck engine. Erik pulls over. Marissa scans the bush, then points towards the river.

“Listen to the baboons. They’ve spotted danger,” she says into the microphone. “Look at the mothers scoop up their little ones and carry them into the trees.” There’s a rush of cameras and videos.

“To our left. It looks like a log floating downriver, but the markings, that S-shaped curve – it’s a crocodile.”

Now everyone’s awake and desperate to get a good view. They watch as the crocodile approaches the bank, lies like driftwood for a moment, then edges towards the bushes. Some baboons climb higher in the trees, disappearing into shadows.

The tourists watch, hardly breathing, then there’s a group gasp as the crocodile yawns, revealing vicious teeth. Lenses zoom in, shutters click. The crocodile is captured, ready to be shown in a Portobello kitchen, a hair salon in Aberdeen and to a bored child in a doctor’s waiting room in Finchley. Unaware of its celebrity status, the crocodile closes its mouth and become motionless. After five minutes, two baboons leap to neighbouring trees and start looking for food.

The retired college lecturer in the front row of the truck rewinds his video film and shows the footage to his wife. Miriam picks up her Take a Break Summer Special and returns to the wordsearch. Phil yawns and checks his watch.

“Time to move on,” Marissa says. “Unless we spot some more game, we’ll aim to stop in half an hour. In the meantime, let me tell you some more about crocodiles.”

“I didn’t know there were so many kinds.” Miriam puts the tray on the table. “I got you a grape Fanta and I’m trying lemon. The orange doesn’t seem the same as we get back home, and they’ve got Irn Bru but they spell it differently.” She sits heavily in a chair. She and Phil are in the shade but it’s as hot as when she opens her oven door to take out the Yorkshires. Phil looks at her ankles, so swollen they hang over the straps of her sandals. And this is called a holiday. He wipes his forehead and wishes for a cooling sea fret.

Miriam sucks Fanta through her straw. “Quite nice. Refreshing. Our Kevin would like this.” She drinks again. Stops and looks at a nearby table where birds are pecking at a half-eaten sandwich. Gazes beyond the wooden terrace.

“There’s one of them trees,” she says. Phil grunts. “The upside down ones. Baobab.” Miriam sips her drink. “The ones the lions like.”

Phil gulps on his drink so the fizz bubbles into his nostrils. “Sorry?”

“I just said. That tree, the upside down one. That’s the one Marissa told us about, that the lions like.”

“I didn’t hear that.”

Miriam rattles the ice in her glass. “That’s because you were asleep. Just as well we’re not relying on you as our game spotter.”

“So what’s the connection with lions?” Phil moves closer.

Miriam shrugs. “Just some legend. Lions love the flowers. She said something about lions tracking them down. The flowers, I mean. If you take them.”

Phil waits until Miriam goes to the ladies, then makes his move, wandering out towards the perimeter fence, binoculars in his hands. He approaches the baobab tree, looks up at its gnarled branches, then swears as the plastic lens cover drops to the ground.

Phil has no idea whether it’s against park rules to pick up fallen blossoms. He takes a clean handkerchief from his pocket, places the delicate petals between the folds of cotton, then makes an exaggerated movement to pick up the circle of plastic. He’s back at the table before Miriam reappears and suggests they buy some more postcards.

Marissa lets the cool water run over her. She wishes she had some perfumed shower gel left. The standard lozenge of soap feels harsh on her skin. At least she has scented body lotion to smooth on afterwards. As she dresses, she glances at her travel clock. The tourists will be at dinner now. Then they have free time to shop, to drink in the bar, to walk inside the locked camp, and to marvel at how quickly the African sky loses its light.

She takes extra care getting ready, uses a wet finger to slick down a stray hair in her eyebrow. Of course, she’s just meeting Erik for a drink to pass the time, she tells herself. Nothing more.

Flashlight. Camera. Flowers. Everything ready. All he needs now is to get himself out of the hut before Miriam wakes up and ruins everything.

Phil eases himself off the bed and tiptoes towards the door. That’s one good thing, not having any locks on the rondavels. No keys to fiddle about with. He’d been a bit sceptical when they arrived, but now he’s pleased. It’s good to stay in a place where they trust people.

The heat of the evening is another thing in his favour. Even though he sweltered through the day and longed to be back in Scotland in the cold and grey, now he’s happy with the temperature. It means Miriam has put the air conditioning on maximum. It sounds like the ferry they took down the Clyde. He could probably tap dance across the tiled floor and she’d not even stir. Hopefully, by the time the alarm goes off at 5am for their game drive, he’ll be back in bed with proof that he’s seen a living lion.

Phil shakes his head. This is what his story telling has brought him to. Traipsing out of the round, thatched hut where his wife lies sleeping, out into the African bush, well, as close as the electrified perimeter fence will let him.

Phil is beginning to hate lions. The rest of the wildlife has been amazing. Elephants bigger than he ever expected, giraffes graceful and strangely agile, the antics of baboons. One of them even left a mark of its, well, its private parts on the window of a car in front. He’d taken a good look when their tour truck stopped at the same rest camp for lunch, marvelled at the size.

The snatched glance of a leopard had been thrilling, and Phil even enjoyed seeing the endless herds of zebra and impala at the side of the road. But no lions.

Every evening he’s rushed into the rest camp and looked at the spotting reports. Some jammy sod wrote that his car had been surrounded by lions, complete with cubs. Another sighting had been just ten minutes before they’d travelled along the same road.

