the old bull could turn, Sihambi bit deep into his left hind leg, crushing sinews and bone, and retreated out of reach.
Mzamuli roared in anguish and collapsed onto the sand. Several times he tried to rise but could not. His leg was fractured.
Sihambi made a last rush at the fallen bull, but Mzamuli merely groaned.
The young bull lifted his head and thundered his triumph to the world. Then he entered the river and swam into the territory that had been Mzamuli’s. Here he turned in a circle to display his pink maw with its glistening tusks to the other bulls.
The cows on the sandbank watched the strange bull that had fought his way into Mzamuli’s place. Novikela and Nombili called to the old bull but no answering grunts came back to them.
Mzamuli lay helpless in the heat of midday. Pain throbbed through his savaged body. A pied crow slipped from a branch and pounced onto his muzzle, nipping his wounds, waiting to gouge out his eyes.
Late in the afternoon, as shadows lengthened, a bloody message flowed downstream in the water to where crocodiles lurked. Ngwenya’s long snout slid up the bank. For a moment the crocodile hung still, nose to nose with the old bull. Sensing no response, he opened his jaws, gripped the hippo’s muzzle and began to drag it into the water.
Ngwenya was old and very strong. With dogged patience, snaking to and fro with the effort but never letting go, he drew Mzamuli into the river and drowned him. Over the days to follow the crocodiles would tear his carcass apart.
At sunset Novikela and her calf huddled uncertainly on the sand bank with Mzamuli’s cows and watched the strange bull. He was calling to them, claiming his own.
But Novikela waited for the deep familiar grunts of Mzamuli. Every night for years she had come to his call. He had been as familiar to her as the river water, the sand of the sanctuary and the bodies of her calves.
Sihambi’s calls grew louder, more urgent. Hunger stirred in Novikela’s belly. She turned to the other cows, grunted acceptingly and splashed into the water.
As the cows emerged from the shallows, Sihambi and Novikela stared at each other for a long moment. Then he turned and led his cows and calves through the reeds and up the well-worn path into the hills to graze the territory that was his at last.
Six
The calf born to Novikela had grown with the year’s rounding. Now she nudged the udders only in play and grazed beside the cow, learning to select the grasses loved by the herd.
The calf’s muzzle was larger, her eye ridges more pronounced. Her hide had darkened to grey-black with rosy-gold tints round her mouth, neck and underbelly. She often submerged to run the river bed paths on her own and spent more time with other calves.
After the death of Mzamuli the ancient harmony of the river valley was restored. Obedient to the slow, sure rhythms of the bush, the herd feared no living thing. The only creature they had to fear was man. And as yet they knew little of humankind.
From time immemorial hippo had haunted the rivers of KwaZulu-Natal. For millennia they had grazed lush hillsides and lazed in warm brown waters. They had been hunted from time to time, for meat, fat and hide, ever since man had lived beside them.
In the time of Shaka, white men had come and ravaged the herds, killing thousands for ivory and skins. Then they had gone away and the hippo had known peace again.
But now, in the late 1920s, white men came again. Great sugar estates were spreading north, pushing into the territory of the wild creatures. The bush was hacked and burned, big trees were dragged from the red earth. Hills that had once rippled with grass, valleys that had foamed with forest were becoming a uniform sea of sugar cane.
On a night of the new moon Sihambi and his cows stood on the crest of a hill. They were puzzled. A warm breeze from the south brought disturbing scents – of ploughed earth, wood smoke and a sour smell: the smell of man.
All these they had met before, from a distance. But mingled with these was a new fragrance.
Sihambi raised his head and his nostrils drew in a scent as compelling as honey to the badger – the smell of sugar cane. He plunged downhill and led his cows and claves to a wide fertile valley where the rich loam had been planted with rows of cane.
With a soft rumble of anticipation they entered the field. All night they cropped the sweet cane until dawn urged them back to the river. Behind them they left a ravaged plantation spattered with huge, four-toed prints.
The next night they returned to the cane fields. And the night after. On the fourth night the sour smell was strong in the air. Sihambi paused, uneasy. But the pull of the sweet cane was too strong and again he led his group into the valley to graze.
Suddenly the smell of man wafted strong on the breeze. Sihambi raised his head. Bobbing lights were moving towards them. He grunted an alarm and swung to retreat. Sharp cracking noises came out of the darkness. Something bit deep into his shoulder. With a bellow of pain he charged up the hill, followed by his cows and calves.
The sharp sounds came again and again. Novikela, careful to keep her calf at her side, was trotting behind the others when another crack sounded. Her legs gave under her. With the next crack she received a blow on the head.
Men came running, shouting. Novikela tried to rise but could not. Her calf was trotting around her, nuzzling her, trying to urge her to her feet.
Out of the darkness an eye of light was approaching.
“We got one!”
“Careful, sir. The imvubu bites deep.”
“Isn’t that a calf with her?”
“Watch for the big one. Who says it’s dead?”
“I’ll put another bullet in it for good measure.”
And again the rifle cracked. The old cow jerked and lay still. Sensing death, the calf panicked and slithered frantically through the mud, away from the men. A shot rang out and a bullet whined past her.
Snorting in terror, the calf dashed uphill until she found Sihambi’s scent and followed it to the hilltop. He and his cows were there, dark against the dawn sky, waiting for her and Novikela.
The trembling calf pressed against Nombili, who calmed her anguish with low grunts. The others stood facing south, still watching for Novikela. Once, twice Sihambi grunted into the silence and waited for an answering “hom-hom” from his oldest cow.
But only the quavering call of a nightjar came back. As the sun rose, the hippos turned and went silently back to the river.
For days the calf trotted around the sandbank, waiting for her mother to come back. But she never returned. Gradually the calf took to following Nombili and pressed close to her when they left to graze at twilight. They did not go to the cane fields again.
But, the people
