Читать книгу Chasing The Leopard Finding the Lion - Julie Wakeman-Linn - Страница 8

PROLOGUE Bumi Hills Lodge, Hwange, Zimbabwe, June 20, 1997

The rays of the setting sun blanketed the lodge roof, warming Brett Cunningham, his camera, and his beer. He focused on the acacia tree, hoping for a leopard, but the glare blinded him. “These rallies don’t change anything.”

“You’re wrong. This protest will be different.” Isaac Mtonga picked at the thatch. “I’ll find that telephoto lens you want. You should come with me.”

A big roan antelope entered the clearing, his horns casting a curved shadow upon the waterhole. Brett tracked it with his viewfinder as the roan dipped his head to the water’s edge. “Leave the government thugs to the city types. I’ll stay right here and film 20 hours a day.”

The water splashed. The roan’s head disappeared. Its chestnut body swayed, then the roan’s neck flung back, pulling up a crocodile hanging from his face. Brett kept them in focus, even though his foot slipped. A tug on his collar stopped him from sliding.

The croc hung on for two-three seconds, then dropped back into the water. The roan shook, shivering his whole body. Blood dripped down the white stripe markings of his face.

“Nasty attack.” Brett lowered his camera. “Thanks, Buddy.”

“We’d better stop at two beers if you’re going to ride the roof down to the lawn for every croc bite.” Isaac chuckled.

“Crocs will eat anything.” Brett aimed another shot as the roan staggered from the water’s edge. An infection from that injury would likely kill the big bull. “Do you have to go to Harare? You could get the boss his supplies in Bulawayo and be back quicker.” Brett drained his beer. “Maybe help me with filming.”

“You don’t get it. I want to go. We’d better get down to the lobby before the boss comes looking for us.” Isaac opened the roof’s hatch.

“This weekend will be perfect here. No tourists to be hauled around and coddled, so it’s just me and my Nikon.” Brett unzipped his bag and tucked in his camera.

“I might go see our dads,” Isaac dropped his feet onto the spiral staircase and waited; his shadow stretched all the way to the ridge pole.

“It’s out of your way. I’m not going near the farm, not so close to harvest. Damn back breaking work anyway.” Brett crawled across the roof, the smell of grass beckoning him to stay.

Isaac snorted “Lazy ass” as he descended the spiral staircase.

“Rabble-rousing fool,” Brett pulled the hatch shut behind them.

The sun, now an orange ball, dropped below the horizon. Leopards and lions were waking up to hunt in the cool night air. Impala, puku and zebras were finding thickets to hide in. The roan disappeared into the trees.