Two Lions Read online



  Two Lions

  by S. Scott Johnson

  Copyright 2012 by S. Scott Johnson

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means—electronic, mechanical, photographic (photocopying), recording or otherwise—without prior permission in writing from the author.

  Cover photo from iStockphoto and Purdy Photography

  Edited by Laura Johnson

  Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  Learn more information at https://sscottjohnson.wordpress.com/

  Two Lions

  Be of sober spirit, be on the alert. Your adversary, the devil, prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour. But resist him, firm in your faith, knowing that the same experiences of suffering are being accomplished by your brethren who are in the world.

  1 Peter 5:8, 9

  *****

  The young missionary sat up on the makeshift bed, another round of dry-heaves racked his sweat-saturated, emaciated body. He attempted to stand, vomiting and coughing some more. The coughing alerted his close friend and helper, James, who quietly entered the shadowy, sickly-smelling tent.

  "No, no. You must be still. Lie down; rest now. Please, Eric." James pleaded with the missionary.

  "Got to get after him. Seen any more tracks?" Eric asked.

  "You rest. You're no good for hunting right now."

  "I feel better. Fever's almost gone ... I think. I've been through this before, you know."

  "And you just about died. Remember? You're so stubborn, so foolish." James gave him a sharp, disappointed look. This Pennsylvania native was Eric's right-hand man. Deserting his life in America, James decided to dedicate his business and organizational skills to God. Though just a layperson, he had devoted his life to the Swans and had fit in well with the African way of life.

  Eric tried to rise once more, quickly collapsing as his jello-like legs folded under him. River fever had taken its toll on him, but the sickness had almost run its course. The affects could be felt for days, sometimes weeks. Even still, an unhealthy compulsion had gripped his heart; he must destroy what had destroyed.

  Eric gave up trying to stand. "Give me another day. I'll be fine. Where's Susan?"

  "She's gone to Kuruman," said James.

  "Why? What in the world for?" asked Eric.

  "Now don't get mad. I actually agree with her on this one," said James.

  "What?"

  "She's going to look for Conrad and ask him to come help us," said James.

  "No, no! Not that idiot. He's not welcome here. Not after what he did," said Eric, coughing violently.

  "Sorry, Eric. He'll probably arrive from Kuruman tomorrow. We need Conrad's help."

  "What are you blabbering on about? We can do this. We almost had him."

  James squatted and gently held his friend's shoulders, searching for the best way to share a new, unpleasant discovery. He eased his gaze upon the missionary's gaunt, sunbaked face, making sure their eyes had locked. "Eric, there are now two lions."

  "What ..." The missionary fell back onto his bed, exhausted, confused, and now unconscious.

  *****

  "Morning, James! Good to see you again, chap."

  "Conrad, so glad to see you," said James.

  "How is he?"

  "Better. The fever finally broke last night. Coffee?"

  "Don't mind if I do," said Conrad. "Susan tells me you found another set of tracks."

  "One of the Bushmen came across some fresh ones a few days ago. They were circling the camp," said James.

  "Any attacks?"

  "Not from this new cat," said James. "At least not yet."

  "So, does Eric know I'm here?" asked Conrad.

  "I told him last night. No, he's not pleased. He'll get over it."

  A round of coughs erupted from the dirty, canvas tent just twenty feet away. The flap rolled back and out stepped Eric Swan. He rubbed the scruffy beard and dunked his hands in the water basin near the tent's entrance. His bluish eyes appeared somewhat dull and bloodshot, but clearer than before. The cool fresh water washed away the grime and sweat of five miserable days. James walked over and offered him a fresh towel.

  "Thanks. How many days?"

  "Five," said James.

  "Well, that's better than my last spell. Eight days wasn't it?"

  "I think so."

  Eric looked over to the campfire where the professional hunter sat, drinking his coffee. The missionary frowned and reluctantly ambled toward the fire ring.

  "Well, you look like death warmed over. Stubborn as ever, I hear," said Conrad.

  "Don't try my patience, Scott. We don't need you here." Eric stumbled toward a vacant chair.

  "By the way, your lovely wife told me she would stay in Kuruman until the issue was settled. Been neglecting her again, I see," Conrad said with a warped smile.

  "Stay away from Susan. There's no issues here I can't handle," said Eric.

  "That's not what I hear. I hear you have two lions on your hands."

  "I can handle it. Go back to Kuruman. And leave my wife alone."

  "You are forgetting something my dear fellow. She came to me. Come on, now. Why don't you leave the lion killing to me? I'm a professional, you know."

  "Why don't you tell that to my dead father?" Eric glared at the hunter with an icy stare. Scott Conrad sat the coffee mug down, assuming a defensive posture.

  "It was an equipment malfunction, and you know it. Get over it, man!" barked Conrad.

  "Equipment malfunction? That's what you call it? I call it stupidity. No professional hunter uses a subpar gun."

  "It was your father's gun," said Conrad.

  "Doesn't matter. You should've known that old double barrel musket was a piece of junk. Of all people, you should be able to spot a defective gun a mile away."