“It’s just the luck of the day,” Marissa had told him. “There are lions all round this area. Maybe tomorrow, on our way out of the park. You might see some then.”

Might. If it was left to him he’d just tell another tale, say that the pictures hadn’t turned out. But the problem is Miriam. The moment they get back home and go to the social club, everyone will know. His workmates paid for his trip of a lifetime and he didn’t see a single lion. But now the little flowers rest in his camera bag. There’s still hope.

The moment Marissa shuts the door and switches on the bedside light she regrets it. They should have gone back to Erik’s room. None of the tourists would beat a path to the driver’s hut in an emergency. It’s only happened once before, her being wakened in the middle of the night, but it’s a risk she shouldn’t be taking, them being found together. Or maybe she’s rushing ahead of things.

She looks at Erik, takes in the way he’s filled their glasses to the brim, his smile as he pats the bed and invites her to sit next to him. I’ll sleep next to the door, she thinks, just before he leans across and kisses her.

Phil reaches the perimeter fence, then stops. Now what should he do? He shines his torch into the bush. Nothing. No eyes glow back. He hears low voices filtering through the open windows of nearby rondavels, the rasp of crickets and an owl’s call. Phil takes the flowers from his bag and waves them in the night air, then follows the path to the left.

Marissa gasps. Now she wishes she’d accepted Erik’s offer of a sundowner at the start of the season. She lies back, feels a cry bubbling up inside her, opens her mouth and lets it fly.

What was that? Phil’s back stiffens and he turns towards the camp, wonders if the cry was human. He waits, but nothing else disturbs the night-time sounds. Just as he’s about to continue walking, he spots the burning stare from the bushes.

It’s a female. He’d hoped for a male with its thick mane, but what does it matter? It’s a lion. A real lion. Much bigger than he expected, but on the other side of the fence, which is, of course, the right side as far as Phil’s concerned. He rests the flashlight on a rock, then slowly takes the camera from the bag that’s round his neck. Phil doesn’t notice the flowers fall to the ground, the way the lion’s eyes follow their journey.

He checks the flash. It’s auto-focus, idiot-proof the shop assistant had said, but he’ll take a few just in case. Through the lens, the beast looks even more impressive, her teeth bigger, jaws more powerful. Her roar hurts Phil’s ears as she rushes towards him.

“Yes, baby, yes, yes.” Erik’s muscled body is pumping pleasure into Marissa. She’s exhausted, but she doesn’t want him to stop. She’s lost count of the waves that start as ripples, knows he can feel the change in her body and in her breathing.

“Yes, baby, yes, yes. Just let go,” he whispers. And she does.

Phil’s finger is frozen on the button. The lion’s roar has turned him to stone. A paw bigger than his face pushes on the fence. Thick claws hook around the wire. A second angry roar. Phil can smell damp breath, wants to run but nothing moves. Ice or burning spreads through his body, he can’t tell which. A wetness down his legs. The camera falls to the ground. The lion grows a mane. The ground is rushing up. Everything is dark.

Marissa presses the end button on her cell phone and heads back to truck. Eric raises his eyebrows, waiting for her news. She notices his swollen lips, eases herself carefully into the seat beside him.

“Still critical. They’ll do more tests today.”

Erik smiles and squeezes her hand. She squeezes back and wonders why she never noticed his well-toned body before, those tanned, muscled arms as he drives. Maybe there is a God after all and her night with Erik was part of his plan. After all, if Erik had been in his own bed on the other side of the camp, he wouldn’t have heard Phil’s cry and run out to help.

Marissa felt proud when she joined the crowd watching Erik carry out CPR. Of course, there will be forms to fill in, questions to be answered, but at least the man is still alive.

“How’s he doing?” Jim edges round the hospital door, a bunch of flowers in his hand. “I didn’t bring grapes,” he tells Miriam. “Didn’t think he’d…”

“You did the right thing.” Miriam gives him a hug. “He wouldn’t be able to eat them. Still paralysed, but the doctors have been marvellous, and so were the holiday people. Getting him transferred back to Edinburgh has been a godsend. I’m sure it’ll help with his recovery.”

Jim sits in the chair by the bed and looks at Phil with his wires and drips. “Can I talk to him?”

Miriam nods. “He can’t reply, but the doctors say he can probably understand what we’re saying.”

Jim leans over the bed. “Nice to have you back,” he yells.

“Best not to shout, Jim. It disturbs the man next door.”

“Oh, sorry.” Jim touches Phil’s arm. “Sorry to hear about what happened. Imagine, all that way and never seeing a lion.”

“I know.” Miriam takes out a packet of photographs. “But I’ve got a lovely picture of Phil sitting on an ostrich.”

Jim looks at the photo and laughs. He and Miriam move to the window and start flicking through the photos.

Damn you, woman. That’s a hellish picture. You made me do it and you show it to every bloody person that comes through that door. Phil’s head is bursting with angry words that he can’t spit out. They’re all lined up like bullets at the end of his tongue. He tries to move his lips but nothing happens.

Jim shakes his head and puts the photos back in the wallet. “But no lions.”

Yes, you damn fools. I did see a lion. I did. It was closer to me than you are now. I smelt its breath. I looked into its eyes. Phil’s pulse is a drum. I have to let them know. Get the bloody words out. Yes! Yes! I saw it!

Phil feels the mechanical rise of his chest. His lips tremble and open, there is air in his mouth. Just before Jim and Miriam’s voices fade away, he raises his head and roars.