bag and pushed it under the front seat, out of sight. If Jeremy saw the camera, he’d tell tales to his dad. The engine grinding grew.
“Jeremy is abusing second gear at the top of the trail. We have enough territory, we almost never have two vehicles crowding the animals. Let me show you the buffalo herd. I’ll find you some zebras and maybe a lion eating one of them.”
She settled against the passenger door and stretched her legs toward him.
Revving the starter, Brett began his quick history lesson as they wound down the trail past the lodge toward the lake front.
Brett rattled on about Bumi Hills as a paradise, how the animals outnumbered the people. His usual game guide riff was punctuated with her questions about the birds they heard and the impalas they zipped past. Elise tri-folded her jacket and checking her pockets, found a tissue which she used to wipe dust off her nose and cheeks.
They emerged from the trees on the long stretch of grasslands which bordered the lake and served as their airstrip.
Brett shouted over the engine noise. “We buzz a vehicle down the middle before every flight’s arrival to clear off the animals.”
“I had a rather rocky landing,” Elise braced against the dashboard as the Jeep bounced along. “The pilot banked to avoid a group of zebras.”
“Zebras--pushy little brutes. They think they own the place.” Brett slowed down as the outside wheels ran on the lakeshore sand. He rattled through his script about Lake Kariba being the result of a British-built hydroelectric dam across the Zambezi River, which provides power to Zambia and Zimbabwe. As the dam widened the river’s channel, during the five years for the lake basin to fill, a massive rescue and relocation project called Operation Noah moved all the people and thousands of animals to higher ground. He paused in his recitation to point. “Like this bluff above us where the lodge rests.”
Elise interrupted to ask how many animals and how they were relocated. It was a nice change to talk about the animals and not the current politics, but if he didn’t get back soon, Isaac would try that stupid hitchhiking home.
Fifty cape buffalo with an assortment of puku, impala, and some zebra were disappearing into the trees, but there at the edge was the bonus Brett wanted--puffs of ground dust stirred near the water’s edge. He braked and pulled out his video camera and scanned a faraway group of buffalo, moving faster than normal this early in the day.
“We’ve got a predator.” Brett accelerated down the landing strip until they were in the edge of the dust cloud. “There. To the right. Two lionesses.”
The last buffaloes had pivoted to face outward, presenting a wall of horns to the strolling lionesses. Brett dropped into first gear, rolling within about twenty meters.
“Are we going to see a kill?” Elise squeaked.
“You never know.” Brett narrowed the distance to fifteen meters. The two lionesses weren’t hunting, their tails swishing as they strolled past. Of course, Elise didn’t know that. Was she afraid again or eager? “Lionesses love the taste of buffalo.”
The lionesses, ignoring the last few buffalo, headed for the lakefront. Lions--always around but damn unpredictable. He hoped the cats would do something crazy for her; it would both please her and let him wrap up this drive. “It’s likely they’re littermates,” Brett offered. He balanced his video camera on the steering wheel. “Young adults, but fully mature by their size.”
The first lioness waded into the lake up to her knees, sniffing the breeze. “What’s happening?” Elise tugged his sleeve.
The lioness waded in deeper, the water level rising to her shoulders. The second lioness plunged in after her sister and Brett captured the water halo around her. The cats splashed and settled down to smooth strokes. Soon only their heads were visible.
“Do they eat fish, too? Where will they go?” Elise still held his sleeve. With the cats gone, she was curious and not so frightened.
Brett shut off his camera. “There are two islands about three to four kilometers away. Lions are great swimmers.”
“Could we follow them?” Elise clapped her hands. Her watch slid on her wrist, a man’s vintage Hamilton. “I love boats.”
Brett peaked at it. Nearly 8:00 a.m. Chasing the lionesses with her would be terrific, great company and great filming. Damn Isaac’s worries. “I’ve got to get us back. David expects us to check in before three hours.” It was not completely a lie; the radio was in the glove box. “How about if we track them down this afternoon? They’ll be on the island by then.”
“Chase the lionesses at sunset with you?” She tipped her head, this time it was a sexy nod, not at all dismissive. “Could be amusing.”
Brett shifted into neutral and smiled. She was playing with him; it would be fun while it lasted.
The lionesses had disappeared, their wake on the lake’s surface the only thing visible, so he drove to the lodge. Client flirtations could be pleasant, if a guy stayed careful. Careful to stay safe from the wasting disease and careful to stay unattached. Elise, with David’s warning, carried extra risks.
Brett rolled into the car park. Elise didn’t notice they were earlier than the others. She smiled, waiting while he ran around to help her step down. Jeremy swung the Land Rover in and the family of three halloed to Elise. Jeremy, in his best Irish brogue charm, offered to escort Elise to breakfast; the idiot would try to hang out with her all day. What would she, a sophisticated mid-20’s Euro, want with Jeremy, a raw 18-year old fresh out of school?
Elise joined the family. When the little kid extended his hand to Elise, she crouched to his eye level and started chatting. She and the little guy were deep in comparison of lions and zebras. Brett shrugged; she’d flirt with anybody, even five-year olds. Brett signaled to Isaac. They’d drive off while everyone else was getting settled at breakfast and be back before David realized they were gone.
* * *
Isaac braced against the Jeep’s dashboard as Brett spun gravel.
Isaac grunted--no use yelling--Brett always took the turn into the farm’s long driveway too fast. The cold air rushing over the open vehicle during the ninety minute drive made his shoulders ache. Through the lane’s peach trees, heavy with new fruit, Owen’s house seemed to be sleepily winking; the window shades were half way down.
Brett parked at the fork in the driveway between his parents’ long rambling house and Isaac’s father’s boxy one. The peacocks, three old roosters and a young hen, squawked, sweeping their tails like they had all day to cross the lawn.
Isaac surveyed the so familiar scene, his father’s lantern hanging next to the door, the machete standing ready to use on any wandering snakes. He mounted the three porch steps and swung open the door, “Baba.” No answer. He checked the bedroom and back porch.
“Why are you home in the middle of the day, middle of the week?” Isaac heard the voice of Owen, Brett’s dad, in the yard. Brett mumbled something.
“Ba-Owen,” Isaac called. His mentor, his other father, appeared in the doorway. Like always, his blue coveralls were messy with fresh oil yet had a stiff crease on the pant leg. “Is everything all right here with you?”
“Of course, laddie, welcome home.
