David Gilman - The Devil's breath

He had been keen to travel later in the day, but!Koga warned him that this was when the predators would be hunting and, even though Max was a good runner, he did not have the speed or strength of a lion or a leopard.

The Valley of Bones had been formed millions of years ago. Some force of the universe had flung a meteor into this wasteland, and the impact had thrown up jagged mountains and shattered the earth’s crust into fractured veins of gullies and crevasses. The dry scrub and acacia survived only because of the seasonal rains, but if they failed, then the vegetation withered even more. Mud holes and surface roots provided moisture for the grass-eating animals, while they in turn fell victim to the carnivores. It was a hellhole of heat, dust and death.

Max was in danger of dehydration. What helped save him from heatstroke was an ex-army floppy hat his dad had brought back from Iraq, though he never told his son what exactly he had been doing there-another secret. The hat helped keep at bay the brain-frying sun, but it was thirst that would shut him down-and probably drive him crazy-if he did not get some fluids soon. Max felt queasy, his blood seemed to be boiling, a surging wave of nausea gripped him and he was losing control. His mind began to wander.

Everything in front of him was a blur. All he was doing was putting one foot in front of the other, but now even that was proving difficult. He had put a smooth pebble in his mouth to try to keep saliva going, but that had not helped and, despite promising himself to be frugal, the last of the water had already trickled down his throat a couple of hours earlier. The frightening reality of the wilderness was worming its way into him like a tick burrowing under his skin. He had to shake off the fear. He had to be strong. But what he had to have was a drink.

!Koga glanced back and saw Max on his knees, his face dust-caked, his breathing coming hard. A few paces, and he was back with him, coaxing him under the spindly shade from an old hag of a tree.!Koga placed a hand on Max’s shoulder and smiled, reassuring. Then he stepped away and began scuffling through the dust.

One of the stunted trees had a hollow at its base, worn away either by the weather or by animals.!Koga cupped his hands and dug in the sand at the tree’s base, and he kept scooping sand away for the best part of twenty minutes. Then he took a narrow, hollow reed from his animal-skin pouch and, after easing the ruler-length reed into the hole, began to suck. Max remembered one of the boys shoving a length of hosepipe into the petrol tank of a teacher’s car and siphoning off enough fuel to use in his scooter. But he had no idea what!Koga could find in the sand with a thin piece of hollow reed.

After five or six minutes!Koga took another reed from the pouch and came back to Max. He said nothing, but he put his fingers under Max’s chin, gently teasing his head backwards. He put one end of the reed in his own mouth and the other on Max’s lips. Max felt water trickle down into his mouth. He nodded gratefully, immediately feeling better, and!Koga went back and began the process again.

It took another hour before!Koga had enough water to fill the small water bottle they carried. The Bushmen depended on tubers and other plants for their water supply in these arid places, but when these were scarce they had to find a sipping hole-a place where some boulders and hollow trees allowed dew to accumulate and seep beneath them.

Max felt the strength return to his body. Now the mountains did not seem so far away.

There was still no sign of anything to eat, though!Koga spent most of his time gazing down, looking for spoor. If they did not find food here, it would be a cold, hungry night spent on the mountain-and it seemed unlikely that there would be anything to hunt up there. Max knew he would grow progressively weaker in these conditions. And then he would falter. Nature shows no favor. He would be the one eaten by hyena or lion.

The hours passed in the near-silence of the valley. There was the occasional scream of an eagle and sometimes a rattle of pebbles as something, probably a small animal, dislodged loose stones on the slopes.!Koga had picked up speed, but Max kept pace as the Bushman loped effortlessly ahead. Max realized that the air was cooling; the mountain peaks on the western side of the valley would soon protect them from the blazing heat because the sun was slipping lower in the sky.!Koga suddenly crouched down in the bleached scrub and slowly raised a hand. Max crouched as he covered the last few meters to join him.!Koga pointed through the brush. Max couldn’t see anything. Then a slight movement caught his attention. A small buck stared at them from about twenty meters away. Its skin shivered, shrugging at a bothersome fly. Warily it kept its head up, not feeding on the poor offering at its hoofs, looking cautiously towards them. It had not yet picked up their scent.

!Koga eased an arrow onto his hunting bow. Max gazed at the beautiful creature. The large, liquid eyes distressed him. They were going to kill him. Another reality check. This was about survival. There was no prepacked, plastic-wrapped cut of meat on a chilled shelf around here. If he were at home and they had told him to go and kill a lamb, to slit its throat, he would have become a vegetarian overnight. Here, this creature was going to give him life.

The buck jolted and ran as the arrow plunged into its flank, near the heart. Max could hear its hoofs clatter across the rocky surface and caught a glimpse of a white flash-the erect hairs along the buck’s spine-as it bounded away. It was a springbok, which could leap more than three meters in the air from a standing position.!Koga did not hesitate. In a few strides he was where the buck had quivered in uncertainty, moments ago. It was important to identify that particular animal’s hoofprint. Bushmen would often spend hours chasing their prey, and they needed to make sure they were following the right animal.!Koga was on one knee, his eyes scanning the ground. Retrieving his arrow shaft, he glanced over his shoulder to make sure Max was following.

“Come! It’s good!” A skilled hunter could keep his family and clan members alive, and!Koga’s joy at his success was not to be diminished by any queasy feelings Max might be experiencing.

!Koga sprinted away. Max may have been fit, but he was not in the same league as this seemingly undernourished boy. Revitalized by the water, however, he pounded after the Bushman, determined to give a good account of himself; also, he didn’t want to let!Koga down.

A small pride of lions, three females, two cubs and a male, had their sanctuary on a small outcrop of rock beneath acacia trees that clawed their way out of the ground. The lions were three kilometers downwind, and though the air barely moved, they had caught the scent of the distressed animal, and another smell-human beings. Only once before had they killed a man but the taste had stayed with them-as sweet as warthog and much easier to kill. They were unafraid of the man-scent that stirred them from their slumber. This was their territory and there were intruders. In addition to the wounded animal there was now the bonus of human flesh. If there was a kill to be had and they failed to hurry, hyenas and vultures would get the best pickings. Leaving one female to care for the cubs and the male to saunter down at his leisure, the two other females began a slow, loping run. The pride would eat that night.

* * *

The slow-acting poison finally weakened the young springbok and it lay, helpless, on the ground. Max, grunting with effort, arrived in time to see!Koga slit its throat. The poor beast gave a single spasm and died.!Koga offered his knife to Max.

“Can you skin?” It seemed less of a question and more of a challenge and Max felt it keenly. The Bushman boy was going to keep them alive by his hunting skills. What exactly could Max contribute? He nodded, ignoring the homemade knife!Koga offered, and pulled out his own fifteen-centimeter bush knife.