The Last Savanna by Mike Bond
Publication Date: January 15, 2014 by Mandevilla Press
Description from Goodreads:
With Africa's last
elephants dying under the poachers' guns, Kenya rancher and former SAS
officer Ian MacAdam leads a commando squad against them. Pursuing the
poachers through jungled mountains and searing deserts he battles
thirst, solitude, terror and lethal animals, only to find that the
poachers have kidnapped a young archaeologist, Rebecca Hecht, whom he
once loved and bitterly lost.
McAdam embarks upon a desperate
trek to save not only Rebecca but his own soul in an Africa torn apart
by wars, overpopulation, and the slaughter of its last wildlife. Based
on the author's experiences pursuing elephant poachers in the wilds of
East Africa
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THE ELAND DESCENDED four steps down the grassy hillside and halted. He glanced all the way
round the rolling golden hills, then closer, inspecting the long grass rippling
in the wind, behind him, on both sides, and down to the sinuous green traverse
of acacia, doum palms and strangler trees where the stream ran. The wind from
the east over his shoulder carried the tang of drying murram grass and the
scents of bitter pungent shrubs, of dusty, discarded feathers and glaucous
lizard skins, of red earth and brown earth, of old scat and stones heating in
the midafternoon sun. He switched at flies with his tail, twitched his ears,
descended five more steps, and stopped again.
|
Thirst
had dried his lips and eyes, tightened his throat, hardened his skin. Already
the rain was drying out of the grass and soil pockets; here only the stream
remained, purling between volcanic stones, rimmed by trees and tall, sharp
weeds. He circled a thorn bush and moved closer several steps, his spiral gray
horns glinting as he looked up and down the valley from north to west, then
south, then up the slope behind him.
The
shoulder-high thorn bushes grew thicker near the stream. The downslope breeze
twirled their strong, dusty scents among their gnarled trunks; the sour smell
of siafu, warrior ants, prickled his
nose. He waited for the comforting twitter of sunbirds in the streamside
acacias, the muffled snuffling of warthogs, or the swish of vervet monkeys in
the branches, but there were none.
Licking
his dry nose with a black tongue he raised his head and again sniffed round the
wind, batting at flies with his ears, dropped his jaw and panted. There was
truly no bad smell, no danger smell, but the wind was coming down the valley
behind him and to get upwind he’d have to cross the stream and there was no way
except through the thorn and commiphora
scrub, which was where the greatest danger lay. He glanced back over his
shoulder, gauging the climb necessary to regain the ridge and travel into the
wind till he could descend the slope at a curve in the stream and keep the wind
in his face. The sun glinting on the bleached grass, bright stones and red
earth hurt his eyes; he sniffed once more, inhaled deeply, expanding the drum
of thin flesh over his ribs, and shoved into the thorn scrub.
A
widowbird exploded into flight from a branch on the far side of the stream and
the eland jumped back, trembling. The sound of the stream pealing and chuckling
coolly over its rocks made his throat ache. The heat seemed to buzz like
cicadas, dimming his eyes. Shaking flies from his muzzle, he trotted through
the scrub and bent his head to suck the water flashing and bubbling over the
black stones.
The
old lioness switched her tail, rose from her crouch and surveyed the eland’s
back over the top of the thorn scrub. She had lain motionless watching his
approach and now her body ached to move; the eland’s rutty smell made her
stomach clench and legs quiver. She ducked her head below the scrub and padded
silently to the stream, picked her way across its rocks without wetting her
paws and, slower now, slipped a step at a time through the bush and crouched
behind a fallen doum palm part way up the slope behind the eland, only her ears
visible above it.
Far
overhead a bearded vulture wavered in its flight, tipping on one wing, and
turned in a wide circle. The eland raised his head, swallowing, glanced round;
water dripping from his lips spattered into the stream. He shivered the flies
from his back, bent to drink, raised his head, water rumbling in his belly. He
turned and scanned the slope behind and above him; this was where he’d
descended and now the wind was in his face and there was still no danger smell.
His legs felt stronger; he licked his lower lip that already seemed less rough
from the water filling his body. He trotted back through the thorn scrub past
the fallen doum palm, bolting at the sudden yellow flash of terror that impaled
him on its fierce claws, the lioness’ wide jaws crushing his neck as he
screamed crashing through the bush. With one paw the lioness slapped him to the
ground but he lurched up and she smashed him down again, her fangs ripping his
throat, choking off the air as his hooves slashed wildly, and the horror of it
he knew now and understood, dust clouding his eye, the other torn by thorns;
the flailing of his feet slackened as the sky went red, the lioness’ hard body
embracing him, the world and all he had ever known sliding into darkness.
The
lioness sighed and dropped her head, the stony soil hurting her jaw. After a
few moments she began to lick the blood seeping from the eland’s throat and
mouth and the shoulder where her claws had torn it, then turned and licked her
left rear leg where one of the eland’s hooves had made a deep gash. Settling
herself more comfortably among the thorn bushes, she stripped back the skin
along the eland’s shoulder, licking and gnawing at the blood and warm flesh
beneath.
Crackling
in the brush made her lay back her ears; she rumbled softly, deep in her
throat. Heavy footsteps splashed through the stream and she growled louder, her
rope tail switching. The male lion came up to the eland, lifted his lip and
snarled.
Still
growling she backed away slightly, lowering her head to grip the eland’s
foreleg. The male sniffed the eland’s shoulder, crouched, ears back, and began
to chew it. Then, gripping the shoulder in his jaw, he dragged the animal
sideways, the lioness crawling after it, still holding the leg. Baring his
teeth, the male leaned across the eland’s shoulder, bit down on the foreleg and
pulled the eland over to get at its belly and flanks. Carefully the lioness
edged round the carcass, reaching tentatively for a rear leg. With a roar the
male flicked out a huge, flat paw that caught the side of her head. Her neck
snapped loudly and the lioness tumbled back into the thorn brush, one rear paw
trembling briefly.
The
Samburu warrior rose from his hiding place among the rocks high up the slope,
stretched his stiff legs and picked up his spear. From the shade he watched the
lion’s thick black-maned head burrow into the eland’s belly. Since dawn, when
the Samburu had begun watching the two lions, the young male and old female,
they had mated nearly three times ten, but now he had killed her, giving the
Samburu a possible solution to the problem that had been bothering him all day.
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