Chapter One
The thirteen-year-old boy took in the glazed-over eyes of the leopard he had just shot.
Ashur Bane Paul stood up in the back of the rover, inhaling whiffs of Tanzanian jasmine buds and the distant burning of household trash. Ashur had awoken that morning in the dark, before the calls of the hornbills and hadadas. They echoed around him now, mostly drowned out by the engine’s rumble. A small cloud of dust plumed behind the car, like a comet’s trail, gradually disappearing. The wind’s pressure against his torso demanded surrender. Hunting was an adventure so grand it mirrored the expeditions of various characters in the hundreds of books he had read. The written word and hunting provided him respite from some of the chaos that was his upbringing.
The narrow sliver of the rising sun was just enough to seemingly ignite the tips of Ashur’s blood-red hair. Tanzanians would often ask to touch it, in disbelief. That attention was, for him, both pride and discomfort. Even though he presented as a wallflower, deep down he loved attention but would never admit it.
Mark Paul brushed his salt and peppered bangs from his eyes and gazed up at Ashur, grateful for how happy the trip had made him. His net worth afforded him not to bat an eye while throwing down six figures on the trip. Mark decided to fulfill a bucket list goal by booking the Big Five package: a lion, elephant, buffalo, rhinoceros and leopard. It had been an impulsive purchase, as he yearned for a good distraction from his on-going divorce. He sensed Ashur would’ve also benefited from a distraction.
Mark took a moment to capture Ashur’s radiance on his 1967 Leica. Ashur would follow his dad’s liking for anything old. He felt it was a way of tangibly connecting with the stories that made the world.
Accompanying them on the hunt were two Tanzanian men of the Sukuma tribe. At the wheel was Gema, a twenty-something, reserved, spindly man. Gema was a new employee and aspiring guide. Bukombe, the fifty-year-old hunting guide, contrastingly, had the build of a professional boxer and bore traumatic facial injuries. When Bukombe had been a novice hunter, his bullet barely grazed the top of a lioness’s shoulder blade. She bolted and punctured his left eye and sliced off his left ear. Ashur tried hard not to stare at Bukombe’s glass eye, facial scars, and the cavity where his ear had once been. Ashur wondered if Van Gogh’s missing ear had looked anything like Bukombe’s. Of course, he kept this to himself.
After driving thirty minutes, they slowly entered a shady grove of kigelia trees, also known as sausage trees, named after the large grey-brown oblong fruits, that could weigh more than a newborn infant, dangling from long rope-like stalks. Gema idled the motor as a troop of thirty olive baboons crossed in front of the rover, a handful chasing one another.
Gema shut down the engine.
This was their tenth return to the site.
Six days prior, Bukombe and Gema had created a scented trail to bait the cat. As standard practice, they had smeared the intestines and stomach of an impala onto the trunk of the tree. To mask their human scent, they dragged the impala’s bloody carcass through the surrounding grass. They cinched the ewe’s hind legs with nylon rope, and hauled down, elevating her body to the canopy- beyond the reach of lions and hyenas. They left the impala’s head swaying and forehooves dangling, with her blood seeping down her neck, dripping from the tip of her muzzle. Her hollow chest blackened within the hour with buzzing flesh and blowflies. Her stench now stuck in the moist air.
During the evenings Bukombe, Asher as well as Mark crammed themselves in the blind- a small, camouflaged shelter and waited three to five hours until dusk. They’d pass the time by reading, chatting quietly and munching dried snacks. Ashur’s rifle poked out the window, supported by a tripod, aimed at the bait.
The morning visits were intended to check if the bait had been found. If so, they’d confirm age and sex- measuring the size of paw prints in the mud. A male leopard was their only legal target. Each passing day lowered their chances of success.
“She’s been eaten!”
All men zoomed in with their binoculars. Shards of exposed ribs rocked below the untouched legs. Before they lowered their binoculars, an adult leopard approached the trunk and licked at the smeared intestines and stomach.
The men sunk into their seats.
“He’s male!” Bukombe confirmed.
The leopard clawed his way up the trunk, returning to the body, at the exact height he’d normally cache his victims.
Ashur, Mark, Bukombe and Gema watched the leopard relish his last meal, tugging then hugging the body, fangs and claws erasing the last of her existence.
