Assegai

Almost three weeks later Leon sat behind the steering-wheel while, with an air of resignation, Manyoro took up his position in front of the truck and stood to attention. He had lost all faith in the eventual success of the manoeuvres he had performed repeatedly over the last three days. On the first day Percy Phillips and the entire camp staff, including the cook and the ancient skinners, had formed an attentive audience. Gradually they had lost interest and drifted away, one by one, until only the skinners were left, squatting on their haunches and following every move with rapt attention.

‘Retard the spark!’ Leon began the incantations to the gods of the internal combustion engine.

The two old skinners chanted after him, ‘Letaad de paak.’ They were word perfect.

Leon moved the spark control lever on the left-hand side of the steering-wheel to the upright position. ‘Throttle open.’

This one always tested the skinners’ powers of enunciation to the limit. ‘Frot le pen,’ was as close as they could get.

‘Handbrake on!’ Leon pulled it on.

‘Mixture rich!’ He rotated the control knob until the indicator pointed straight ahead.

‘Choke.’ He jumped out, ran to the front of the vehicle and pulled on the choke ring, then returned to the driver’s seat.

‘Manyoro, prime the carb!’ Manyoro stooped and swung the crank handle twice. ‘That’s enough!’ Leon warned him. ‘Choke off!’ He jumped out again, raced forward, pushed in the choke ring, then ran back to his seat.

‘Two more turns!’ Again Manyoro stooped and cranked the handle.

‘Carb primed! Power on!’ Leon turned the selector on the dashboard to ‘battery’ and looked to the heavens. ‘Manyoro, hit her again!’ Manyoro spat on his right palm, gripped the crank handle and swung it.

There was an explosion like a cannon shot and a spurt of blue smoke flew from the exhaust pipe. The crank handle kicked back viciously and knocked Manyoro off his feet. The two skinners were taken aback. They had not been expecting anything nearly as spectacular. They howled with fright and scuttled for the bushes beyond the camp. There was a shouted oath from Percy’s thatched bungalow on the first slope of the hill at the perimeter of the camp and he stumbled out on to the stoep in his pyjama bottoms, beard in disarray, eyes unfocused with sleep. He stared in momentary confusion at Leon, who was beaming with triumph behind the steering-wheel. The engine rumbled, shook and backfired, then settled down into a loud, clattering beat.

Percy laughed. ‘Let me get my trousers on, then you can drive me to the club. I’m going to buy you as much beer as you can drink. Then you can go out and find that elephant. I don’t want you back in this camp until you have him.’

Leon stood below the familiar massif of Lonsonyo Mountain. He pushed his slouch hat to the back of his head and moved the heavy rifle from one shoulder to the other. He gazed up at the crest of the mountain. It took his sharp young eye to pick out the single lonely figure on the skyline. ‘She’s waiting for us,’ he exclaimed in surprise. ‘How did she know we were coming?’

‘Lusima Mama knows everything,’ Manyoro reminded him, and started up the steep path towards the summit. He carried the waterbottles, the canvas haversack, Leon’s light .303 Lee-Enfield rifle and four bandoliers of ammunition. Leon followed him, and Ishmael brought up the rear, the skirts of his long white kanza flapping around his legs. An enormous bundle was balanced on his head. Before they had left Tandala Camp Leon had weighed it. It had come in at sixty-two pounds and contained Ishmael’s kitchen supplies, everything from pots and pans to pepper, salt and his own secret mixture of spices. With Leon providing a daily supply of tender young Tommy buck chops and steaks and Ishmael’s culinary skills they had eaten like princes since they had left the railway line at Naro Moru siding.

When they reached the mountaintop Lusima was waiting for them in the shade of a giant flowering seringa tree. She rose to her feet, tall and statuesque as a queen, and greeted them. ‘I see you, my sons, and my eyes are gladdened.’

‘Mama, we come for your blessing on our weapons and your guidance in our hunting,’ Manyoro told her, as he knelt before her.

The next morning the entire village gathered in a circle around the wild fig tree, the council tree, in the cattle pen to witness the blessing of the weapons. Leon and Manyoro squatted with them. Ishmael had refused to join in such a pagan ritual, and he clattered his pots ostentatiously over the cooking fire behind the nearest hut. Leon’s two rifles were laid side by side on a tanned lionskin. Beside them stood calabash gourds filled with fresh cow’s blood and milk, and baked-clay bowls of salt, snuff and glittering glass trade beads. At last Lusima emerged from the low door of her hut. The congregation clapped and began to sing her praises.