The red man unslung his rifle and squatted beneath the eaves of a nettle bush looking deep into the grim bowels of a lion's den. In the dusty rays of the sun the dark hole was vacant except for the small bones and a mangled skeleton that had once resembled the body of an olive baboon. Santamo had said that the “Orngatuny” had left the den four months ago and was now retreating into the rocks closer to the Maasai village. There had to be evidence of this new change in the routine of the beast so the tall huntsman asked Santamo to lead him to the old den. Tufts of mane clung to the nettle and there was the distinct red wiry hair of the male lion. A musky stink curdled in the hampered enclosure as a warning to the outside; however, it was remarkably intense and strangely fresh. Their mange-stricken lion must have been returning to the old lair intermittently after hunting at nighttime.
He stood up and blinked through sweat and salty tears. In that damp moment he wondered if their lion bared any behavior resembling madness. He was a man-eating lion from the northeast plains. If any likeness existed then the hunt had suddenly become a rash means of survival. The lion had already killed four men and mauled two from the regional Maasai tribe.
Santamo stood ten paces off at a watchful distance. Hot, cloaking sun beat down on the dry Serengeti and the far reaches of the green Tanzania plains. The rugged vista seemed to swim about in congealed particles behind the lithe body of the Maasai boy. Santamo said he counted seventeen summers and had still not earned his Orngatuny name; a warrior's name he will inherit after he kills a lion.
“Oldea!” he called him. There were parched creases in his dark lips. “Maape!”
“Oldea” was the name the Maasai tribe called him meaning “wild dog”. They had never seen a wolf and could not understand his Native American name so on one of their pack hunts he pointed to the black and yellow wild dogs and said, “this is my name”. All the white South Africans called him “John”.
“Alotuto.” He slung the three hundred Winchester Magnum over his shoulder and left the den with the boy beginning the steep rugged shamble down the stony terrain.
The village was on the other side of wide open grasslands, and with the arduous stretch of ground between them it would be almost twilight when they returned from the search. The silhouettes of the village huts surfaced along the cosmic horizon after the sun had dropped behind the left of the almighty Kilimanjaro. In the last dying hour, when the auburn sunlight was extracted from the soft indigo skies and sucked back down beneath the sweeping earth, the nocturnal behavior of restless beasts struck the crepuscular plains in a wild upheaval of animal screams. In the grating blend of exotic avian and mammalian calls a predacious bark made both John and Santamo stand still. The heavens had already boomed with stars and a clear waxing gibbous moon, making it easy to catch sight of furtive movement in the pale shafts of the basked savanna. White turf parted beneath their cusps as a rise of wind sent a ripple through the dry sea bearing a silvery backbone and a swishing tail. Somewhere the lion moved like a wraith through the tall grass, coming in range of a hundred yards of the village.
Santamo had already weighed the iron spear above his shoulder, training the dangerous tip. A grid of perspiration formed across the young man's raven face and angular back. “Shoma!” he whispered to the boy; “go”. He nodded towards the west side of the village. “Shoma!”
Santamo crouched low to the grass, picking a trail far from the consciousness of the lion. John waited for the Maasai boy to become swallowed by the terrestrial sea before converging on the eastern side of the village. A large fire had been built in the midst of the community and a group of dancers had assembled in a great ring before it. They leapt together singing in unison.
Stooping closely behind the first hut, John watched the long streak of grassland unfurling in the breeze. He grasped the forestock with a strong hand and rested a finger on the outside of the trigger guard. The tapetum of the gold eyes shined through a long tunnel of grass near the ground. The demon saw right through him and somewhere a snaking tail stroked the dead blades patiently.
He was looking down the open sighted barrel and dropping the long muzzle when the lion bolted! He maimed the back of the hindquarter, startling it. A raucous howl broke off the dancing Maasai and He watched as a grisly fear shook the tribe. Screams of terror gave way as some of the people caught sight of the lion and fled the place. The thin, mangy animal darted between the huts, appearing and disappearing behind their walls. John followed from across the village, moving from one hut to the other. He spotted him again, raising the rifle, and quickly fired a second time, missing. The sound scared the beast, riling it further.
He gave a strident whistled and waited for Santamo's mimicked one. The boy closed in from the west giving a vociferous cry and drove the lion inwards. John pressed alongside the flank of a hut and forced the barrel against its corner, pinning the aim. The wounded lion stopped in the midst of the village, the heavy, ragged head swinging to the left and right, searching the place frantically. Conceivably a way out or perhaps the man who maimed him.
The wild, frantic gaze found John and without hesitation the lion charged him. He quickly shot once at the animal's shoulder, slowing him down, before training the sight on the forehead. He fired again and a howl was interrupted by the gunshot. Chambering another round he settled the sights on the ghastly heap in the midst of the village. The lion laid still on his belly. Rising from his position he drew upon the dead beast. Santamo emerged in the soft glow of the firelight. John saw the raw dissatisfaction as the young man let the iron spear fall from his hand.
He watched the tribe come together in a pack around the dead lion. Shouts of joy rang out and a woman gave a conquering scream. They heaved the animal into the fire and wailed jubilantly as the flames ate away at the diseased body that had been too ridden with mange to be eaten. They took him in their arms, praised him, and gave him the warrior's name for killing a lion. He was a grown warrior now and accepted as a brave man. All along Santamo watched him from a remote land it seemed, the sable eyes looked so faraway.
In the morning, John mediated about this under the eaves of an umbrella tree while watching a herd of eland. He was thirty-five. Too old to be receiving a title for a young warrior.
Santamo stood a ways off watching him with an expressionless stare. “Supai,” he greeted the boy but did not get one in reply. The “Orngatuny” was dead and all along the Maasai boy despaired. “Muro–”
“–Aa-aa!”
“Muro!” he insisted a fervent apology. The young man dropped his chin and sank into the earth. John approached him and rested a hand on a lean shoulder. He wasn't as expressive in the Maasai language but he knew enough to convey reassurance to the boy. He said, “Orngatuny, korianga,”; lion, warrior. “Taisere,”; tomorrow.
The young man lifted his head. The watery sheen left his eyes and he became renewed. He was a man. He nodded understandingly. “Aiya,” he agreed. “Aiya, Oldea.” He rose from the ground and picked up his spear. John watched as the boy left, bearing a new strength and enduring vivacity, with a lance of iron wielded in his fist. The boy was most assured a lion killer. He recognized this as he called after him, reminding him:
“Taisere!”