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Prose

This is the Winning Entry in the "Prose" Writing Category. This entry is also the over all winner, having received the highest number of votes in the competition! Congratulations to Murray Walker!

pro24:Jackal-berry and Sage

by Murray Walker

Dumisa hugged the branch with sweaty arms and legs. She was about five meters up in the Jackal-berry and it seemed she would be safe there. Her older sister, Angelina, had not been so lucky. In their family of five, Dumisa was the athlete and Angelina was the reader. Her blistered feet and plump ankles had not carried her fast enough and Dumisa had easily outrun her like she had always done. And while Dumisa scrambled up the tree, the lion made its kill. It was a sickly, old male that had not eaten in two weeks. Dumisa had watched her sister’s body become still and heard her last breath disappear into the dry air. She was too afraid to do anything, but sob and hug the branch of the Jackal-berry.

Venus glittered above the pink horizon and then hurried after the sun as if afraid of the dark African night. An hour had passed and the lion was content for now. He moved on to a nearby waterhole. Dumisa immediately dropped from her place of refuge and scattered the lurking clan of hyena. Her fear dissolved into anger and she stood by her sister flinging stones and wielding thorny sticks at the scavengers. The vultures flapped to safe perches where the stones could not reach them. But the hyena had waited patiently for their share and they were not that easily deterred. They circled around her taking turns to lunge forward and then scamper back knowing that eventually the reward would come. Dumisa was exhausted and overwhelmed. She knew that it was just a matter of time, and yet she forced herself to battle on, so determined was she that her sister would not be touched.

A car engine, a gunshot and then a white face emerged from the darkness. The hyenas ran off and Dumisa collapsed at the foot of the Jackal-berry. The face belonged to Hennie Viljoen, a Kruger warden. He surveyed the scene and then asked: “What the hell happened here?” Dumisa replied boldly: “The lion killed my sister and I was protecting her from those dogs.”
“You mean hyena,” Hennie corrected. “Listen, I’ve got a bag in the bakkie. We’ll put your sister in there.” Under the light of a torch and a crescent moon, Hennie and Dumisa placed Angelina’s remains in a black bag that was used for these purposes. When all was finished Hennie said: “Now you come with me. You sleep at the camp tonight and then tomorrow morning I’ll take you to the police station.” Dumisa obeyed by climbing into the bakkie and the two trundled along bumpy roads to Hennie’s camp.

In his little kitchen Hennie gave Dumisa water and bread with butter and jam. She slouched at the table and scoffed the bread down, gulping down water between mouthfuls.
“What’s your name?” He asked and she told him.
“What’s your age?” He asked again.
“Seventeen.”
Hennie noticed an ornate ring on her right hand. “That’s a pretty ring. Where did you get that?”
“My grandmother gave it to me before she died.”
“That’s nice.” He poured himself a cup of coffee and then sat down. “What village are you from?”
“Macandezulo.”
“Jislaaik! That’s far,” Hennie exclaimed. “You know you people from Mozambique are crazy. Don’t you know it’s dangerous to walk in the bush?” The girl sat silently and buttered more bread. Hennie continued: “I see people like you all the time, sometimes dead, sometimes alive. Everyone says you come because there’s no jobs in your country, but you know what? Getting eaten by lions doesn’t help you find work. I don’t care how many jobs there are in South Africa.” Dumisa put her bread on the plate as the tears fell down her muddy cheeks. “Sorry, hey. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry about your sister. Please don’t cry. I just don’t like using those black bags. Why don’t you wash your face in the sink over there,” he said pointing to the bathroom.

When Dumisa returned to the kitchen, she stood looking at Hennie with resolute eyes. Finally she said: “I don’t want to go to the police station. Please take me to the truck stop at Phalaborwa.”
“No way,” Hennie replied and jumped up. “You crazy asking me something like that. It’s my job to catch you people, not help you across.”
“But my family depends on me,” she knelt down and groveled at his feet. “Please, please. I have to cross the park. It’s our only chance.”
“Stop that, stop that,” he instructed walking backwards, away from her reach. “Listen, it’s not my problem if you people have no jobs? Coming here is not the answer.” “Then what should I do?” She asked.
“I don’t know. Just don’t come here.” From a cupboard next to the fridge he pulled out a blanket. “Here,” he said dropping it next to her. “You can sleep on the couch. Tomorrow we leave early. And don’t try run away, there are lots of lions out there and you won’t see a damn thing.” Hennie went to his room and slammed the door. Dumisa was left alone still kneeling on the kitchen floor. Her head hung low and her bloodshot eyes stared blankly at the cold tiles.

At 5am Hennie got up and put on his khaki uniform. He used the toilet, got his rifle and then walked through to the living area. The couch was empty and the front door was ajar. “Shit!” He cursed. “That bloody brave fool.” He went outside. Dumisa had not taken the car because she could not find the keys. Hennie looked at her fresh tracks and then walked after her. She could not have gotten far. The morning air was fresh and cool with the sweet hint of sage. A family of Franklin cackled and skittered under a bush as Hennie approached. And further away to the right a herd of impala frolicked in the dew-drenched grass. Hennie loved the mornings, but he could not appreciate its beauty on this day. His mind was keenly focused on the tracks left by Dumisa’s takkies and he followed them at a swift pace. If he could just catch her in time. Then looking up, about a hundred meters ahead he saw what he feared most. The symbol of death in the bush – a vulture perched on a dead tree. The four chambers of his heart suddenly burst into overdrive. Deep red blood pumped into his running muscles. His legs and arms powered him forward. His feet pounded the undergrowth. He ran as though he were being chased by the man-eater. His rifle was at the ready as he came around the tree. The vulture flew off.

