My suspicions are right, for their voracious appetites are suddenly driving them forward down the hill, towards us. There is no male in sight; he must be waiting for the signal that lunch is being served before he bothers to get up. In the meantime, he won’t expel any energy. He’ll save his energy for ripping me apart, limb-by-limb. Then he’ll gnaw through my fat in search of the meat that lies far below.
The dominant female holds her head high into the air and opens her mouth wide. She pants heavily as she smells the air with her tongue, tasting what’s in her territory. I try hard to squelch my fear, pushing it down, far away from any of my pores or glands, so the scent won’t escape and call attention to us.
My attempt is futile, for she is, at this very moment, leading the way towards us. She is not running; it would be too easy and too compassionate to end my life so quickly. Instead, she’s moving slowly, one deliberate step at a time. Her muscular form skulks down low to the ground. She’s not trying to hide herself because she knows I am no match for her. It’s pure instinct that dictates her movements.
With each step, her shoulder blades roll back and forth in a rhythmic movement. Her eyes are in a trance-like state, fixed upon her target. Her mouth is still set open as it engulfs an appetizer of fear pheromones that are now running rampant from me. I want to scream, but I can’t, my vocal chords are paralyzed in fear. I can’t even warn the Drill Sergeant, who still has his back turned towards them.
She is well within the five hundred foot limit now. If she decides to run, she will be on top of us in less than three seconds; we have no chance of escaping her.
The truck tire has gone flat. We can’t even escape if we wanted to. There is only one chance left, and that is to try and hide under Harrison and wait for help. I take a big step without thinking, keeping my eyes are focused on one thing, and one thing only; Harrison and the life-saving shelter he can provide. I dive underneath him with all my might, sliding to a stop just below the front axle.
The two seasoned hunters could drag me out of here. My thoughts are prophetic, for now they are closing in on me—one from each side of the truck—and there’s no escape. Any second now, it will all be over, she’ll yank me out by the leg. Her claws will dig into my thigh and slice through my skin like barbed wire. I’ll try and push her head away, but my efforts will be futile as she rips my arm off from its socket. If she has an ounce of compassion, her jaws will be around my throat, piercing my jugular, and life will escape from me quickly. My screams, like a dinner bell ringing, will signal the male that it’s time to eat. Is this the completion to my circle of life? Is this my contribution… to be lion food?
“Melissa? Melissa? MELISSA!” The Drill Sergeant’s bellow jolts me back to reality.
“Huh?”
“Stop standing around—are you day dreaming over there or what?”
The lions!” My voice returns to me, I can now warn him that the hunters are moving in on us.
He finally looks up the hill. “The lions haven’t moved.” He shakes his head and turns back to the broken ground in front of him.
He’s right. The lions haven’t moved. They are exactly where they were before, lying, almost asleep, in the afternoon sun. I look over at the tire, and it, too, is still full, not flat, as I had imagined it to be.
How could I have imagined the whole thing? It was so real. I heard her. I saw her. Heck, I even felt her breathing on me just before she sunk her teeth into my throat.
Peter Pan declared that imagination, or a lack of it, is a mere reflection of a paradise lost—lost with age, with growing up. If, even for a moment, doubt can be silenced and imagination is free to flourish, then all things wished for and hoped for, or even those things feared, are suddenly within reach.
But sometimes hope fools us into believing that we can somehow change our current reality instead of just accepting it as it is. And when we try to change something that is beyond our control, something that is outside of our realm of understanding, we quickly set ourselves up for defeat.
“Melissa?”
“Mum!” She’s awake! It’s a miracle. My wavering faith is instantly restored and stronger than ever. They said she wouldn’t ever come out of the coma, but she has proven them all wrong. They don’t realize how strong she is. She’s turned the corner just like I knew she would. She’s going to be beat this monster.
Her voice is weak. “I love you.”
“I love you too, Mum. Are you okay?”
“I’m a little tired.”
“Tired? You were asleep for two days!” Overflowing with happiness, I nearly shout the words.
“What?” She seems alarmed.
I shouldn’t have told her she had been asleep for so long. “Maybe it just seemed like two days. Are you hungry?”
“Yes, I’m starving.”
“I’ll go get some of that chicken you like from that place around the corner. What else do you want? Chocolate? Ice cream? You can have anything you want. Anything!”
“Chicken sounds nice. Can you put the TV on before you go, I’m afraid when you’re not here.”
“Of course. Don’t be afraid, Mum, I won’t be long.”
“Please hurry.”
“I will.”
High on Cloud Nine, my feet barely touch the ground on the way to the elevator. Passing the other patient rooms, I want to tell them all to have faith—just look at my mum, she’s going to be fine, and all the doctors and nurses were wrong, wrong, wrong. At least that is what I wanted to believe.
16
A Dual Between Logic and Fear
Tonight I am determined to sleep in my tent. I am ready to confront the demon of darkness and reclaim my territory. Tonight I will slay my fears, and be victorious. I am no longer afraid. Tonight I will sleep in my tent, I will, I will, I will. The time is now. I can do this. This will be easy. I can do anything, anything at all.
That was the mantra I was repeating over and over again earlier while the sun was still high. But now that the sun has set, there is an entirely different conversation underway in this black pit of pending death shrouded in canvas.
My face, previously sun-kissed by the crimson lipstick of the mid-day African sun, is now white, and its glow further illuminates the crepuscular gloom of my tent. Fear has painted my skin this color, careful not to leave any area exposed. The hair on my head, also unable to escape his reach, is standing on end, and goose bumps have flocked to my arms and legs, taking permanent residence there.
I’ve been “reading” in my tent for two hours, but am still on page one. My eyes are going through the motions, but my brain is unable to decipher the letters. It’s too preoccupied with my ears, the dedicated troops that are delivering loud and clear the messages coming from outside.
Earlier, I made a lengthy inspection of all sheets looking for creepy crawlies, as I always do, and found nothing potentially deadly. But on this night, it’s not what could be inside my tent that is bothering me; it’s what’s outside. The lions. They’re extremely active, roaring and growling in an ongoing chorus—more so now than ever before. The wind is acting like an efficient courier, carrying their calls directly to my door, making it appear as though they’re just outside, or perhaps they are outside. Perhaps the scent of my fear has brought them here at last.
The lions are taunting me, letting me know they can smell me. Even the wind is antagonizing me tonight, slapping the walls of my tent with ferocity like never before. I’ve been through this before; I thought there was a lion outside my tent and there was nothing, only wind. That’s all there is now, wind. Or maybe this time it’s real, maybe my luck has run out and there is a lion out there.