Argh, I think I
just finished this on time. I'm so sorry if there's weird grammar and stuff, I've only managed to go through it once (editing wise, not writing, haha). I hope I've at least caught most of them. Also, no ellipses! (Wordcount says I'm 5048 words.)
Rogue
19th of October, 1960
All the crows sat quietly waiting, wondering what his majesty would dine on tonight. Until Jengo had it squirming in his claws, even he did not know. The cattle were too much effort with the new krall in place, and the stray dogs were too wise to wander near the thick brush on the outskirts of the village. Jengo was patient; he had been here since the sky was a gored red, and he could wait some time still. His tail did not move, his ears did not twitch; his eyes were keen whilst his prey bumbled blindly about inside their shelters.
Insects bustled. Hours passed. Both king and admirers stayed silent.
A man. Jengo smelt him before he heard him.
He crept slowly towards the scent of iron and urine, his body dragging against the village’s short grass and packed earth as he crossed the threshold into their world.
The man exposed himself as he crossed from behind a shelter. Jengo followed curtly behind. As the man made to round the corner of a second hut Jengo lunged, grasping first the man’s hips and then his shoulders while biting down hard on the back of the man’s neck. He thrashed sharply left then right, snapping the spine. Historians would later argue over the intention of this tactic.
Jengo laid over his fresh corpse, pulling on limb and sinew. The crows remained silent.
A second lion approached; Mwenye. Bigger than Jengo, with an odd gait courtesy a front leg that was shorter than the others. It had broken, perhaps in a previous fight, and failed to set correctly.
It made him no less magnificent to behold.
Mwenye snarled at Jengo, charging the other and growling. Even with a poor leg and battle scars, the lion was bigger and flaunted a full mane – Jengo was no match for the other, with barely any mane to speak of and half the weight of his elder. Jengo curled low, ears flattened and teeth bared as he swung a paw at the other male, desperate to keep his meal all the same.
Mwenye rumbled a low, exhaling roar at the other as a final challenge. Unable to match it Jengo simply huffed and backed off of the corpse, laying a short distance from it and snarling. Mwenye consumed the lion’s share as a lammergeier watched from atop a thatch roof.
The Village's History
At the height of the 20th century, the village of Jivu, then known as Makaa, was headed towards a bright future. A vast forestry supported by a curving river that enticed hunters and romantics half a world away and a coal mine that brought in the extra money needed for a well, and then two wells, and then a school, and finally a hospital all promised great things. The railroad was half a mile away, but that was hardly a distance for the rapidly expanding village.
And then there was a forest fire.
Many locals blamed it on the hunters and their clumsy ways. The hunters denied knowing anything of a fire.
With a strong population villagers and tourists alike raced to the wells and the nearby river, dousing the flames. It took hours, but the villagers succeeded and saved the greatest portions of the forestry.
When they returned, half of Jivu was gone. Much of it had collapsed underground, and a terrible wail came from the hospital. Historians would explain that the sound was the building being gutted by the flames. Locals would explain it as the last cries of the living.
The coal seam fire would continue late into the night, pulling down homes and spitting columns of steam. Much of the village – what remained of it – was relocated a short distance away, with many grabbing only what could be carried in two hands and abandoning the rest of their belongings. The railroad delivered what supplies and help it could, but by then it was too late.
The new Jivu still boasted a well, but now children walked in the morning to a school a half a mile away. The nearest hospital was a day’s journey by jeep. The hunting brought in enough money for survival and the farming of food and livestock brought in enough to raise a family, but that was all. It’s population fell to ten percent of its original.
Some would argue the late months in nineteen-sixty and the early months of nineteen-sixty-one would see it once again make a name for itself.
For months a pair of lions had been stalking villagers, moving amongst homes and livestock. In the beginning the bigger one – named Mwenye, for he was clearly a lord, and the more frightening of the pair – would leap the fence into the pen with cattle. After killing most of them the lion would try to drag one of the carcasses off, while its brother Jengo sat in the darkness, watching.
