I Am Marcus Fox, page 7
Now, it would be rather ridiculous to say there is any danger in hunting our good friend the pangolin (who resembles the equally harmless armadillo, though they are, as far as I know, unrelated). About the worst he might deal is a nasty jolt to your ankle with a whip of his spiny tail. Beyond that, there is not much fight in him. Flip him over and you will find unprotected muscle beneath his keratin scales. Pangolin meat is chewy.
The one learning curve I faced with this guy was how to overcome a shortcoming in Shumbuto’s blade. The pangolin taught me that my sharpened steel was not the end-all, be-all, superpowered instrument of destruction I originally imagined it to be. Its sharpened tip was so far from the hilt that to pierce the pangolin’s underside, I had to lean on the blade’s handle from an undesirable, awkward height. Using my full weight to push down on it was not much trouble, and the pangolin suffered not at all.
One of the utmost qualities a hunter can possess is that of grace during the chaos of conflict. I knew I would pit myself against larger beasts later in my adventures. I was consciously working my way up the food chain, so to speak. In building toward grander conquests, I would need to kill not only with swiftness but as much fluidity and elegance as possible. There was nothing fluid about plunging your blade into a pangolin’s underbelly. It became clear that I would need to fashion other weapons.
I was beginning to also appreciate the valuable lessons I’d learned by staying behind with Shandra-Namba when Shumbuto took the other children hunting. I knew to locate stone quarries by following the river’s lead. When I came to them, I sifted through the shallow waters for shale rock. Shale rock, you see, holds three excellent qualities for forging a respectable knife: (1) The rock is thin, (2) it is agreeable, and (3) much like myself, it is sharp as a motherfucker. Extracting the shale from the riverbed can be difficult, as it can be buried rather deep. But once you pry it out, it’s quite easy to break down to whatever shape you want (within reason).
Using Shumbuto’s blade to carve the first shale knife was an arduous task, like shucking bamboo with a giraffe’s leg. I’ve never done that, of course, but you get the idea.
With the initial stab-jabber sharpened, the next ones came easier and easier still. I assigned them numbers based on their size and deadliness. After a few strict, focused days of bobbing for shale and shaping my cutters to perfection, I had myself a halfway decent arsenal — all lined up perfectly, glistening in the late afternoon sun. I leaned in to better heed the whisper of the blades; they made solemn promises of blood and carnage, food and triumph, peace and pain.
As I was minding my own business there in the Zambezi shallows, a suicidal catfish swam up and brushed his ghastly whiskers against my defenseless big toe. Ba-boom! Zero hesitation! I defended the honor of my left foot’s general and flung blade #3 at the water harpy. It pierced his eye and he died ugly, bubbling some nonsensical fish-speak. “Fup-oo ant oor muffer,” it could have been.
That night, stewing over catfish stew, I admired my knives. There were thirty-three in all, not counting Shumbuto’s machete. As content as I was with my collection, a realization reared its ugly head.
How the devil will I carry them all?
I surveyed the open land and realized it was, in actuality, a nonissue. This would be my new home. Here, where the Zambezi could touch my feet every morning, noon, and night. Here, where I had both the quiet I desired and the solitude I deserved.
I made camp one hundred paces from the river in the hollow of a mountain cave. I traversed what I now figure was probably around a ten-mile (sixteen-kilometer) perimeter around what I considered to be my territory, and (oh yes!) I marked it well. Any animal who dared enter my home circle would get a whiff of my powerful urine blasts and know who was king of this domain.
There were wolves that barked and howled when the night gave birth to more vile night in the dead of night. There were lunatic, drooling hyenas scavenging, always scavenging for their next meal. If the unscrupulous vultures didn’t pick off the rotting carcasses of beasts who met their maker by way of natural causes or foul play, the hyenas sure as hell did.
Truth be told, I can’t say how many long hours I spent meandering, you know, inside my head. But I can relate at least one time when I nearly succumbed to a rare form of, for lack of a better term, isolation mania.
