1974 Central Kalahari
The Kalahari grass scratched against Mike's skin as he inched forward, belly pressed to the parched earth. His Mauser 98 cradled close, its cold metal was a stark contrast to the blistering heat.
He shifted, uncomfortable, as something hard pressed against his hip.
The rock.
The rock he wished he and Starky had never found. From the moment Mike had slipped it into his pocket, it had become more than just a stone. It was a tantalising promise of opportunity. Or perhaps a curse.
A movement in the distance caught his attention. Squinting through the scope, Mike’s gaze locking onto a target: a young springbok that had strayed from its herd near a copse of camel thorn trees on the sunbaked savanna.
He sniffed, the acrid scent of wild sage filling his nostrils and mingling with the metallic tang of gun oil. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple.
The delicate creature wandered into his cross hairs and Mike spent a moment admiring it.
It wasn't the magnificent lion Starky had boasted he could fell with a single shot—the kind of senseless killing Mike had grown to hate—but it served his immediate purpose: dinner for their hungry hunting party. Last night's francolin had been slim pickings, and Mike had promised Philemon and Moses, the two Tswana camp hands, more than mealie pap tonight, though he wished he hadn't done so in front of his sister.
He brushed a damp lock of hair from his forehead, knowing he should pull the trigger.
Birdsong nearby was an enjoyable distraction as the afternoon heat shimmered off the sand, distorting the distant acacia trees into wavering mirages.
And his stomach rumbled, a reminder that they were all hungry.
The rifle's 24-inch barrel, tipped with a hooded front sight, promised accuracy at ranges that would make most hunters envious but Mike was not a born hunter. His hands trembled, his palms sweaty.
Repositioning himself, he peered through the scope, telling himself it was time.
With his finger resting lightly on the trigger guard, he tensed, ready to squeeze off a shot the moment the springbok stepped from behind the bush that now partially obscured it.
But then a Northern Black Korhaan burst from the grass nearby, its harsh call shattering the silence.
The springbok, however, remained unperturbed, its head down as it grazed.
Food. Evening was nearly upon them and time was running out. His sister's parting jibe was a reminder of the pressure he was under. "Show us what you're made of, Mike! I want to see who's the better hunter: You or Starky!"
Her words highlighted the competitive tension between the boys, which seemed only to have reared its ugly head with the inclusion of a female.
"Ach, man!" Mike muttered. Just as he was about to pull the trigger, an ostrich stepped into view, spooking the springbok. The antelope sprung to alertness, skittering back to a cluster of buck who scattered, their hooves kicking up small dust clouds that hung in the still air.
Sighing, Mike shifted, seeking a more comfortable position. The Kalahari sand grass tickled his upper lip, and he felt ants crawling up his khaki shorts. Ignoring the discomfort, he levelled his gun once more, searching for another target.
His patience was rewarded. A young impala, separated from its herd, grazed quietly just a few yards away. Mike's spirits lifted. This was more like it—he'd have a better chance at a clean shot.
But the buck suddenly seemed to sense danger. The melodic warning of a Grey Lourie—known colloquially as the ‘go-away’ bird’—perched in an umbrella tree nearby, was not helping.
Mike tensed as the buck raised its head and sniffed the air, but he was downwind. It could not smell him or his fellow hunters, Starky and Phil, who were somewhere out in the nearby bush, competing against each other to bag the first major kill. Not just to feed everyone in camp, but to impress Susan.
This hunting trip with his varsity friends should have been blokes-only but his kid sister, four years younger, knew just how to twist him round her little finger.
And their parents.
They’d pushed Susan’s argument that she could ‘help out’ in camp and ‘cook’ for her big brother and his two mates rather than be a burden to her ageing grandparents into whose care Susan would otherwise be placed while Ernest and Marjorie Jensen headed off to Plettenberg Bay to celebrate their twenty-third wedding anniversary that same week.
Mike’s camping trip, they said, would also be an opportunity for Mike and Susan to reacquaint themselves with their cousin, James, who was flying in from Australia with his girlfriend, Verity.
Girls on a hunting trip? Mike shook his head and the uncomfortable rock in his pocket dug into his hip once more as he adjusted his position.
This shouldn’t be just his and Starky’s secret. He needed to tell someone about it—perhaps his cousin James would know what to do, with his father’s connections to the diamond mine at Orapa.
The go-away bird was not letting up. Swallowing, Mike increased the tension in his right forefinger. He was ready. The impala was well positioned in bright sunlight beneath a cloudless sky. His stomach clenched both from hunger and anticipation.