Later it would become a point of contention over whether the lions were related.
20th of October, Morning
It was late morning, the sun not quite fully ascended. Already the heat was blistering. The lions panted the wet air, bugs criss-crossing their muzzles and faces. They paced slowly towards a nearby river, every calf and buffalo bolting at the sight of them. By light, Mwenye was considerably less impressive – his jaw didn’t sit quite right in his mouth and his tail had a painful bend to it. Jengo, so named for a rusted tint to his mane and fur, had his own fair share of battle-wounds – though they were little more than aesthetic scars, and he was lucky to not suffer from the same afflictions as his partner. Even so, their power was palpable in every tease of muscle.
After several steps Mwenye moaned and collapsed onto his side, huffing. A flock of vultures overhead descended near the beast, hopping towards the lion. Mwenye grunted and rolled to his belly, snarling and snapping at animals too wise to draw within his range.
One of the vultures screamed as Jengo tackled it, biting down on the juncture between wing and body. The others took to the air immediately. Mwenye rose from the grasses and shook his frame, growling at Jengo and trotting ahead.
26th of October, Afternoon
In the village it was chaos. Adults were yelling, children were playing, and men were setting up a great iron cage. One of the men – brother to the dead Kato, watched as another attempted to pull a stubborn goat lead by a rope into the cage.
The goat stomped its hooves and set its head crooked, trying to plant itself in place as the man pushed futilely on its hinds. There was a portion in the back of the cage, beyond the pressure plate that triggered the door, behind a wire divider that allowed the bait to remain safe.
The man cursed and shoved the goat hard, causing it to stumble over the low bar at the entrance. A man at the opposite side of the cage waved cheese, calling it. Atop a tree sat a single lammergeier, silent as it watched the events unfold.
Below, the children chased each other with sticks, pretending to be hunters chasing lions.
22nd of November, Morning
The lion within the iron cage was not happy. It flung itself at the bars of its cage, pushing its paw through and swiping at children who had gathered around it. A particularly unwise child’s stick found itself snapped in half by the beast.
At the back of the cage were the mutilated remnants of a goat. Vultures landed and pushed scaly faces inside, pulling pieces free. The lion charged them and threw itself at the divider, but the vultures did not flinch.
BANG!
The lion had not noticed the rifle pointed at the back of its head. The hunter shot it four more times. He had been a simple farmer before the death of his brother. He longed to be one again.
With guns and machetes poised a man grabbed a nearby tether that connected to the top of the cage, pulling on it. It was too heavy. Three more men joined him, and together they were able to pry it open, despite the deadweight on the pressure plate.
It did not respond to their pulling its ears or drawing open its mouth. The men gathered and beyond them, the children, eager to watch. Its paws were examined, its maw checked. They cut a long line from naval to breast and dug within to see what could be drawn out.
The stench was excruciating. They pried free fur and lines of muscle. They said nothing to the children, nor each other.
Behind them, two more men dragged the next goat towards the cage, who stubbornly pulled as its kin had. The vultures were not disturbed.
25th of January, 1961
The night was a brisk one. The morning had brought a cool rainfall that lasted late into the afternoon.
Jengo was alone. He had wandered towards the river, thirsty after an afternoon of shivering and failing several hunting attempts. He stopped at the sight of elephants.
They were not his usual prey. Even with a full pride, it was not an easy animal to take down. They were blind in this darkness, but their size and weight made them killers.
One turned, staring at the red lion. Perhaps they were not so blind after all.
Huffing, Jengo scanned the herd, moving diagonally to them as his tail bobbed. Sandwiched carefully between two adults was a calf, who joined the other in staring at him. Jengo huffed and swatted at the grass, turning and stalking away. Perhaps he could find a den of wild dogs.
Jengo stilled, closing his eyes and sniffing the air. His chest heaved with the breaths, ears folding back. There was something very dead nearby.
Meals did not need to be nice.
Jengo lowered his body, creeping slowly towards the smell. If it was the kill of another pride he needed to spot them before they saw him. Closer.
