Nature of the Lion Read online

  Born in Zimbabwe, T. M. CLARK completed her primary school years at boarding school in Bulawayo. She attended senior school in South Africa, where she lived in the boarding school hostel as her home.

  She began writing fiction in the UK while a stay-at-home mum to her two sons and she hasn’t looked back.

  Now living on a small island near Brisbane in Queensland, Australia, T. M. Clark combines her passion for storytelling with her love for Africa.

  Her first novel, My Brother-But-One, was shortlisted for the Queensland Literary Award 2014. She is also the author of novels Shooting Butterflies and Tears of the Cheetah, as well as a novella, The Avoidable Orphan, and a children’s picture book, Slowly! Slowly!, a 2018 CBCA Notable Book, which are companion books to her novel Child of Africa.

  Readers can find T. M. Clark on Facebook (tmclarkauthor), Twitter (@tmclark_author) or visit her website at tmclark.com.au.

  Other T. M. Clark books published by Harlequin

  My Brother-But-One

  Shooting Butterflies

  Tears of the Cheetah

  Child of Africa

  Nature of the Lion

  T. M. Clark

  www.harlequinbooks.com.au

  To Shaun, with love as always.

  ‘Return to old watering holes for more than water; friends and dreams are there to meet you.’

  Old African Proverb

  Contents

  Prologue

  6th Society

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Glossary

  Fact or Fiction?

  Acknowledgements

  PROLOGUE

  Matopos Hills, Zimbabwe, 1973

  The balanced granite rocks on top of the hills of the Matopos defied logic, but they formed the perfect game funnel. The emerald-green trees, hiding the sandy soil beneath, kept the temperatures at least a little cooler.

  Mike rode his horse, Rebel, further into the thick bushes. ‘Stick really close, Chloe,’ he instructed in a whisper.

  ‘Yes, Dad,’ Chloe said, edging her horse, Mongoose, nearer to his until they almost touched.

  Slowly, they walked forward and broke through into a clearing where the herd boy had seen the horses at sunset the previous night. The chances of them being in the same place were slim but a good starting point.

  To their surprise, Mike and Chloe saw eight horses, not yet aware of the humans’ presence, grazing on the sweet grasses. Mike smiled when he heard the quick intake of his young daughter’s breath.

  The stallion stood slightly away from the herd, a proud bay, curving his neck as he looked around, watching for danger, smelling the morning breeze—as he should, for the area was crawling with leopards. The rocks and caves here were a perfect hiding place for them.

  ‘Old Man Tyrrell has been telling me about the wild horses of the Matopos for years, but I wasn’t sure if they were a legend or a figment of his imagination,’ Mike admitted quietly.

  ‘They’re beautiful,’ Chloe said.

  There was a dappled grey mare flecked with dirt—she looked tri-coloured, but Mike suspected he would find her only grey and black once they cleaned her. The foal close at her side was almost black. Its short, stumpy tail, small mane, and knobbly long legs evidence of its young age. It stamped its hoof, getting rid of whatever was bothering its leg. The foal looked ready to take on any predator in a race already. Mike was sure, given time, the foal would lighten to the same beautiful grey as its mother. Standing with the mare was a palomino that shone almost golden in the early-morning light, two chestnuts with black manes and tails, and a skewbald. Mike had always had a soft spot for paints. Having grown up on cowboy and western stories of the great American-Indian horses, and what they could endure, he was happy to see that even in his Rhodesia, the breed was strong enough to survive wild in the bush.

  ‘Please, can I have the palomino? It’s so pretty,’ Chloe said. ‘I can call her Honey?’

  ‘Let’s see how healthy she is when we get her home. It’s important to remember that these horses come at a price. I had to shoot Mr Tyrrell’s menace leopard that was eating his stud Brahman calves. These few wild brumbies are payment for our help.’

  ‘Bush bartering,’ Chloe said, her eyes focused on the horses.

  ‘I don’t want you to think that we’re just taking these horses from the wild. Everything has a price. Old Man Tyrrell and his boys had killed several leopards that were not the one causing him trouble, that’s why he asked for help.’

  ‘I know, Dad, you and Enoch are always helping the farmers.’

  ‘It’s the right thing to do, sweetheart. Sometimes when men get old, they forget how to ask for help. They get stubborn,’ Mike said.

  ‘You’re never going to get old and stubborn, are you, Dad?’ Chloe asked.

  Mike almost laughed aloud but held it in, careful not to disturb the horses. He wished he could tell her no, but he tried really hard not to lie to his daughter.

  Despite the predators that roamed the Matopos, these wild horses had survived for more than three generations—Old Man Tyrrell swore they were already on his grandparents’ farm when he lived there as a boy.

  ‘You ready? We’re going to drive these horses north, into the funnel we’ve built to narrow the valley,’ he said, quietly thanking his friends for the cloth borrowed from Brady Barracks in Bulawayo.

  ‘What happens when the horses get there and they don’t know what to do?’ Chloe asked.

