The Valley of Tantalika

The Valley of Tantalika

by

Richard Rayner
 Published by Weaver Press, Box A1922, Avondale, Harare.
2022
<www.weaverpresszimbabwe.com>

First published by Books of Zimbabwe

Publishing Co. (Pvt) Ltd., Harare, 1980
Published by Macdonald Purnell, Johannesburg, 1984
Published in 1990 by Baobab Books, Harare

© The Estate of Richard Rayner, 2022

Every effort has been made to trace the copyright holders and
we would appreciate any assistance that may be given us in this
regard.

Typeset by Weaver Press

Cover by Danes Design
Printed by:Directory Publishers, Bulawayo

All rights reserved. No part of the publication may be

reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any
form by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise – without the express written permission
of the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-77922-410-1
 About the Author

Richard Rayner spent his lifetime writing, producing and editing

documentary films in Zimbabwe and elsewhere. His published
work includes many short stories and two other full-length
books: Who Cares? – Chipangali ( 1977) and Tsoko: The Story of
a Vervet Monkey, published by Baobab Books (1990). His story
for children, Umboko and the Hamerkop, was also published by
Baobab Books (1988).

v
 Foreword

T his story, which Richard Rayner relates with tenderness, with

compassion and with deep understanding of the wild animal
world, brings a touch of bush magic to an event in Zimbabwe’s
history which was fraught with hardship and havoc.
Only someone as familiar as the author with the inhabitants of
the Zambezi valley and all it contains could persuade the reader
into a realm of fantasy with such conviction. For me, after the first
reading, Tantalika, the wise otter, became someone I felt I knew
intimately and regretted leaving at the end of the last page. It does
not, in any way, seem strange that he possesses the gift of extra-
sensory perception or the ability to communicate with animals of
a different kind. What, after all, do we know of this fascinating
field which is, as yet, shrouded in mystery, both in the human and
animal spheres?
This enchanting, absorbing book is for everyone, anywhere, in
and out of Africa. It will give you pause to wonder at the similarity
between the Valley dwellers and yourself; your griefs and joys,
your doubts, your longing for a new era in a better world devoid
of cruelty and strife, when the godkin Fura-Uswa will never again
have cause to be angry with the two legged Zimikile.

Sue Hart1
May 1980

1 Sue Hart (1926-2010) became well known as a vet, conservationist,

environmental educator, broadcaster, best-selling author and
humanitarian.

vii
 Introduction

E arly on the morning of 3 December 1958, an event occurred in

southern Africa which, at the drop of a man’s hand, outdated
all the maps hitherto drawn of Northern and Southern Rhodesia,
as the countries of Zambia and Zimbabwe were then known.
From the instant when the signal was given to close the last
gaps in the Kariba dam wall, the waters which had flowed for at
least half a million years from the gorges below the Victoria Falls
to the gorge at Kariba were held captive; 175 miles of the Zambezi
River was stilled, broadening in a few years into the largest man-
made lake in the world, at that time.
For years men had toiled to complete this achievement, from
when, in the early days, small teams of specialists battled through
the dense, sometimes impenetrable bush. Surveyors mapped the
lie of the land; geologists and seismologists sought faults in the
river bed and the rock buttresses where the dam was to be built;
and all the hundreds of relevant details were logged and collated,
then passed on to the planners, the architects, the engineers and
the construction teams. The end result, in that last month of 1958,
was a concrete arch wall, 420 feet high, nearly 2 000 feet across,
with all the paraphernalia of underground turbines, control
equipment, overhead cables and switching stations to provide
the power needs of a new, developing nation, the Federation of
Rhodesia and Nyasaland.
Never before, on the African continent, had any work of
man caused such a manipulation of a large, wild and natural
area, influencing countless millions of living creatures, from the
microscopic river plankton to the largest land mammal on earth,
the elephant; from the tiniest plant cell to the huge baobab tree
which can live for a thousand years or more. For them and the