Closer. His nose wrinkled at the scent.
Finally, he found the source. A leopard lay on its side, its back twisted and stomach torn open. Flies raked across the short fur, disappearing amongst spots of black. Jengo swallowed his disgust and moved towards its stomach to pry out what pieces were left. As he set his paw on its back it sparked to life, eyes going wide and front leg swinging wildly. It did not move anywhere else, not even its other leg, and the distinct clack of its jaws opening and closing were little more than desperate attempts to prolong its life.
Jengo moved again to bite at it, this time a hind leg, and it managed to strike his side. It didn’t even part the fur, but the motion startled him. The leopard snarled and hissed at the mountain of a cat, twisting its upper body in a bizarre display of mobility. After a few moments, Jengo decided to leave the carcass. Its foul taste was not worth battling over, and so little was left as it was. The lion stalked back the way of the river, the sounds of the leopard snarling gradually fading into the night.
At the river the elephants had moved on, and Jengo moved slowly to the water’s edge. After a moment of grumbling he lowered his head, drinking. In a tree nearby watched a lammergeier, silent.
26th of January, Morning
With the sun came another heat wave, this one distinctly dry. Both Mwenye and Jengo laid near the carcass of the leopard Jengo had found the night previous, Mwenye pulling and chewing on lithe legs and under-developed muscles. A cub, perhaps chased from its mother’s side by a troupe of baboons. She was big, but not big enough to roam on her own and certainly not big enough to defeat baboons. It was strange they would have chased her this far from their habitat; nature abhorred the mundane.
Mwenye grunted, tearing a strip of muscle from the leopard’s back. Nearby a pack of jackals watched. Jengo raised his head towards them and grunted.
With a roar Mwenye finally finished with the body, looking to his partner. He limped over and butted heads, purring. Jengo responded in kind, rolling onto his belly. Mwenye groomed behind the younger lion’s ears and matted down some of the short mane, then stumbled past him in the direction of the river. A snake passing by hissed at the pair, then continued on its way.
After a few minutes more of staring down jackals Jengo too rose, following Mwenye’s lead.
At the river a herd of zebra drank, glancing suspiciously towards the lions. Mwenye stared blankly back at them, then crouched low with a huff. Jengo moved over to his side, licking his mane and then sitting beside him. Together, the pair drank greedily.
It was the whinny of the zebras that caught Jengo’s attention. The lion moved back from the surface of the water, tail quivering. The zebras were mimicking him, though in much more blatant a display of fear. Jengo moved forth to drink again, but paused just short of the surface. With a hesitant growl he turned to Mwenye, snarling.
Mwenye did not respond. While the dry heat was easier to breathe in, it did not stop the beasts from over-heating; especially Mwenye, who boasted a dark mane. Jengo repeated the snarl and Mwenye responded with a low grunt of his own. With a growl Jengo struck Mwenye across the face; Mwenye roared, lunging at Jengo who was quick to jog off and avoid the angry male. Mwenye followed a short distance, then huffed and turned back to the river.
There was one less zebra.
4th of February, Night
The crows had gathered once more. Their champion, Jengo, lay in wait as he had before, in the same brush used months ago.
The livestock were restless. The villagers were not prepared.
A boy chasing a stray dog ran straight into Jengo’s arms. The boy did not scream – he couldn’t, his entire throat had collapsed – and desperately he pushed at a massive face, at the rough whiskers and the coarse fur. He had been taught what to do, where to aim, how to survive this – but he could not think with no oxygen going to his brain. He squirmed, digging his feet into the ground to gain traction as if height might allow him to be seen and rescued.
Jengo did not mind. He stayed atop the boy, calm and silent. The boy stilled, and Jengo still did not release his grip. In the faraway distance there was a cackle of hyenas, and Jengo’s tail twitched.
The sound took on a different pitch. Jengo’s ears twitched as he released the carcass, standing and biting its shoulder to drag away to a pair of trees.