  ‘Old Man Tyrrell is waiting there with a lead horse. When this little band arrives, he’ll release that schooled horse to make sure the wild horses end up inside the boma. That way, they won’t hurt themselves. Then after we have them there, we’ll funnel them down the cattle chute to load onto the truck.’

  As if sensing his life was about to change, and he was about to be taken from the wilderness, the stallion whinnied.

  ‘Come on, we need to get them moving,’ Mike said as he took out his .303 rifle and shot it into the air. The sound echoed around the kopjes. Rebel and Mongoose stood still—they were used to the sound as they had been trained as hunting mounts.

  The wild horses ran from the noise, the stallion leading the way, although one of the bay mares quickly caught him up and began to lead the charge. Mike could see the strength in her muscles as she pounded the ground with her hooves. ‘She’s like the wind,’ he said.

  Mike clicked his tongue, and Rebel broke into a trot. ‘They’ve run towards Enoch,’ he told Chloe. ‘We have to help him press them towards those twin hills.’

  He glanced at his daughter. She was seated well in her saddle, Mongoose still close to him. He looked north-east—Enoch was riding to his flank, keeping the horses heading in the right direction. He slipped silently thro
ugh the bush, almost ghosting Mike and Chloe. Xoline, Enoch’s son, was to the west, his horse helping to maintain the herd on track into the funnel.

  Mike watched as the wild stallion left the big bay mare to lead the escape. He doubled back behind his herd, getting ready to challenge the danger, then stopped. His nose flared, and with his neck arched he pawed the ground, then reared up. He exuded raw power.

  Mike shouted, waved his arms, and the stallion snorted, turned and ran behind his mares again, his flight sense winning over his fight sense.

  Despite the bush, the horses weaved their way forward, following the big bay around thornbushes and under low-hanging branches. They were magnificent, never once misplacing their footing, even when they ran over the exposed granite.

  A little steenbok female, with her beautiful tawny-orange fur, was surprised from her hiding place. She ran next to the horses in a zig-zag pattern, trying to escape the mayhem. Mike slowed Rebel down in an attempt to give the steenbok a place to escape from the herd. She stopped and looked back at her pursuers. The distinctive marks in her ears, like black fingers, helped to camouflage her in the bushveld. The steenbok could sense that while she wasn’t the target of the trap, it was time to flee. She bounced off again, then disappeared.

  They slowed their horses and looked around.

  ‘Where did she go, Daddy?’ Chloe asked.

  ‘Not sure,’ Mike said, then smiled when he spotted her. ‘Look, the clever little thing has hidden in an antbear hole.’

  ‘But she’s a buck,’ Chloe said.

  ‘Animals have more intelligence than people give them credit for. She found a way to escape her pursuers, that’s all that matters to her. There is a time to run, but then there is also a time to hide. We would’ve ridden past and not known she was there.’

  Chloe grinned.

  ‘Come on, we have to keep the horses moving,’ Mike said as he kicked Rebel in the sides with his heels.

  By the time they got to the funnel, the horses were tired, having run for a good forty minutes at a steady pace through the bush.

  ‘Look how Mongoose is sweating,’ Chloe said.

  Rebel’s skin was also lathered. ‘Good boy,’ Mike said as he patted the horse’s neck.

  Enoch closed the boma behind the seven horses, Xo right next to him. Their horses hadn’t fared any better and were also slick with perspiration.

  ‘Xo and Chloe are in for a long, slow walk after rubbing down these horses to make sure they don’t pull up lame,’ Enoch said.

  ‘The wild ones are really fit, they’ve hardly broken a sweat.’

  ‘They didn’t have to carry the weight of a person on their backs, now did they?’ Chloe said.

  Old Man Tyrrell climbed up the side of the boma. ‘Told you they were here. Aren’t they beautiful?’

  ‘They are,’ Mike said.

  The horses milled around in the boma; the lead horse had stopped and was eating from the lucerne bale that was attached to the side, next to the fresh water in the bathtub that they’d brought in, his presence helping to calm the wild horses. The fact that he was gelded and didn’t challenge the stallion also helped.

  The white of the stallion’s eyes still showed, and he baulked at the food, but the smell of fresh water had him sniffing the air, and soon he dipped his head down to it and drank deeply. The big bay followed his lead.

  Mike looked at the bay mare. She was beautiful, and she could run fast. ‘Maria,’ he said aloud. ‘After the wind in Paint Your Wagon, that’s what you’re going to be named.’

  ‘Which one, Daddy?’ Chloe asked.

  ‘The big bay next to the stallion. She’s a keeper.’

  ‘Maria and Honey. They’re friends, right?’ Chloe said.

  ‘Of course,’ Mick said, ruffling his daughter’s hair.

  ‘Right. Breakfast,’ Old Man Tyrrell said. ‘They can stay in the boma for the day, and when it’s cooler tonight we can herd them down the chute and you can drive them home. From then on, they’re your problem. Nice foal you captured there. You see it run? Those legs were born to make it eat up the miles.’