The heat was beyond oppressive on this particular day in question. My skin was melting like slow sap. I don’t know what I was doing when I witnessed a curious pair of aardvarks doddering from one anthill to another, just a stone’s throw from my cave-home. (Come to think of it, my hair, if I remember correctly, was getting long. I may have been busy braiding it.)
Hundreds, nay, thousands of army ants scattered, with no sanctuary to go to. The aforementioned aardvarks, strangely enough, were roaming during their normal sleeping hours, throwing the harried insects for a loop.
Baring their grotesque proboscis teeth and flicking their lizard tongues in my general direction, the aardvarks reminded me very much of the departed pangolin, minus the armor. I responded to their war grimaces by boiling my own eyes up and firing fair warning.
“Don’t mess with me, boys,” I articulated. “I’ll take you to town. I’ll take you to town and I’ll drown you down.” But there is no reasoning with insane beasts. That is a fact I know all too well.
By this time, I’d spread my thirty-three blades at random intervals within my piss-radius domain. I knew (as well as I knew the lines on my palms) where each of the thirty-three lay hidden. During this unreal fight, #17 was nearby. I could reach it, if need be. I did not believe it would be necessary.
The mad aardvarks rushed me from either side. Such was their folly. Had they charged head-on, they would have acquired the advantage of driving at my center of gravity. With two of them gnashing my gut, I don’t know whether my arms could have bashed both of them with sufficient force. But as fate would have it, they chose instead to flank me. With each mighty unclenched fist, I grabbed them by their silly snouts and smashed their aardvark noggins together.
CA-CHUNK.
The sound, whether imagined or real, was satisfying.
I dropped the beasts to the ground and then, for a laugh, tied their snouts together in an impossible knot and launched them into the stratosphere. So much for Shumbuto’s snooty rules.
I was right about one thing at least. I had not needed blade #17.
* * *
As the days bled into one another, individual rites of passage continually presented themselves. My skills and kills progressed. Though I can’t pinpoint exactly how each new achievement contributed to my rock-solid character, I can edge close. I do revere the animals I hunted — I know their names. Every one is forever a part of me.
Being alone for that extended period of my life did great wonders for my strength, growth, and cunning, though it may arguably have done some damage to the way in which I perceive the world.
Case in point: The quagga doesn’t exist. Not now nor when I was traipsing my way around southern Africa. They say he went and got himself extinct during the late 19th century. Heck of a thing for a species to do. Not that the poor guy had much say in the matter. If he had his druthers, he’d have opted to carry on the simple life of grazing the peaceful plains and not being eaten. But, much to his disappointment, he was hunted to extinction by Dutch settlers and Africans. That was history’s story anyway. So imagine my surprise when I came upon the gentle creature while going about my daily activities.
You’re shaking your head like you don’t know what a quagga is. The quagga, for your information, looks like a zebra from the neck up, though his stripes are white and brown. The bottom half of his body is all brown, and that’s where he most resembles a horse.
Not much is officially known about the quagga’s social behaviors because I guess folks back before the 1900s didn’t keep very good notes. But, having encountered a group of them for sure, I’ll let you in on the scoop.
The quagga were a bunch of sluggish, careless lazybones — at least, the pack I came across were. When I learned later in life they’d gone extinct, I wasn’t at all surprised. Any species that lollygags out in the open like that is just asking for someone to come up from behind and KA-BOP.
Sorry, quagga. Sorry, world. If I’d known he was already extinct, I might have spared him. But then, would I have been sparing a ghost? That’s crazy talk, right? You ever heard of a ghost quagga? No, of course not, how could you? Before now, you’d never even heard of a quagga quagga! I’ll tell you what, though, the animal I ate that night had more meat on his lazybones than any ghost would. And even when I was roasting the dumb son of a bitch over my fire, his mates were still loping about, munching leaves and occasionally bumping into each other. Don’t mind us. We’re just here.