A lion roared. Jengo recognized it as Mwenye. The hyenas cackled, louder.
Growling, Jengo moved off from the boy to investigate. When the roar came again, he ran.
Mwenye stood fully bristling and ready, swiping at hyenas that pranced in and out of range. One had the audacity to bite down on a paw swung at it, and had its lower jaw split open by the three-inch claws it invited into its mouth. Jengo gave a series of low roars the hyenas ignored. They sensed a wounded lion.
A hyena clamped down on Jengo’s tail, and Jengo swiftly flipped to his back and pulled the hyena down with him only to slam his back paws against it. Jengo righted himself quickly and lunged at another, tackling it and biting down on its throat then tossing it to the side with a quick jerk, breaking its back and continuing towards he next. Mwenye continued to swing his paws at them, catching legs and sides until eventually the hyenas ceased. The wounded limped to the sides of the stronger, who cackled as they moved off. Jengo watched them disappear, then moved to Mwenye.
Mwenye was miserable; wounded and bleeding and barely able to hold himself up as the adrenaline subsided from his body. He panted, staring at Jengo, then eased himself down into a crouch and finally onto his side. Jengo did not know how to help him, and moved to his side to offer what comfort he could by resting near him. As Mwenye fell into a troubled slumber Jengo stared off, guarding him.
5th of February, Morning
Mwenye did not get better with the dawn. He moved slowly, falling frequently and calling after Jengo to wait for him. Every movement called upon energy he did not have. At first, Jengo merely waits for him. Then, as his falls continue Jengo moves to him, nuzzling him and grooming his mane before continuing on. It gives Mwenye strength for a few more feet and then, once more, he falls and cannot get up. Jengo did not go back to him this time. He did not wait, either. Mwenye’s roars subsisted into quiet whines as Jengo vanished amongst the long grass.
At the twin trees, Jengo stood over the body of the dead boy from the night prior. There were no signs of vultures, no bugs across his body. His scent was wrong. Jengo growled, hitting the skull hard with his paw and running off. He would need to find something else to bring back to his wounded Mwenye.
The villagers amassed what forces they could. There were more hands than guns, and many were left to improvise weapons. They would go directly to the lions this time.
Jengo had no offering for Mwenye when he returned. Mwenye grunted at the sight all the same, and was nuzzled once more. Bugs swarmed both, but were especially fond of the fresh wounds on the older one.
12th of February, Dusk
Mwenye was steadier on his feet, now. A drowning calf and the lower half of a zebra carcass reclaimed from hyenas saw him stronger. It hurt to eat and caused his teeth to wobble, but there was no cure for that. The two had chosen to return to the village, where the food was more reliable. Mwenye is smaller than Jengo, now, but did not look it with his mane.
The farmers saw them against the blood red sky. Most ran, some grabbed weapons and stood their ground.
It excited them. The pair kicked into a run, galloping towards a man who held his pitchfork as if it may part the seas. They did not attack him.
Instead, they split in opposite directions. Jengo leapt twin fences to tackle a running woman who and Mwenye rushed a young man trying to load cartridges into his rifle. Mwenye snagged at the youth’s ankles, nails burying past muscle and tendon and setting him off balance. The cartridge bounced the opposite way as Mwenye jumped on him, biting at his throat and ignoring the pound of a rifle’s butt against his head.
Three men chose to run to the woman’s aid, brandishing knives and a chair. They were not eager to get too close, and the man furthest back was tackled by Mwenye. The man screamed, moving forward a few steps with the lion attached to him – Jengo took the distraction as a chance to attack and tackle the man with the chair. The third man stabbed at Mwenye but only got through mane before the lion abandoned the first man to instead kill this third.
The sun vanished completely. There was a cacophony of sound, and then absolute silence.
Many of the villagers remain inside, pushing anything they can near the doors and hiding in the furthest corners. Others light torches and grab what weapons they have to go out and face the lions in complete darkness. The torches rob them of what vision they might have had, and they prove little challenge.