He'd shot three guinea fowl this morning, but he had to provide something more substantial. Preferably something better than Starky could manage. Though they were the best of mates, times of tension always upped the rivalry between him and his old school chum. And lately, something had changed in Starky's eyes when they talked about the future—a hungry look that made Mike uneasy.
As for Phil, he'd be lucky to bag a stationary target at point-blank range. Phil, a hanger-on in his group of Cape Town Varsity friends, had been a ring-in after James and Verity had cancelled their Botswana visit at the last minute.
He knew this shot shouldn't matter so much, but the atmosphere had been poisoned by having a girl—no, a woman—hanging around, he thought as the barrel of his rifle trembled. Susan had been too busy making eyes at Starky to even fling together the remnants of a half-decent meal last night.
And Starky had been just as bad, encouraging her. Mike had seen the way his friend watched Susan when he thought no one was looking. The protective older brother in him wanted to say something, but the diamond complicated everything. Starky had been with him when he’d found it glinting on the Makgadigadi salt pans, but he wasn't sure he could trust him anymore.
Taking a deep breath, Mike lined up the impala in the cross hairs. He had a clear shot. It was now or never. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the savanna, and somewhere in the distance, a jackal called—nature's reminder that death was always present in the African bush.
Boom!
Mike leapt up, enraged, to see who had fired the shot.
He'd had that impala lined up beautifully, until someone else had popped off their gun, sending the entire herd fleeing in terror. The animals bounded away in perfect unison, their white rumps flashing like beacons in the golden light.
Furious, he scanned the area for the culprit. There was no other large game in the area. If Phil had fired off at a piddly francolin for dinner just as Mike was about to bag the impala, he'd be beyond furious.
He wouldn't put it past him. Quiet, weedy Phil wasn't a born hunter like Mike or Starky. Though lately, Mike had begun to wonder if being a “born hunter” was something to be proud of.
Now, as Mike scanned the plain, narrowing his focus onto a prone dark heap about fifty yards west, a familiar figure in khakis, rifle upon his shoulder, sauntered through the long grass towards the dead animal.
Not an impala they could eat. Not even a pathetic francolin or guinea fowl that would at least feed a couple of them.
Shouldering his weapon, Mike tore across the uneven veldt, clapping his hand upon Starky's shoulder to swing him round.
“You shot an ostrich, you bloody idiot!” He was more angry about this than the fact Starky had ruined his shot. “What the hell do you think you're doing? You know it's against the law!”
Although the likelihood of rangers patrolling the area was remote, violating the Fauna Conservation Act in this part of the Kalahari carried hefty fines. His father would be furious if he knew they were hunting with someone who showed such disregard for conservation laws.
“Rich pickings from a lucky misstep. It stumbled into my path as I was taking aim at a blerry warthog.”
Starky's propensity to make light of everything had been getting on Mike's nerves, lately, but this was the last straw.
“That's no excuse if you get caught.”
Starky shrugged. “Why don't you worry about feeding us like you promised? We're not here for much else now that your cousin can't make it,” he grumbled, his casual tone belied by the tension in his shoulders.
“That's not my fault—”
“No, but now what do we do with that lump of rock in your pocket?” He huffed out a breath and stared at the sky.
“It's probably worth nothing, anyway,” Mike muttered, his hands closing around it. “Maybe there's someone else we can ask who'll know what it is or what to do with it.”
“Just keep your lips zipped if you're around my light-fingered old man and don't breathe a word to yours either or he'll run straight to the authorities and we'll end up with sweet bloody nothing.” Starky gave a short laugh. “Tell you what, if you're so keen on getting rich, I'll give you a share of this,” he added, indicating the dead ostrich. “The feathers are worth a bit and I'm a generous bloke.” He crouched beside his kill, grinning. “These stupid birds have such tiny heads, but I got it through the brain from two hundred yards.”
Mike didn't respond to Starky's self-congratulation with anything more than a grunt. That hungry look was back in his friend's eyes, and for the first time, Mike felt real fear about what they'd discovered together.
Let Starky lug the bird back to camp on his own, he thought, turning away. It was an idiotic thing to do. But Starky had always been like that; behaved with complete disregard to everyone around him when he was in one of his moods. Yet the girls loved him! There seemed to be a different one hanging off his arm at every varsity lecture or event they attended.
Stomping back to camp, Mike tried not to begrudge Starky his charisma or his success with the ladies.
But just let him try it on with his sister, and Mike would tear him limb from limb with his own bare hands.