  "There was no time. Your dad's gun was the only loaded gun left. Beg your pardon, but savage lions don't give timeouts. An inspection would have served no purpose anyway. That lion was hell-bent on killing your father. God rest his soul."

  "If you hadn't bungled that first shot with your rifle, the whole thing would've never happened."

  That last remark from Eric hit a nerve, and a subtle shame blanketed Conrad's sun-cracked face. Eric couldn't let it go, and Conrad would never live it down. Before this tragic incident, the mighty hunter had held the reputation of a superior marksman. Everything changed with the arrival of the man-eater.

  The natives called this fiend "Sarikin Bakka", demon of madness. This troublesome lion had taken 13 lives, three of those being missionaries, one of which was Eric's father. The unrelenting predator had stalked Eric's procession for the last 6 weeks, killing mainly during the night. At first, the lion stayed well away from the main camp. Gradually, he became so bold as to drag men from their tents as they slept. The animal's rampage had brought the missionary's original quest to a screeching halt, planting seeds of terror not easily uprooted. Reverend Swan could stand this threat no more. He was determined to hunt the man-eater down, his hatred growing into a deep obsession. Almost overnight, he'd turned into Captain Ahab.

  "I can't change things now, Swan. Let's put the past behind us. The situation is grave."

  James interjected, "He's right, Eric. This is too much. Have you forgotten why you're here, why God sent you? The Mombali are ahead of us. God's opened a door."

  "I quite agree with James," said Conrad, "Leave the hunting and tracking to me. Stick to what you do best, and I'll do the same."

  The young missionary slouched over, elbows on knees, his forehead cradled in his hands. He cast his eyes up, staring blankly into the fire and
steadily turned to address his close companion. "I hear you, James. I haven't forgotten the Mombali, but this devil has killed my father, and two good friends. I can't just let that go. I got to take a stand. God knows what will happen; now there are two of them. Let me get some food and rest. We'll take up the hunt tomorrow morning."

  The missionary sneered at Conrad and carried his meal back to the tent.

  *****

  At 3:00 a.m., the still night caved to the screams of a lone man, a man who moments before slept soundly in his hammock. Branches snapped and popped as the powerful force pushed its way to a secret destination. The invisible power continued to drag the man into the woods. The screams became fainter as time passed, ending with a tremendous roar, then followed a wave of more subtle, yet still terrifying, roars.

  The whole camp came fully awake, yet no one ventured into the terrifying darkness. James stayed close to the fire, his face stayed glued to the mysterious and fear-inducing sounds.

  "Poor man. God be with him," said James.

  Eric leaped out of his tent and stood by James, rifle in hand. "I say we go after him now. He can't be that far away," said Eric.

  "No way," said James.

  "He's right," said Conrad, leaning against a tent post with a half-empty bottle of wine. "Nothing we can do for the poor lad now. Chasing lions in the dark is foolhardy to say the least."

  "Look at you. A sorry excuse of a hunter you are. Hope you're enjoying that bottle of wine. Or should I propose a toast. Congratulations my professional hunter! You managed to allow another soul to become a lion's meal."

  "What? You're blaming me? Now you've gone too far!" Conrad slung the bottle toward the nearest tree and stormed off.

  "Come on, James. Let's go after it. He thinks he's safe," said Eric.

  "Absolutely not! We'll wait here for now. A few more hours it'll be light." James looked sternly at the missionary. As Eric stepped toward the dark woods, James grabbed him. "Please, Eric. Wait. He won't go far. The blood trail will lead us to him."

  "Okay. I'll wait. You're probably right, but let's get ready. Find us two of the finest Bushmen. Get what's-his-name, the tracker."

  "What about Conrad?" asked James.

  Eric thought about it some more as he listened to the distant roaring. "Get him ready. I think we'll need him after all."

  James smiled, his face glowing against the dancing flame's light.

  *****

  The eastern sky cast a pink glow as the missionary finished his early morning reading. Closing the cover, he ran his finger along the large, embossed S; it was his father's Bible. For years, he'd watched his dad proudly carry it. More is always caught than taught, and Eric had caught his father's love for the Good Book. Through those eternal words, he always found hope and courage to move forward. That day, he would need courage and much more.

  "You ready, James?" asked Eric.

  "Gun's loaded. You prayed?"

  "Yes," said Eric.

  James smiled nervously and slowly walked forward with the small band of men: Swan, Conrad, two experienced Bushmen, and the tracker. The blood trail had lost its bright red color, but the quantities were difficult to miss. Occasionally, distinct paw prints would appear, followed by the impression of a man's fingers being dragged, fingers no doubt limp and lifeless. The tracker, Bomani, studied the trail much like a scholar studied a book. It told him a gruesome story.

  Advancing about a mile into the bush, Bomani stopped and crouched close to the ground. He hovered about the area for what seemed like minutes. The story now had a new twist.

  "Look here, Conrad," said Bomani.

  "Another lion. And quite larger than our devil," said Conrad. "Looks like he's tracking behind your white whale, Eric." Swan absorbed the subtle jab of the tall, slim hunter.