With the most fool-hardy dead, there was no more stream of prey. Jengo chewed on one of the bodies near the light of a flickering torch, pulling at the man’s face and crushing his ribcage under the weight of a paw. Mwenye was not satisfied with this food and moved to one of the huts. It was made of brick, but the door was simply wooden – it is the home of a pig, inviting the wolf for dinner. Mwenye sniffed at the door and pawed at it, finding resistance. With a growl he threw himself against it and knocked it from its hinges. It fell crooked, braced against a desk. Mwenye crushed his body in between where the archway and the desk was. Inside, a fifteen year old cowers with his mother, rifle pointed at the animal.
Mwenye growled, frustrated and digging his hind claws against the door to try and pull himself up completely. When he managed to he looked to the boy, growling. The mother whined. Mwenye moved closer, jumping down from the shelf to stalk towards him. There was a pervasive thought that if his father were here, instead of out with the hunting party, no one would have died tonight.
Was he a coward, for running and hiding with his mother?
Mwenye lunged and the boy fired, the movements simultaneous. It did not have the stopping power necessary and Mwenye carried through with momentum, biting between throat and shoulder and pulling hard enough to nearly decapitate the boy. The bullet is embedded in the lion’s shoulder.
When Mwenye finally left the hut Jengo called to him from another carcass. Mwenye roared and Jengo joined him, proud in their conquest. Together they left the village.
13th of February, Morning
In the river floated the dead carcass of a half-eaten crocodile. A venue of vultures sat upon it as if it were an island, picking lazily at the lizard. They clawed at it with their talons in hopes of piercing its tough hide, and had to settle for pulling at its eyes, and bits of tissue that had been squeezed out along its seams.
The hunters returned to their village. It was chaos once more. They immediately set forth a curfew, and threw the dead bodies onto a jeep to drive out deep into the forest. Doors were bolted and weapons placed within each home. By afternoon Jivu was a ghost town. Every boy and man was handed a weapon and together they intended to march into the brush, beating drums and frightening the lions towards the woods where a second set of men – warriors who had hunted and slain such lions before – would ambush the cats by the jeep.
Mwenye and Jengo paid no mind to the sound of distant rumbling. Jengo wrapped his forelimbs around Mwenye, licking and grooming him.
13th of February, Evening
It did not take the men long to reach the edge of the flatlands. They had not managed to incite a lion attack, and the men in the forest had yet to succeed, either. As they pushed into the woods they lost what light they had, and relied on each other to avoid being ambushed. Hours later, they reached the jeep. There were still no lions. A short argument over whether to return to the village broke out. A lammergeier watched from above.
It is too dark to see tracks and they are deep within the territory of the lions; it is better to retreat for now and return by light. Two men who have argued their case well chose to remain, and are given the villagers’ blessings for it. The cowardly farmer who hid in his hut while the neighbour’s wife and boy were mauled chose to climb a tree and wait near the jeep. Otieno swore he saw better at night, and chose to wait by the nearby river.
It took hours to find their way back to the village, and only courtesy the torches they had brought. When they returned to Jivu, they found signs of lions. Paw prints visible by the light of their torches, and deep gouges in doors. There was no screaming, no bodies. The livestock were silent.
The men split up to search the village. Large parties, one to search near the pens and a second to search around the huts. The former was more armed.
It is the second group that is attacked. A man carrying a drum is tackled from behind by Mwenye, screaming as he falls. The other men are quick to respond, swinging torches and machetes at the beast – an ear is maimed – and a pitchfork nearly sinks right into Mwenye’s wounded shoulder before the lion gets off of the first man and bears his front half low to the ground, snarling at the group.
A sudden gust of wind pulls the torch light away from Mwenye, fading him from existence. A second gust puts it out entirely.
They could hear only the low growling of the massive beast.
A man swung a pitchfork at the noise, backing up when a dull weight hits the side of it. Mwenye jumps atop him, held astray only by the pitchfork the man clings to in a desperate bid to maintain distance. One of the hunters heard the struggle and brought his machete down on the lion’s tail, who howled and jumped off of the villager to try and take down the other.