  ‘No track for him,’ Mike said. ‘I’m almost sorry to bring his free running years to an end.’

  The foal, as if knowing that he was the centre of the conversation, lifted his head and tail, pranced around a little and stamped his foot, before running back to the protection of his mother.

  Mike said quietly, ‘Diablo. There’s a devil in that horse, just waiting to be unleashed as he grows into his power. One day, he’ll raise hell.’

  6th Society

  Rules of the 6th Society, 1984

  General Member: All persons granted membership into the 6th Society must comply with all by-laws as defined below. Failure to comply will result in a member’s immediate termination.

  1.No talking about the 6th Society to any person who is not a member.

  2.Never acknowledge a 6th Society member outside the safety of the organisation.

  3.A 6th trophy can only be verified by one of the six professional hunters of the organisation.

  4.Never leave your bullet behind.

  5.Only one chance to harvest the 6th trophy; if you refuse, your hunter will silence you.

  6.Only one 6th trophy per year per member.

  Professional Hunter: Only six professional hunters will be appointed membership into the 6th Society at any one time. They must comply with all by-laws as defined below. Failure to comply will result in a professional hunter’s immediate termination.

  1.No talking about the 6th Society to any person who is not a member.

  2.The hunter must ensure the personal safety of the member at all costs. If the hunter is unable to do this without jeopardising the safety of the organisation, the hunter is to take whatever steps necessary to ensure the anonymity of the 6th Society at all times.

  3.The hunter is to verify all 6th trophies, and to retrieve the bullet. The hunter must also ensure the carcass is disposed of and not traceable back to the member or the 6th Society.

  4.The hunter must guarantee that the member hunts mature male specimens only.

  5.The member is only allowed one chance to harvest the 6th trophy; if a member refuses, the hunter must terminate the member immediately.

  6.The professional hunter has the discretion of harvesting additional trophies personally; however, they must be reported to the organisation on completion of the hunt.

  CHAPTER

  1

  6th Society Headquarters

  The building owned by the 6th Society looked the same as many others in the old medieval city centre of Bern. They had been rebuilt after the major fire in 1405 and had stood undefeated on the hill ever since—surrounded on three sides by the river Aare—sharing the space as they shielded the cobbled road.

  Except for the old stone carving of a huge eagle-owl that stood sentinel on its lintel above the door, the entrance was as nondescript as all the others in the side street of the financial district. All made of the same large sandstone blocks, with nothing to reveal what was taking place within the solid walls. The security cameras—discreetly concealed in the owl’s eyes—watched the goings-on of the tourists and locals who walked past it each day.

  Douglas Smith, known in the organisation as Hunter #4, walked along the corridor behind a woman in a long, flowing purple robe. The fabric looked soft, like velvet, and it moved with her every step, as if it was liquid wrapped around her slim body. He found it totally inappropriate for the organisation, but he had never seen her wear anything else in the four years he’d been coming to the headquarters. Her hair was covered by the hood, and he’d never got a good enough glimpse of her face to say he would be able to recognise her in the street, or to see how old she was. She had neat hands, with a deeper skin tone than the Europeans. Her nails, which were immaculately clipped, were devoid of paint or polish.

  She motioned him into the meeting hall for the yearly gathering of the hunters. She’d been part of the society as long as h
e had, perhaps longer. He didn’t know for sure.

  The only time she talked to the visitors at the lodge was to greet them in French when she opened the door, usually before they could even ring the doorbell, and to ask them for their coats and instruct them to empty their pockets before walking through the metal detector just inside the front door. But he was sure that though her French was polished, it was not her native tongue.

  The elders were already seated, their black clothes blending with the dark décor of the room. Four of the other 6th hunters were also present. Thankfully, he was not the last one to arrive.

  She motioned to the chair assigned for him. Douglas nodded first to the elders then to the others seated at the table, before he lowered himself onto the velvet-cushioned chair that he knew was no Napoleon III rip-off, but a genuine antique from his reign, gifted to one of the 6th Society members.

  The purple-robed woman walked out the door, closing it silently behind her, her bare feet making no sound on the plush carpet.

  ‘Good morning,’ said the female council elder at the head of the table. She wore her long hair in a neat bun on top of her head, and he could see that it was streaked with grey. She also wore distinctive round John Lennon glasses. Douglas hadn’t realised that there had been a leadership restructure since their last meeting. He wondered what else had changed.

  ‘As you may be aware, our previous leader passed away earlier this year. I have been voted the new chairperson by the elders of the 6th. The first item on the agenda is a serious matter. It is not common for the elders to have to address the hunters as a group at the annual gathering, but it is not often we have news like this.’ She looked gravely at each of the hunters. ‘Hunter #5 showed leniency in offering a member a second chance on a hunt. Furthermore, she was unable to eliminate the member because she had begun a close relationship with them. This jeopardised the 6th by allowing the member time to leave evidence that could damage our organisation. In the end, the member turned #5 into the police in Germany, and the council has had to eliminate both #5 and the member.’