They’d intended to shoot the leopard from the safety of the blind. Bukombe looked to Mark, as if psychically inquiring if they’d like to proceed. The four knew there was no feasible way to reach the blind without the leopard noticing. However, their current two-hundred-meter distance and angle made it theoretically possible to spot-and-stalk. Mark nodded to Bukombe, consenting to advance on foot.
Ashur’s hue faded.
“You wanna do this, son?” Mark whispered to Ashur.
Ashur nodded quickly.
They three shouldered their rifles and slid over the rover’s doors while Gema waited at the wheel. Bukombe circled them behind the leopard, crouching step by step, knees and buttocks brushing the guinea grass. The leopard unexpectedly turned around, looking out in their direction. They froze mid-step and held their breath.
“He’s looking right at me,” Ashur worried.
“Quiet,” Bukombe whispered
The rustling of baboons on the opposite side diverted the leopard’s attention. He turned and stopped chewing. Bukombe ordered them to crouch further into the grass blades and advance quickly, eclipsing themselves beneath a cluster of willowing fruit and leaves. Through the foliage, they saw the leopard scanning again, searching. Remembering his safety in the canopy, the leopard returned to his feast, now relaxed on his belly. They observed his bloody mastication. Just as a human would binge a holiday meal, the leopard let out a deep, satisfied exhale, his tail swaying side to side.
Bukombe gave another nod to Mark.
“He’s all yours, son,” Mark whispered to Ashur.
More than anything, Ashur wanted to prove his craft and honor his father’s gift—to kill the beast in one shot: a clean kill. A shaman of the dead. But this was unlike any other hunt. This was his first predator. A shot that could end him.
He stepped into the light, and like his own mane, the sun rays ricocheted off the leopard’s spots. Beneath the crosshairs, he objectively understood the ginger craze—it was inherently mesmerizing. Ashur held his finger on the trigger and waited for the leopard to lift his torso to expand his target. Ashur cocked the rifle. The leopard whipped his head reflexively, their eyes now unmistakably locked.
Without lifting his body, the leopard’s claws gripped the bark in preparation for a prance. In a split second, Ashur realized his hopes for a larger target would not come. The leopard’s snarl released a blood-curdling hiss.
“NOW!” Bukombe yelled.
Ashur pulled the trigger.
The bullet pierced the side of leopard’s neck. In one hundredth of a second, a four-millimeter piece of metal conquered a being ten thousand times its size. Blood spewed like a jet of lava from a fissure. Instead of falling instantaneously, the cat collapsed into the branch. He hung like a puppet with all four of his heavy legs dangling, the tip of his tongue resting out. Gravity slowly pulled the heavier side, rolling him off. The body flopped as an agile bean bag, hitting two boughs before the final thud.
Silence overtook the hunters.
Each had the same thought.
Though none were brave enough to admit it. It would’ve killed the vibe.
Bukombe broke the silence.
“Clean kill!”
They all cheered. Mark embraced Ashur and kissed the top of his head. Bukombe gave Ashur a sweaty side hug. The group approached the trophy, as Bukombe continued vigilantly scanning their surroundings.
The leopard lay on his backside. A large pool of blood grew from the neck. Mark dipped his finger into the blood then smeared warrior streaks across Ashur’s cheeks. Ashur smiled graciously and began lightly caressing the tail and paws, zooming in on a few of the impala’s hairs caked on the claws.
“You want a picture, right?”
“Of course!”
“Here, let’s roll him over.”
“Damn, heavy beast!”
“There we go!”
“Nice!”
“Ashur! Hold his head up high! That’s right! Perfect. One more! Wait—lower him down a bit! Perfect!”
“Dang! He’s heavy!”
“Just a few more! Here, let’s take a few with him lying down in front of you.”
Ashur lowered the body, arranging his paws in a delicate manner.
“Perfect!”
“Kneel down a bit.”
“How bout one with both of you?”
“Great.”
“Beautiful, ain’t he?”
“Yeah.”
“Magnificent creature.”
The adults’ chatter became muffled background noise, as the thirteen-year-old boy took in the glazed-over eyes of the leopard he had just shot.