I swear, if a pack of lions charged ’em, they might’ve mustered the energy to blink and raise their necks for slaughter. How did these numbskull, nature defiers survive? If they were real (and, like I said, the quagga I ate certainly tasted real), then they were right smarter than anyone ever gave them credit for, including me.
You want to hear about leopards? Here’s an animal everyone can agree is very real and very dangerous. Little known fact: They are also a traitorous bunch. To hunt a leopard, all you have to do is pit them against one another. To cause this great distraction, you simply throw the carcass of any lesser animal into a leopard circle. Any old carcass will do. I used to favor rabbits as bait. Leopards go particularly apeshit for a bunny’s fluffy purities.
If you can get two leopards to tussle each other, the others will either watch in earnest, or, if they themselves are also hungry (which is likely), they will join the fight with gusto. The lot of them will rip the carcass limb from limb, scratching, clawing, and gnawing each other all the while. When the free meal is gone, spent and exhausted, they will count their numbers, and before long it will dawn on them: Wait a tic … has anyone seen Leopold?
By the time they realize he’s no longer among them, hapless Leopold the leopard will be roasting on my spit.
Wild dogs and wolves are the most sinister among this middle-range class of animal that I classify as fast food. Feral canines are impressive creatures, howling at the moon and whatnot. I’ve often tried the bare-naked moon yelp myself and, to be fair, it does a dose of good to the soul.
In the taking of any undomesticated animal’s life, you have to be merciless. This is what I was getting at earlier. In many ways, a great hunter must become stoic, emotionless; nothing can faze him. Not even those great big puppy dog eyes. You know what? I’m not in the mood. Let’s skip that one.
You know the old joke: How does a man take down a monarch elephant? It’s certainly a humor I never understood. The punch line is: Very carefully.
Well, no shit! A monarch elephant weighs several tons! You’re not going to approach something that large without careful planning.
I crafted a mighty bow out of bamboo. I skinned the barks off trees and made shafts. I carved more shale into arrowheads and fashioned fletching from various birds’ wings. I practiced my burgeoning archery skills daily with the goal of taking aim at nature’s biggest game.
After weeks of tedious bow time, I had my skill down to a perfect science and shifted my focus to speed. You can’t best the monarch elephant with one arrow alone. You need many. They are slow runners, yes, but that doesn’t change the fact that they can trample you to death. As soon as your first arrow pierces his coarse skin, you can be damned sure he is going to immediately turn his massive body your way, stare you down, and charge. At that point, you’re going to be looking down the barrel of a crushing death and your only escape will be to let loose as many arrows as possible.
Voom! Voomvoomvoomvoomvoomvoomvoomvoom!
Nine arrows off with no hesitation and the bastard kept coming. From my crouched position behind some shrubbery, I had been aiming at the fleshiest part of his neck. All nine had gone in. I was a hell of a shot. But the mighty lepidopteran pachyderm was unfazed and enraged. He punished the earth with his heavy hooves. For the first time in my education as a great white hunter, I had failed by a massive degree. Mere arrows were not going to take this creature down.
I bolted. I don’t like to admit it, but I did. (If I’d stayed my ground, I would not be here today to tell you the story.) I looked back to discover the elephant was, unbelievably, still following. And not only that, but he was gaining on me.
There was a stone-covered embankment within reach. I dashed up it with the beast at my heels. I turned to see him try and climb, but he fell backward with each heavy step. His incredible weight was too much for the unyielding incline. I was safe. I recovered as my prey (turned predator) below me panted and panted. The difference between us was that I alone could catch my breath. With the thrill of the chase now over, he seemed to resign himself to his coming demise. The arrows were having their impact.
