Storymania - Hunting The Ghost Lion by Wolfa

Hunting The Ghost Lion
Wolfa

When they raid a poacher's warehouse, it is often quite a fabulous sight; in certain areas of India bales and bales of the mesmerizing hides of tigers and, more often, leopards, in Africa, perhaps mounds of elephants' tusks and lion pelts, removed with the heads intact to make a rich man an impressive rug. Oh, other animals too are hunted, the odd jungle-dwelling rhinoceros species, mountain gorillas, wolves, pandas, and more, but it is the lions that this particular poacher stalked. A big male lion was his cherished quarry, as he set out across the savannah in his Jeep, rifle laid across the passenger seat.
��Far in the distance, the Poacher could see a herd of zebras, their stripes blurring them into a single, shifting mass. The Jeep roared on, scattering the zebras as it drew near. The Poacher smiled to himself as several prowling spotted hyenas started up as well, looking disgruntled, cheated of their prey. The Poacher knew that though hyenas were primarily scavengers, they occasionally hunted for themselves.
��The Poacher did not find what he was looking for until a few hours later, when he sighted a lioness trotting through the high grass, her belly swaying from side to side in the manner of most running felines'. The Poacher brought the Jeep to a sudden stop and hastily raised his binoculars to his eyes. The lioness had stopped, raised her head and cocked her ears in his direction, suspicious, but the Jeep was now stopped, and the Poacher had painted zebra-like stripes on it so as to make it virtually invisible to colorblind animals like lions. She hesitated a few moments more, then moved on. The Poacher slid soundlessly from the Jeep, clutching his rifle, and set off after the lioness at a distance.
��He stalked her for three quarters of an hour before he saw her stop, far ahead, at a lone tree. He stood slowly and focussed his binoculars carefully. There, resting in the shade of the tree, were several lions, including a large male with a reddish mane and a hide of an unusual, pale tint. The Poacher's heart leaped. The pale lion was his, meant for him. But he could not shoot the lion now; it was too magnificent, too wonderful, to slay like a coward, while it was lying down. He would wait.
��That night the gibbering howls of a pack of hyenas reached his ears and he awoke with a start from his makeshift camp beside the Jeep. He stood, snatching up his rifle, staring wildly about in the dark. The calls stopped, and suddenly several pairs of horrible, lamp-like orbs glowed iridescent green in the night; hyenas turning their heads to look at him in the dark. Both parties continued to stare at each other, frozen, for what seemed an eternity, before one of the hyenas whooped loudly, breaking the spell, and the beasts moved on. The Poacher noticed that they were moving in the same direction as the lions' tree lay, and he hoped that they would be slain. He had once seen a male lion charge into the midst of a pack of hyenas and kill their princess, for no other reason than the ancient enmity that lay between the two species.
��The two lionesses of the pride hunted wildebeest under the high noon sun. The Poacher watched through his binoculars, admiring the way the two tawny cats brought the great shaggy beast to the ground, and neatly eviscerated it as it fell. Then the male lion rushed in and shouldered the two lionesses aside to feed first. One of the lionesses' cubs, who had followed from the tree � which lay not far away � raced up to the carcass to try and snatch a scrap of wildebeest, and the huge pale lion smacked it away with one paw, smashing the dazed cub to the earth. Lions sometimes killed their own cubs in just such a manner. This one was only stunned, however, and it staggered up after a moment and retreated to the safety of the sheltering tree, about a hundred yards away. The Poacher watched with a small grin as the lion gorged itself, knowing that the meal would make the lion lazy, slower, safer and easier to hunt. But later, now there were still the two lionesses to contend with. The Poacher raised an eye to the sky. Already the enormous white-winged vultures were circling high above, ready to move in the second the lions abandoned their kill.
��The Poacher remained till after the lions had gone to see what sort of animals the lure of the wildebeest attracted, thinking he might as well take in a few extra pelts. But there were only the usual vultures, spotted hyenas and wild dogs. The spotted hyenas unnerved him. Spotted hyenas, or laughing hyenas, seemed somehow baser to him than the noble, strange striped hyenas, crueller and more horrible than the shy brown hyenas. He shuddered, watching them tear apart the carcass, easily crushing thick bones in their powerful jaws, the strongest of any animal in the world. The hyenas' raggedy spotted fur, disproportionate bodies, and dark, strange eyes disturbed the Poacher. He set his sights upon the one nearest him, who was dragging a huge thighbone covered in shreds of meat away from the carcass to eat, and shot. Just as he was about to pull the trigger, a lioness roared distantly, startling him, and the shot went off, striking instead a wild dog to the immediate right of and somewhat behind the hyena. It fell to the ground, convulsing. The vultures scattered and the hyenas backed off, eyeing the dying wild dog warily. The other two wild dogs present loped forward to examine their fallen companion, whining anxiously. Irritated, the Poacher rose from his cover and approached the trio of wild dogs, the uninjured two of whom backed away, snarling defensively. He lifted the rifle to his shoulder and calmly shot the first square in the chest, and felled the second as it ran. The Poacher had been raised to believe that wild dogs were the most abhorrable animals on the savannah, surpassing even spotted hyenas, though the reality was far from that. Most people throughout the world viewed the wild dogs as repulsive creatures that should be destroyed.