  Bomani walked several feet forward. "Look, the new lion turns and heads that direction." He pointed toward the 2 o'clock position.

  "What's he up to you think?" asked Eric.

  "Who knows?" asked Conrad. "He may very well be stalking us now."

  "Is that possible, Bomani?" asked Eric.

  "Could be."

  "See here, Eric. Let me and Bomani track this man-eater down and finish him off. You take the Bushmen and James and see what you can do with the new kid on the block. Perhaps you'll scare him off."

  "No—the man-eater is mine! I'll be the one to take him down." Swan stood defiantly by that point and turned toward James. Conrad looked down, shaking his head in disbelief as the loyal friend gave the nod.

  "It's your funeral, Swan. I tried. Give me one of the Bushmen, and I'll follow this other cat. But have your man there watch your back."

  *****

  Nature's demon lay close to his prey. After consuming half the man, the large feline fell into a contented stupor. Breathing softly, he licked his paws, and several pronounced yawns followed. Something kept him on the watch. He might have been sound asleep if not for his vague awareness of the spotted hyenas and his other pursuers, the humans, not far behind.

  How he hated the hairless bipeds. But he loved their flesh. It tasted so tender compared to the wildebeest or the zebra or those troublesome buffalos. Men were quite easy to catch unless he happened upon one carrying the fire stick. The pain in his right thigh had grown worse over the last year. The pain started when he crossed paths with one of those pesky humans who would not run and would not back down. The resulting limp had cost him his place in the pride.

  He thought back on those reigning years. He had rightly earned that title, "king of the beasts" and for ten years protected his band of lionesses, fighting off invasive males or those hideous hyenas. His mane was much fuller and darker then, his roar even more menacing, his strength, prime. Those days had evaporated like the morning dew, and since his eviction, he'd roamed the bush, the grasslands, and the forest, just trying to stay alive. A nomad, a hunter, a man-eater.

  Even more than the humans, he despised the pride's new leader; the one who had cleverly ousted him, making him into a fool, a spectacle. How he'd love to sink his fangs into that new ruler. Severely underestimating the new king's power, he found himself in a precarious position. The battle that had ensued left him scarred almost beyond recognition: partially blind in one eye, a missing left ear, wounds which never healed properly, and a weakened lower jaw. As fast as lightning, he'd been cast out. He'd succumbed to the Creator's design: the new shall replace the old.

  Suddenly, his right ear stood erect, turning like a radar dish and focusing on a faint sound. Standing now, he tilted his nose to meet the subtle air streams. Riding upon those invisible currents was a familiar and distinct scent. His eyes narrowed, heart rate climbed and the flames of anger rose up, fanned by a deeply embedded malignity.

  *****

  Eric Swan sat under some of Africa's rare shade and sipped water from his canteen. Still somewhat weak from his illness, he relished the break. Something had been tugging on his heart all morning, a conviction that would not go away. He thought about his wife, Susan, and her lovely blonde hair, those sparkling gray eyes. For weeks, that wicked brute had stolen away his time with his young Australian wife. Not only had he neglected her, he'd neglected his calling. His spiritual eyes were opening.

  He thumbed through his father's Bible once again, scanning the sketches of the Mombali, a fierce-looking people. Twenty years ago his father had tried to set up a mission with this reclusive tribe. The Mombali chief would have nothing to do with it and forcefully pushed them out. Eric wondered if he would meet a similar fate. Did he really care about the Mombali, or was killing this lion really the most important thing in life?

  "Eric, are you crying?" asked James.

  The missionary wiped the tears from his eyes. "You said something yesterday that got my attention. Why am I here?"

  "The Mombali?"

  "Yes. I'm beginning to realize how the Devil ... he's blinded me, J
ames. Just didn't see it till now. I'm way off my mission here—way off. Oh, that lion needs killin'. That's for sure. But I don't have to be the one pulling the trigger. I've wanted the satisfaction, of course. But ... but Conrad's better with this kind of stuff."

  "I hear these Mombali worship animals. Maybe even the king of the beasts. I wonder how they'll feel about us hunting down a lion," said James.

  Eric pointed to the picture of the tribal chief. "Yes, I've noticed the headdresses. See the lion's mane and there on the belt, a lion's tail. Dad's notes say they take these from lions who die naturally. But we can't just lead this man-eater to them. We'd be bringing a curse."

  "Have you thought about what we'll say to the Mombali?" asked James.

  Eric turned to the back of the Bible, to the last book and slid his finger along a well-known verse his father had prominently underlined. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I'm working on it my friend. I'm working on it."

  "What are you working on?" asked James.

  "Let me think some more," said Eric. "Let's finish this and get on with the real mission."

  *****

  Eric, James and Bomani carefully followed the blood trail for another hour. No sense in becoming impatient. The man-eater's track record had validated his cunning behavior. No, all three men moved very slowly and deliberately. Binoculars in hand, they glassed ahead for familiar shapes, testing the wind direction and listening for telling sounds.

  "Look. It's Conrad," said Bomani.

  "What's he doing?" asked Eric.