BANG!
Mwenye looked to the man who had shot him, roared, and ran at him. The hunter desperately tried to reload as more villagers raced towards them with torches and weapons – Mwenye is deflected away from the hunter via a pitchfork slamming against his side and throwing him off balance. He snarled as he righted himself, was shot at again. As more men and torches arrived he puffed a few low roars and ran, men shooting off into the black that he came from.
13th of February, Night
Jengo did not fare well without Mwenye. He called late into the night, searching desperately for the other. In the commotion the pair had been separated, and Jengo could not tell where his brother had gone. He went to the river in hopes of finding Mwenye, but there was nothing.
Approaching the edge, Jengo laid down with flattened ears and a soft huff. Otieno was silent as he approached, and pulled his arm back as far as it would go before slamming the spear forward between Jengo’s shoulder blades. Jengo reacted immediately, howling and attempting to stand as Otieno dug the spear in at an angle, tearing up muscle and flesh. Jengo threw himself on his back, and Otieno was familiar enough with lion hunting that he pulled the spear out before it was snapped by such a maneuver.
Jengo righted himself, snarling, and began to pace. Otieno matched his movements. The hunter blinked once and that was the trigger that sent Jengo pouncing on him – Otieno lifted his spear to get it in the heart. Unfortunately, it failed to pierce deeply and instead snapped under the lion’s weight. Otieno was tackled to the ground.
The human began stabbing Jengo in the side of the head with the ruined shaft of the spear, his other hand gripping the lion’s ear and scraps of mane to keep it from biting his neck. Jengo fought viciously, tearing into the man with his claws. A particularly nasty stab struck Jengo in the eye, and the lion responded by jumping off of him and jogging a short distance, panting and whining.
Otieno didn’t move. He stayed still, playing dead. He knew the lion would let its guard down and investigate. He knew he could take out his knife and cut its throat in the time it took for the beast to react.
Jengo did not fall for such tactics. He walked towards the forestry, collapsing as Mwenye had so long ago, and forcibly dragged his body along to find somewhere safe to rest. He roared deep and loud, calling desperately for a brother who did not answer.
14th of February, Morning
The forest was frightening. Every breath was a struggle, and his body shook with trying to hold up its own weight. Jengo panted excessively, barely able to see. There is another hunter, but he does not move, and Jengo watched for some time before realizing it was a dead body, torn apart by baboons or perhaps an angry leopard mother. Under the human a pillar of smoke was starting, a white snake coiling up the tree to caress it. Jengo did not see the jeep full of food until it suddenly fell through the ground – he climbed to his feet swiftly.
A burst of flame shot out in front of another tree, starting to consume it. The ground under him shook and started to give way – he moves quickly, hobbling between jets of steam and bursts of orange while howling desperately for his brother.
By morning the fire has subsided. The majesty struggles to continue on, out of view of his admirers. Above, the lammergeier soars.
It took hours to persist through the burnt vegetation. Frequent stops were made to rest against trees and lap at the small puddles the steam has condensed into. Jengo finally saw his ministers, the murder gathered in brush nearby. It became difficult to hold up the weight of his back or feel his legs.
Mwenye.
Jengo dragged himself faster, his body quivering under the exertion. At the side of Mwenye he grunted, urging the other to awaken.
Mwenye did not.
Jengo bit down on the one ear still remaining, tugging on it. He pushed his head against the other’s, pawed his big head, and still Mwenye did not stir. Jengo limped around the lion to rub against his belly and side. Jengo huffed, pushing his head against Mwenye’s again.
There was still no response. Jengo stood up on Mwenye, rocking slightly, then pushed with both front paws against his side. Finally, Jengo simply laid beside him, too weak to continue. He sniffed his mouth and eyes in wonder, and bit at a whisker in malice. Then, he started to groom him, licking his muzzle and chin. Finally, Jengo settled his head against Mwenye’s chest and went to sleep, purring.
