James Chase: Vulture Is a Patient Bird

He hadn’t been sleeping for more than a few minutes when out of the jungle came the hyena. It sniffed the ground, paused, then cocked its head on one side as it eyed the fallen tree. Making a silent, wide detour, it slunk around to the other side of the tree where Fennel was sleeping.

The hyena hadn’t eaten for two days and it was half mad with hunger, but although there was a meal before it for the taking, it was too cowardly as yet to attack. It sank down, its muzzle resting on its paws and stared with gleaming red eyes at the sleeping man.

Unhappily for Fennel, he was so exhausted, he slept the sleep of the dead, neither making a sound nor moving. After half an hour of watching the hyena finally convinced itself that there was no danger for a hit and run attack.

It hunched its hind legs, lifted itself and struck.

Fennel was awakened by such intense pain that he was screaming out as he opened his eyes. He half started up, but the pain raging in his legs absorbed all his strength and he fell back, his fists pounding the sides of his head as the rising pain drove him frantic. Looking down, he was horrified to see that where his right calf had been there was now only a mess of blood and splintered bone. He could even see the white of his shin bone where the fleshy part of his calf had been ripped away.

Sobbing and moaning, he looked frantically around and he saw the hyena some ten metres from him, its muzzle bloodstained as it chewed the lump of flesh.

Blood was pouring from the terrible wound and Fennel realized if someone didn’t come to his help at once, he would be dead in a few minutes. Already faintness was gripping him. Gathering his remaining strength, he yelled, “Help!” at the top of his voice.

The shout echoed through the jungle. Startled, the hyena dashed into the undergrowth and released its horrible laughing howl.

Fennel tried to shout again, but only succeeded in making a croaking sound that carried no distance. The agony raving through his body brought unconsciousness near. The blood pouring from his wound attracted a swarm of flies which were now excitedly buzzing around the fast growing pool of blood.

Fennel was now too weak to do anything but lie flat, shuddering and moaning with pain. He could see outlined against the grey clouds, a number of vultures circling overhead. He watched them drop into a nearby tree one by one and peer down at him speculatively.

He didn’t see the hyena creeping on its belly towards him. He was only aware of it when he felt a sudden rush, smelt decay as the beast pounced on him, then a blinding pain as the sharp, powerful jaws and teeth bit through the top of his shorts and disembowelled him.

Ngomane, a magnificently built Zulu, had once worked on the Kahlenberg estate, but there had been woman trouble and he had been dismissed.

Before his dismissal, Ngomane had been one of the forty guards patrolling the jungle on the look-out for unwelcomed visitors and poachers. He knew the jungle as he knew the back of his hand and after his dismissal, he pondered how he could earn a living. He decided that as there were many crocodiles on Kahlenberg’s estate and as he knew where to find them and as the other guards were sympathetic about his dismissal, it would be safe and profitable, from time to time, to kill a few of the reptiles and sell their skins to the white storekeeper in Mainville who never asked questions and paid well.

Ngomane was trotting silently along the jungle track, having just entered from the south boundary and was heading for the river, when he heard Fennel’s frantic cry for help. He stopped abruptly, fingering his ancient rifle, looking uneasily in the direction of the sound. Then curiosity getting the better of caution, he moved into the jungle and in a few moments he had found what was left of Fennel.

Garry walked slowly along the river bank, keeping in the shade where possible, his eyes searching the ground before him for snakes and signs of hidden crocodiles.

He had decided that without a compass it would be inviting disaster to attempt to reach the boundary exit through the jungle. He remembered that the relief map in Kahlenberg’s office had shown that after the river had passed the boundary of the estate, it continued on for some twenty kilometres to pass through a small town. Although he would be faced with a walk at least twice as long as the direct south route through the jungle, he knew if he could keep going, he could not lose his way and with any luck would not encounter swamp land and be forced to make exhausting detours.

On the other hand he exposed himself to attack from crocodiles and he could be more easily spotted if the Zulus had got this far up the river. But weighing the pros and cons, he finally opted for the river route.

He was feeling depressed and weary. He had committed Gaye’s body to the river and had watched it float away into the darkness. He had hated the task, but he had no tool to dig a grave. Having seen her on her way, he had gone into the jungle and laid down. He had slept badly, dreaming of her and had started his walk soon after 05.00 hrs.

He had been walking now for four hours, not moving quickly, but steadily, carefully pacing himself to conserve his strength. He was hungry and thirsty. From time to time, he moistened his lips with the foul river water, but refrained from drinking it. He had four packs of cigarettes in his rucksack, and by continually smoking, he took the edge off his hunger and kept the mosquitoes at bay.

As he walked, he wondered how far Fennel had got by now. By the time he himself reached Mainville — if he ever reached it — Fennel would be on his way to Johannesburg. Garry was sure Fennel would immediately fly to London, hand over the ring, collect his share and then disappear. Garry wondered if Shalik would pay him his share once Shalik had the ring: he probably wouldn’t. It didn’t matter, Garry told himself. Thanks to Gaye, he was now worth $100,000. With such sum, he could take the course in electronics and then buy himself a partnership. But first he had to get back to England.

He rested at midday for an hour and then continued on. By dusk, he had covered twenty-five kilometres. By keeping to the river, the walk, except for the gnawing pangs of hunger and a raging thirst, had been far less arduous than if he had taken to the jungle, but he knew he had at least another thirty kilometres to face the following morning and he, like Fennel, began to wonder if he would make it.

He moved into the jungle when it became too dark to see where he was going and laid down under a tree and slept. He woke soon after 05.00 hrs. as the sun was beginning to rise. Going down to the edge of the river, he scooped the brown dirty water over his face and head and moistened his lips without swallowing. The temptation was great, but he resisted it, sure that the water could contain a host of deadly bacteria.

He started off, keeping his pace steady, heading for an elbow bend in the river, and wondering what he would find around the corner. With luck, he told himself, he could be at the exit of the estate.

It took him an hour to reach the bend and to get a clear view of the river which was now wide and straight. As he paused to examine both banks of the river, he suddenly stiffened. Could that be a boat pulled up on the mud flat some sixty metres ahead of him or was it a fallen tree?

He started forward, peering into the half light, and in a few minutes, he decided that it was a flat bottom canoe.

His hunger and thirst forgotten, his heart pounding, he broke into a stumbling run. He reached the canoe and then stopped abruptly.

Lying in the bottom of the canoe was a dead Zulu. By his side were two rucksacks which Garry recognized as belonging to Ken and Fennel and more welcome still, Ken’s water bottle.