��The Poacher turned and left, not bothering to flay the slain wild dogs and leave their naked bodies to bloat under the African sun, and when he did the fearless hyenas moved in to resume feeding.
��The Poacher was woken once more at night, this time by the load, full-throated roar of a male lion. When it came again the Poacher rose with his rifle and set off swiftly into the night, thinking that this would be the perfect chance.
��Walking across the savannah at night was strange, and the Poacher was forced to travel slowly and carefully for fear of stepping on some potentially dangerous animal. He followed the sound of the lion's continued roars, but soon he began to feel somewhat confused. He was sure that by now he ought to be near the lions' tree, but the roars were no nearer, and in the night he could see no familiar landmarks. Feeling that he was lost, he began to move faster, following the roars. When the land began to rise abruptly he nearly fell, startled. For the most part, the savannah was level. He did not remember seeing a hill anywhere in the area, and he was sure that he could not have missed one. But the lion's roars now seemed much closer � indeed, he thought, how could he have thought that they still seemed far away? Of course, the lion must be just on the other side of this hill. His ears must have been playing tricks on him. Carefully feeling his way up the hill, the Poacher stopped at tge crest and looked over.
��Not at all to his surprise, the Poacher saw that the hill sort of arched over and the other side was hollowed out, inwardly. Firelight illuminated the thusly-sheltered side of the hill. The source, the Poacher could see, was a fire built under the overhang. There was a shadow cast by someone standing on the inward side of the fire that the Poacher could not quite see. He leaned over, trying to see � and in slow motion the thin curving lip of the hill broke away under his weight and he fell, narrowly avoiding landing on his neck. The breath was knocked out of him and he lay, staring into the flames only a few inches away, struggling to fill his lungs. There was a soft laugh from above him. The Poacher raised his head, dreading what he might see. A pale-skinned man with reddish hair dressed in American-style clothing stood a few feet away, his arms folded across his chest, watching him.
��"You were expecting maybe your lion?" the man asked in an amused tone. He spoke in English. The Poacher was sure he spoke in English. But then . . . he couldn't have spoken in English, because the Poacher understood what he said. The Poacher said nothing, staring up at the grinning American.
��"Why didn't you take those three wild dogs? I thought poaching was your business."
��The Poacher opened his mouth to deny that his business was any such thing, but the American gave him no chance.
��"This is a land of spirits, you know, an old land. The oldest of lands." The American flickered, and for a second he was a tribeswoman and a chief and a thousand thousand other people native of this land. He smiled whitely, but his eyes were strange and dark and there was the twist of a snarl to his mouth, and the Poacher felt a twinge of fear. Suddenly he was on his feet and fully recovered and his rifle was in his hands and there was no man in front of him, there had never been a man, there was a lion, his lion, a huge, beautiful lion. He suddenly realized that the lion was a ghost lion like the ones his grandmother had told him of in a dim and long-forgotten past, with a mane like the pale, dancing flames and a pale, strange coat, just as it leaped, mouth open, gleaming fangs lining the gateway to Hell.
��He shot belatedly and the lion fell on top of him, its hot blood pumping out of the ragged hole in its chest to soak his clothes, its dead weight crushing him, pinning him to the ground. He struggled to free himself from the lion � and then there was no lion; there was nothing. Fear coursing through him, he threw his rifle to the ground and ran, pulling himself up the side of the hill at the side, where it did not curl over quite so impassably. Panting, he reached the crest of the hill and started to run down the opposite side, whence he had come. His foot slipped and he fell a second time, but this time he did not stop but continued to roll down the steep hill, falling at last to the bottom. He vaguely remembered hearing a sickening and horrible crack, and wondered with a sort of mild bemusement if that could be the cause of the blinding, terrible pain emanating from his lower right leg. He raised himself painfully to one knee and looked up, hearing again that soft laugh.
��How pretty, thought the Poacher, all the pretty lights. The American stood ten feet away from him, smiling. The Poacher noticed briefly that his clothes seemed to be patterned in the same way of a wild dog's fur, and his teeth, so white and even, were sharp and canine. But then a rumbling growl caught his full attention and he forgot all about the American; for the dozens of glowing beautiful lights were the reflective lantern-eyes of dozens of gigantic, shaggy hyenas, who were milling about, watching him. The hyenas, with rounded, blunt noses, domed skulls, odd bell-shaped ears, high, powerful shoulders, and hindquarters sloping away into darkness . . . filled with terrible, sickening fear, the Poacher struggled frantically to stand, pain making him whimper.
��"The hyenas are scavengers, but occasionally they hunt for themselves," said the American conversationally, resting his hand upon the head of a huge female hyena, "not that you're far from being carrion. They smelled your blood, yours and the lion's." He smiled glitteringly, and the princess hyena, at his side, tensed her powerful shoulder muscles as if to spring. "Good-bye, Poacher," said the Wild Dog Spirit softly, and the princess surged forward, bone-crushing jaws wide open.
��And with a whoop of fell laughter, the sharks of the savannah moved in to take their feast.