but shaded to black in the depths.
David scratched in the muddy bank and turned out a thick pink earthworm.
He threw it into the shallows and a dark shape half as long as his arm
rushed silently out of the depths and swirled the surface.
Wow! David laughed. There are still a few fat ones around. We will
have to bring down the rods. I used to spend days down here when I was
a kid. The forest was filled with memories and as they wandered along
the edge of the reed banks he reminisced about his childhood, until
gradually he fell into silence, and she asked: Is something wrong,
David? 'She had grown that sensitive to his moods.
There are no animals. His tone was puzzled. Birds, yes. But we
haven't seen a single animal, not even a duiker, since we left the
homestead. He stopped at a place that was clear of reeds, where the
bank shelved gently. This used to be a favourite drinking place. It
was busy day and night, the herds virtually lining up for a chance to
drink. He left Debra and went down to the edge, stooping to examine the
ground carefully. No spoor even, just a few Kudu and a small troop of
baboon.
There has not been a herd here for months, or possibly years. When he
came back to her she asked gently, You are upset? Jabulani without
its animals is nothing, 'he muttered. Come on, let's go and see the
rest of it. There is something very odd here.
The leisurely outing became a desperate hunt, as David scoured the
thickets and the open glades, followed the dried water courses and
stopped the Land Rover to examine the sand beds for signs of life.
Not even an impala, he was worried and anxious. There used to be
thousands of them. I remember herds of them, silky brown and graceful
as ballet dancers, under nearly every tree. He turned the Land-Rover
northwards, following an overgrown track through the trees.
There is grazing here that hasn't been touched. It's lush as a
cultivated garden. A little before noon they reached the dusty,
corrugated public road that ran along the north boundary of Jabulani.
The fence that followed the edge of the road was ruinous, with sagging
and broken wire and many of the uprights snapped off at ground level.
Hell, it's a mess, David told her, as he turned through a gap in the
wire on to the road, and followed the boundary for two miles until they
reached the turnoff to the Jabulani homestead.
Even the signboard hanging above the stone pillars of the gateway, which
David's father had fashioned in bronze and of which he had been so
proud, was now dilapidated and-hung askew.
Well, there's plenty of work to keep us going, said David with a certain
relish.
Half a mile beyond the gates the road turned sharply, hedged on each
side by tall grass, and standing full in the sandy track was a
magnificent kudu bull, ghostly grey and striped with pale chalky lines
across the deep powerful body. His head was held high, armed with the
long corkscrew black horns, and his huge ears were spread in an intent
listening attitude.
For only part of a second he posed like that, then, although the
Land-Rover was still two hundred yards off, he exploded into a smoky
blur of frantic flight. His great horns laid along his back as he fled
through the open bush in a series of long, lithe bounds, disappearing so
swiftly it seemed he had been only a fantasy, and David described it to
Debra.
He took off the very instant he spotted us. I remember when they were
so tame around here that we had to chase them out Of the vegetable garden
with a stic. . Again he swung off the main track and on to another
overgrown path, on which the new growth of saplings was already thick
and tall. He drove straight over them in the tough little vehicle.
What on earth are you doing? Debra shouted above the crash and swish of
branches.
In this country when you run out of road, you just make your own.
Four miles farther on, they emerged abruptly on to the fire-break track
that marked the eastern boundary of Jabulani, the dividing line between
them and the National Park which was larger than the entire land area of
the state of Israel, five million acres of virgin wilderness, three
hundred and eighty-five kilometres long and eighty wide, home of more
than a million wild animals, the most important reservoir of wild life
left in Africa.
David stopped the Land-Rover, cut the engine and jumped down. After a
moment of shocked and angry silence he began to swear.
What's made you so happy? 'Debra demanded.
Look at that, just look at that! David ranted.
I wish I could. Sorry, Debs. It's a fence. A game fence! It stood
eight feet high and the uprights were hardwood poles thick as a man's
thigh, while the mesh of the fence was heavy gauge wire. They have
fenced us off. The National Park's people have cut us off. No wonder
there are no animals. As they drove back to the homestead David
explained to her how there had always been an open boundary with the
Kruger National Park. It had suited everybody well enough, for
Jabulani's sweet grazing and the perennial water of the pools helped to
carry the herds through times of drought and scarcity.
It's becoming very important to you, this business of the wild animals.
Debra had listened silently, fondling the labrador's head, as David
spoke.
Yes, suddenly it's important. When they were here, I guess I just took
them for granted, but now they are gone it's suddenly important.
They drove on for a mile or two without speaking and then David said
with determination, I'm going to tell them to pull that fence down. They
can't cut us off like that. I'm going to get hold of the head warden,
now, right away. David remembered Conrad Berg from his childhood when
he had been the warden in charge of the southern portion of the park,
but not yet the chief. There was a body of legend about the man that
had been built up over the years, and two of these stories showed
clearly the type of man he was.
Caught out in a lonely area of the reserve after dark with a broken-down
truck, he was walking home when he was attacked by a full-grown male
lion. In the struggle he had been terribly mauled, half the flesh torn
from his back and the bone of his shoulder and arm bitten through. Yet
he had managed to kill the animal with a small sheath knife, stabbing it
repeatedly in the throat until he hit the jugular. He had then stood up
and walked five miles through the night with the hyena pack following
him expectantly, waiting for him to drop.
On another occasion one of the estate owners bounding the park had
poached one of Berg's lions, shooting it down half a mile inside the
boundary. The poacher was a man high in government, wielding massive
influence, and he had laughed at Conrad Berg.
What are you going to do about it, my friend? Don't you like your job?
Doggedly, ignoring the pressure from above, Berg had collected his
evidence and issued a summons. The pressure had become less subtle as
the court date approached, but he had never wavered. The important
personage finally stood in the dock, and was convicted.
He was sentenced to a thousand pounds fine or six months at hard labour.
Afterwards he had shaken Berg's hand and said to him, Thank you for a
lesson in courage, and perhaps this was one of the reasons Berg was now
chief warden.
He stood beside his game fence where he had arranged over the telephone