on spread wings with the sunlight catching his vivid plumage and his
sparkling eye.
David was hooked by the photography bug, and there were more lenses and
cameras and tripods, until Debra protested that it was a hobby which was
completely visual, and from which she was excluded.
David had one of his inspirations of genius. He sent away for pressings
of June Stannard's bird song recordings, and Debra was enchanted. She
listened to them intently, her whole face lighting with pleasure when
she recognized a familiar call.
From there it was a natural step for her to attempt to make her own bird
recordings, which included the tinkle of Zulu's silver bell, the buzz of
David's Land Rover, the voices of the servants arguing in the kitchen
yard, and faintly, very faintly, the chatter of a glossy starling.
It's no damned good, Debra complained bitterly I wonder how she got hers
so clear and close David did some reading, and built a parabolic
reflector for her. it did not look particularly lovely, but it worked.
Aimed at a sound source it gathered and directed the sound waves into
the microphone.
From the window of Debra's study they became more adventurous and moved
out. He built permanent and comfortable hides beside the drinking
places at the pools, and when his rangers reported a nesting site of an
interesting bird species, they would build temporary blinds of thatch
and canvas, sometimes on tall stilts where David and Debra spent many
silent and enjoyable hours together, shooting film and catching sound.
Even Zulu learned to he still and silent with his bell removed on these
occasions.
Slowly they had begun to build up a library of photographs and
recordings of a professional standard, until at last David plucked up
sufficient courage to send to African Wild Life Magazine a selection of
a dozen of his best slides. Two weeks later, he received a letter of
acceptance, with a cheque for a hundred dollars. This payment
represented a return of approximately one twentieth of one percent of
his capital outlay on equipment. David was ecstatic, and Debra's
pleasure almost as great as his. They drank two bottles of Veuve
Clicquot for dinner, and under the spell of excitement and champagne
their love-making that night was particularly inventive.
When David's photographs were published in Wild Life accompanied with
Debra's text, they reaped an unexpected harvest of letters from persons
of similar interest all over the world, and a request from the editors
for a full-length, illustrated article on Jabulani, and the Morgans
plans for turning it into a game sanctuary.
Debra made a lovely model for David's photographs that he compiled for
the article, and she also worked with care on the text, while David fed
her ideas and criticism.
Debra's new book lay abandoned, but her disappointment was forgotten in
the pleasure of working together.
Their correspondence with other conservationists provided them with
sufficient intellectual stimulus, and the occasional company of Conrad
Berg and Jane satisfied their need for human contact. They were still
both sensitive about being with other people, and this way they could
avoid it.
The Wild Life article was almost complete and ready for postin& when a
letter arrived from Bobby Dugan in New York. The editor of Cosmopolitan
magazine had chanced upon one of the few copies of A Place of Our Own in
circulation. She had liked it, and the magazine was considering
serialization of the book, possibly linked with a feature'article on
Debra. Bobby wanted Debra to let him have a selection of photographs of
herself, and four thousand words of autobiographical notes.
The photographs were there, ready to go to Wild Life, and Debra ran
through the four thousand words in three hours with David making
suggestions, some helpful and some bawdy.
They sent off the tape and pictures in the same post as the article to
Wild Life. For nearly a month they heard nothing more about it and then
something happened to drive it from their minds.
They were in the small thatch and daub hide beside the main pool,
sitting quietly and companionably during a lull in the evening activity.
David had his camera tripod set up in one of the viewing windows and
Debra's reflector was raised above the roof of the hide, daubed with
camouflage paint and operated by a handle above her head.
The water was still and black, except where a surface feeding bream was
rising near the far reed banks. A flock of laughing doves was lining up
with a chattering troop of spotted guinea fowl at the water's edge,
sipping water and then pointing their beaks to the sky as they let it
run down their throats.
Suddenly David took her wrist as a cautionary signal, and by the
intensity of his grip she knew that he had seen something unusual and
she leaned close against him so that she could hear his whispered
descriptions, and with her right hand she switched on the recorder and
then reached up to aim the reflector.
A herd of the rare and shy nyala antelope were approaching the drinking
place timidly, clinging until the last possible moment to the security
of the forest.
Their ears were spread, and their nostrils quivered and sucked at the
air, huge dark eyes glowing like lamps in the gloom.
There were nine hornless females, delicate chestnut in colour, striped
with white, dainty-stepping and suspicious, as they followed the two
herd bulls. These were so dissimilar from their females as though to
belong to a different species. Purplish black, and shaggy with a rough
mane extending from between the ears to the crupper. Their horns were
thick and cork screwed, tipped with cream, and between their eyes was a
vivid white chevron marking.
Advancing only a step at a time, and then pausing to stare with the
limitless patience of the wild, searching for a hint of danger, they
came slowly down the bank.
They passed the hide so closely that David was afraid to press the
trigger of his camera lest the click of the shutter frighten them away.
He and Debra sat frozen as they reached the water; Debra smiled happily
as she picked up the soft snort with which the -lead bull blew the
surface before drinkin& and the liquid slurping with which he drew his
first mouthful.
Once they were all drinking, David aimed and focused with care, but at
the click of the shutter the bull nearest him leapt about and uttered a
hoarse, throbbing alarm bark. Instantly the entire herd whirled and
raced away like pale ghosts through the dark trees.
I got it! I got it! exulted Debra. Wow! He was so close, he nearly
burst my eardrums. The excitement on Jabulani was feverish. Nyala
antelope had never been seen on the estate before, not even in David's
father's time, and all steps were taken to encourage them to remain. The
pools were immediately placed out of bounds to all the rangers and
servants, lest the human presence frighten the herd off before they had
a chance to settle down and stabilize their territory.
Conrad Berg arrived, still using a stick and limping heavily as he would
for the rest of his life. From the hide he watched the herd with David
and Debra, and then back at the homestead he sat before the log fire,
eating prime beef steak and drinking Old Buck while he gave his opinion.
They aren't from the Park, I shouldn't think. I would have recognized a
big old bull like that if I'd ever seen him before, they have probably
sneaked in from one of the other estates, you haven't got the south