It was over. He was too late. The same lion had found her and she had run like the wind to get away. Like before, she had scrambled up a tree, but this time it was not a Jackal-berry. She could not get high enough and she had been pulled down. The man-eater made the kill and sauntered off when he was finally full - the taste of sweet human blood fresh on his lips. The hyena then got their share. There was no one to fight them off, not this time. They had moved on and the only animal left was a lone jackal that was licking the grass before it too slinked away. Hennie would return with a black bag and gather what he could, but first he had to find the lion. As he looked around for tracks with the rising sun on his back, his eyes caught a glint of something on the sand. He bent down and picked up Dumisa’s ring and put it in his pocket.

The man-eater was lounging in bushy shade, his belly fat and bloated. Hennie approached up-wind of him, got into position and shot him where he lay. Then he wandered back to his camp and radioed through what had occurred. He spent the rest of the morning digging two deep graves in his backyard. Dumisa and her sister were placed in them, the graves were covered up and Hennie said a single prayer for the both of them. He then climbed in his bakkie and headed east.

He had not been traveling long when the radio crackled and the voice of the chief warden came across. “Hennie, are you there?”
Hennie answered: “Ja Chief.”
“What are you doing now? A tourist ran out of petrol near Letaba Camp. You need to take him a litre of petrol.”
“Chief, I’m going to the eastern perimeter. There’s a hole in the fence that I need to fix.”
“Forget about the hole,” he squalled. “Go and help the tourist. It’s your sector.”
“Listen Chief, you can fire me if you want, you can even shoot me, but I’m going to fix that hole if it’s the last thing I do. You tell that bloody tourist to piss in his petrol tank.”
“Bliksem Hennie!” The man shouted. “What the hell’s got into you? Okay, fine, I’ll get Willie to do it. You go and fix your hole if it means that much to you.”

Hennie knew more or less where the hole would be and he found it easily enough. He took his tools and a coil of wire from the back of his bakkie and got to work. Then he paused and thought for a moment. He put the items back in the bakkie, retrieved his backpack, crawled through the hole and walked in the direction of Dumisa’s village. He did not know where Dumisa lived, but he had a feeling that her ring would help him get there. He was right, for on the street he found a trinket vendor and its owner recognized the ring. “That’s Dumisa’s ring,” he said. “When her grandmother gave it to her, she brought it to me. I made it smaller so it would fit her finger. Why do you have it?”
“Please, tell me where she lives,” Hennie said.
“Why do you want to know? Who are you?” The old man inquired.
“Please, it’s important, you must tell me where she lives. It’s okay, I promise,” Hennie pleaded.
The old man hesitated and then obliged him. “It’s down that alley, number 45.”
“Thank you.”

When Hennie found the house and told Dumisa’s mother and father what had happened, he wished he’d never become a Kruger warden and had rather gone into accounting like his brother. The grief of her parents was too much and it shook him deeply. He found himself welling up and it took all he had to contain the emotion. The three of them sat at the table drinking tea. A grieving mother, a grieving father and a shell-shocked Kruger warden who couldn’t quite understand how he’d been swept up by fate and thrown down into their kitchen. A baby’s cry came from the back room and Dumisa’s mother got up to tend to him. “That’s Dumisa’s baby brother”, the father said. “Sometimes he’s hot and sometimes he’s cold. We don’t know what’s wrong with him.” Hennie got up and walked through to where the mother was rocking the baby. “Can I take a look at the boy?” He asked. The mother nodded and Hennie bent down and touched the toddler’s forehead. The skin felt clammy. “Your boy has malaria,” Hennie said as he took off his backpack and pulled out the first aid kit. “Here, he must take one of these everyday otherwise he will die.” The mother took the tablets “Now I must go. I will come back in a week to make sure he’s alright.” He shook hands with them both and just before he left he turned and said: “Dumisa was the bravest person I ever met.” And then he was gone.

Hennie twisted the last piece of wire into place and then stood back from the fence. ‘No one is getting through this hole again,’ he thought to himself. The crackle of the radio made him hurry back to his bakkie. It was the chief warden again. “Hennie, did you fix the fence?”
“Ja Chief.”
“Some illegals have been spotted on the kopie near your camp. If you’re busy I’ll get Willie to sort it out.”
“No Chief. Tell Willie to go home. I’ll do it.”
“Good.”
Hennie put the bakkie in gear and he headed west toward his sector. He was going to do his job. He took Dumisa’s ring from his pocket and placed it on his left pinkie. With the window open the hot afternoon air rushed around his face and a hint of sage kissed his cheek. He loved that scent and he breathed it in deeply.