Dracup sat up, dazed. He felt blood trickle down his face and wiped it away with an impatient gesture. Where was the lion? As the dust settled he saw the animal’s bulky shape beside Mukannishum. It was immobile, perhaps stunned by the blast. Or dead? Dracup hawked and spat dust from his mouth. He was desperately thirsty; the afternoon sun was slowly sucking the remaining moisture from his body. He could make no saliva. For the first time he began to doubt his survival. A strange lassitude came over him. And then, as the settling dust gradually revealed the far wall, his heart leapt with excitement. The grenade had blown open a fissure, depositing a pile of rocks and boulders around its base. It looked feasible for a climb — if he could flank the lion. He prepared to crawl.
At that moment, Mukannishum writhed and shouted. The lion lashed out with a paw and followed with a lunge to the neck. Mukannishum’s cries ceased abruptly. Dracup held his breath. The animal bared its teeth and let out an eardrum-perforating roar. Dracup began to crawl slowly, hugging the wall, in a direction that would bring him round to the fissure behind the animal’s back. He hoped that it would be too busy with Mukannishum to concern itself with him. But Dracup had another worry: the noise of the explosion would surely bring the priests back to check on their captives. He crawled on. The heat was unbearable, his tongue a dry stick of flesh against the roof of his mouth. He drifted in and out of consciousness, startling himself awake as the lion’s face filled his dreams. Once he awoke with a cry and froze in horror at the sound he had made. But the lion was busy; he heard chewing and the occasional crack of bone.
Dracup opened his eyes. The sun had set and a cool wind fanned his face. He had covered three quarters of the distance between his original position and his destination: the fissure in the wall. But now he saw that his way was guarded. The lion was crouched beside the larger rockfall, blocking his route. Beside the tree lay a pile of rags from which protruded the odd glint of white. Ragged strips of flesh hung from the mess like some careless butcher’s offcuts. Dracup felt his gorge rise. The lion was licking its paws with slow, deliberate movements of its head. Where were the priests? He was curious at their indifference. But then, the pit wall could have muffled the noise of the explosion. Dracup tried to swallow and failed. Despair clutched at him again. No one would pass this way; he was miles from the town. He thought of his hotel room with its solitary suitcase. Another missing traveller. He thought of Natasha, and then of Yvonne, sitting in the darkness of her living room, counting the hours until daybreak. He began to crawl again.
For the first few minutes the lion ignored him, but then it shook itself abruptly, stretched, yawned and began to walk across the pit towards him. Dracup tried to get up but found his legs so weak that he faltered and fell into a kneeling position as the lion approached. Like a man about to be executed. He was surprised at how little fear he felt, just a sense of the inevitable. An image of Sunil came into his mind. Never turn your back.
Dracup watched the lion as it sidled up to him. The closeness of the animal made him hold his breath. He sensed the power under the yellowish, tanned hide. He admired the poise of the beast, its black mane, the huge, regal head. The lion paraded up and down restlessly, closing the distance with each pass. Talk to me, Sunil, talk to me. He raised his right arm and motioned gently to the lion; speaking softly but firmly, he made a soothing noise in his throat, then a long, sideways motion with his hand. The animal lowered its head and growled; its paws raked the pit floor. It seemed unfazed by Dracup’s entreaties. He counted to ten and began again. Sweat ran down his face. He could hear Sunil as clearly as if he were back in the Secunderabad of the Sixties. The boy’s turban was white, contrasting with his dusky skin. He was smiling and wagging his finger. Confidence, Simon. You have to show them who’s boss, you know? You can’t show any weakness… Dracup gestured again, smoothly, both palms down. He flexed his thigh muscles and straightened up. Nice and slow, Dracup, nice and slow. For the first time the lion seemed unsure. And then very suddenly it spread itself full length before him, resting its head on its paws.
“Strewth. I don’t reckon you learned that in the bloody anthropology department…”
Dracup looked up with a start. Halfway down the rockfall, regarding him with a bemused expression on his sunburnt face, was Dan Carey.
“Well don’t just stand there, mate. If you’ve finished practising on old Simba,” he waved a hand vaguely in the lion’s direction, “then may I suggest we make a dignified exit?”
Dracup could have laughed and cried at the same time. He backed away from the lion and seized Carey’s outstretched arm. His legs were an old man’s, his hands trembling like a drunk’s. Dracup leaned on the Kiwi and began to climb the rockfall towards the lip of the pit. The temporary platform created by the blast was treacherous and Dracup felt it slide precariously under his feet, but Carey picked his way expertly up the last few metres, digging his fingertips into the tuff to gain a handhold. Presently his head appeared over the lip of the crater and he stretched a muscular arm down to Dracup. Dracup felt himself hauled over the edge and soon lay splayed out on the shale and dust of the pit edge. Carey produced a water bottle and supported his head. “Slowly, mate. There’s plenty here.”
Dracup drank deeply, his fingers drumming a palsied tattoo on the flask.
Carey watched him with concern. “It’s okay. You’re all right now. You did well.” He steadied Dracup’s hands. “Let’s get you out of here.”
Dracup wobbled to his feet and, allowing the Kiwi to support him, stumbled down a slope of scree and loose rock towards Carey’s jeep. Dracup stole a backward glance before collapsing into the passenger seat, half expecting to see the lion emerging from the pit. Carey revved the engine and dust obscured his view. Dracup took a deep breath, murmured a prayer of thanks and passed out.
In his hotel room Dracup poured himself and Carey a beer. He’d had a few hours sleep and felt calmer. His ribcage was painful but intact; his greatest discomfort was a throbbing headache and sunburn, the worst affected area being his face and shoulders which were raw and blistered. A small thing to endure, he reflected, considering how things might have ended.
It was late afternoon. A crowd of new arrivals had stormed the hotel and woken him from his listless dozing. He’d heard them — a bunch of American kids, clumping around as they vied for tenancy of the best available rooms. Now they’d dumped their gear and gone for a look around the place was quieter. Dracup looked over at Carey, relaxed and sitting astride a chair with his brown forearms resting lightly on the slatted backrest. “So. How did you find me?”
Carey studied his beer and wiped a finger round the rim to settle the foam. “Well, to start off I had a bit of trouble with the jalopy. Seems like the tank did take a little knock during the Battle of Britain yesterday.” Carey took a swig of beer and shrugged. “I had to patch her up as best I could. By the time I’d got it sorted it was too late to get going. So, I decided to look you up. I figured you’d probably be heading back to the hotel by that stage. But there was no sign.”