Looking down, I pitied him. This emotion could not be allowed — never allowed. I pushed it aside. From my carry-on holster strapped to my back, I retrieved another arrow. I fastened the weapon to my well-strung bow and took aim. This would surely end him. I pulled back with such incredible force that the sinews in my forearm throbbed. The sun beat down and I tried to ignore the sweat building on my brow.
Focus, Marcus. Focus.
The monster’s eyes were heavy. He was slipping away. This final arrow would alleviate his suffering. I could picture it penetrating his great skull from close range and exploding out the other side. It would be a quick death. Or rather, it would have been a quick death, had it not been for the lions.
There were two of them driving hard toward us. The epitome of stealth, they seemed to have materialized from some unknown universe where sound has no sound. They moved in slow motion and regular time all at once. Their mad sprint was regal. Their golden beards danced in the light. They sniffed the air. They owned it.
Entranced, I let loose the tension on my bow. It fell to the rock under my feet. I hardly noticed.
The monarch elephant moaned. He could not know his fate was coming as the lions approached noiselessly from behind. Surely, he was aware he was dying. He now lay at the foot of the rocks with blood oozing out of his nine fresh piercings. Nine wounds — each deeper than the last. Yet he was stubborn about dying and determined to continue staring into my very soul for eternity, or at least until the lions reached him, whichever came first.
I was done admiring their game, their stealth, their hunt. What I first misdiagnosed as respect for the lions’ cunning prowess was now pure and untainted hate. I would kill these princes of hell and I would do it not for the dying elephant before me, but for the sake of the endangered Shakasantie I’d left behind.
I thought I moved forward, slid down the rocks a little. But I did not.
I thought I unsheathed Shumbuto’s blade. I thought I held it in my hand. I thought I heard myself scream a warrior cry and leap down to meet them. But I did not and I did not and I did not.
What I did do was freeze in place and watch as those two wildcats pounced. They dug in with their teeth and their claws. The sound of leathery rawhide being ripped to shreds filled my ears. The monarch elephant let out a final cry and expired as the first vulture circled over our heads. I noted, in my sad, sorry state of immobility, how these two lions did not even glance my way. Not at first. As they mauled the wounded animal, they were either oblivious to my presence or considered me such a non-threat that they didn’t deign to acknowledge me. I imagine they were right to ignore me. I am embarrassed to say that I was as worthless and unimportant in that moment as a wingless fly on shit.
When the horror show ended, when the lions had their fill, they stayed and rested their big, furry heads. Once I perceived them to be napping, I made my move to go. As soon as I stood from my crouched position, the alpha lion perked up and shot me a soundless snarl. His blood-soaked jaw formed into what could only be described as a maniac’s grin. He put his head back down, rested it on his brother’s leg, and closed his eyes. That lion knew I was nothing, and he wanted me to know he knew it.
And I did know it. I know it still.
Very well, lion. I will wait till you go deeper.
Night fell and they slept hard. I escaped with my life and my limbs intact.
Ashamed of the things I’d done and not done that day, I walked away. This humbling hunting lesson was over.
CHAPTER
6
I am full of pride and venom, that’s for sure. It’s my nature to boast to the point of braggartism, and for this I am not ashamed. Whether I knew it or not, I was neither physically nor mentally capable of challenging those lions. That, plus a part of me was still a frightened boy. I admit this freely too. I’d grown up fearing the accursed lion. Hearing rustles in every bush. Snarls round every hut. I’d seen far too much of my kin’s blood, and I was barely yet a man. I was bound to harbor some sense of everlasting fright.
My next mission was to overcome my one disability. I ceased hunting (lest you call the occasional fish for protein’s sake “hunting”) and I ate little. To conquer my weakness, I practiced the art of relaxing my inner self. I brought my core persona to a tepid state of passiveness. In effect, I was sitting long hours in deep states of meditation. Mind you, Shumbuto’s blade remained by my side. As a precaution, I would occasionally force myself back to consciousness at a moment’s notice, pretending an enemy was daring an approach. I would not be caught with my subconscious pants down.