ix
primitive tribes people, whose homes, for generations, had been
close to the river, it all began when squads of men from far away
came into the Zambezi valley.
Their purpose was to clear vast tracts of forest land, so that
the future lake could become a great fishing ground, where the
submerged branches of drowned trees would not foul the nets.
They came to eradicate the tsetse fly from areas where the river
dwellers would resettle, and because the fly feeds off the infected
blood of many animal species, they also had to be destroyed.
When the dam was closed, there were the first, courageous
efforts of a pitifully small, dedicated band of men who risked their
lives daily to save animals drowning in the flood, starving on new-
formed islands, or marooned in trees which were being engulfed
by the rapidly rising waters. This inspired exercise captured the
imagination of people all over the world, and those who cared
for the welfare and preservation of this wild kingdom donated in
cash and kind their help. The company of rescuers increased its
numbers, and from operating with two decrepit launches, with
only the barest necessities, they became better equipped, and
between 1958 and 1964 over 7,000 animals, countless birds,
reptiles and even insects had been saved from the flood.
In telling the story of these stirring events, seeing them through
the eyes and minds of some of the animals who had no choice
but to submit to them, I have been aware that the line drawn
between fact and fiction can be made so thin that it may become
almost invisible. To avoid any misunderstandings, therefore,
especially among the young, I must make this quite clear: where
my animal and bird characters become ‘anthropomorphised’, that
is, attributing to them human speech, emotions, and sometimes
exaggerated powers of reasoning or physical strength, the reader
enters into the world of fantasy — and I make no apologies for
that because the Zambezi valley itself is, and always has been, a
place for myth and magic.

x
 Characters of the Valley

All the animal characters in this story were of a specific area in

Africa, a part of the Zambezi valley, once populated by the baTonga
people. It therefore seemed appropriate to base their names on the
Tonga language.
The Pambuka Impalas
Mwami––––– Swilila Unknown––––––Silulimi
(leader) (docile) Ram (chatterbox)
Kali-Anuka –––––––––––––––Kusoma
(brave and wise) (first-born)
MWAMI-MUPATI
(son of a leader)
Yandika ––––––––––––––Teketa––––––––––––Kwizima
(friendly) (twisted horn) (clever)

The Otters
Tantalika–––––––––––––––––––Vutuka
(quick as a spider) (blaze)
three cubs

The Godkins
Fura-Uswa–––––––––––––––––––Nyaminyami
(white rhinoceros) (river serpent)

Go-between of the Birds

Inkwazi
(fish-eagle)
The Zimikile
Ijongojongo (Ndebele)
(the tall, thin man )

xi
 Glossary

The following list of words and phrases used in the text are close
translations from the Tonga language. They have been taken from
English-Tonga dictionaries published some fifty years ago, kindly
loaned to the author by the Department of African Languages at
the University of Zimbabwe.

inguluzi tsetse fly

Ma-buyu place of the baobab trees
mawe mother
mulombe a young male
Pambuka aloofness
Zimikile upright; standing on two legs
“ee!” “yes!” or “hey there!”
“ka sike” “farewell” (to the one departing)
“ko caala” “farewell” (to the one remaining)
“nduwe ni?” “who are you?”
“wa buka?” “how are you?”
Months of the Year
Maziba January
Kulumi February
Muyobo March
Kangala April
Kanini May
Gandapati June (the coldest month)
Wasinkula July (the falling of the leaves)
Bimbe August
Tundwa September (month of the new leaves)
Kavumbi October (the hottest month)
Ikando November
Nalupale December (month of the early rains)

xii
 1

A ll along the central Zambezi valley, from the gorges east of the
Victoria Falls to where the river twisted abruptly north from
Kariba, over 150 miles away, an early summer storm was raging
thunderously across the hills and escarpments, the sheets of rain
washing away the deep-down topsoil, dust-dry from the winter
months, soaking the forest trees down to their roots.
Far away, south-west of Kariba and quite close to the river
bank, the lightning slashed and cracked over the mopane trees
growing thickly on a low rise, where an impala doe sought privacy
from the rest of the herd among the dense riverine bush and tall
grasses. It was the same birth-site she had used before, where she
felt safest from predators and the unwelcome attentions of young,
curious males.
Swilila, the docile one, was no youngster. By human standards
she was middle-aged, and had produced her first-born when she
had been two years old, her second and third at yearly intervals
thereafter. None had survived for long. The first had been taken
by wild dogs, the second snatched from her by a tawny eagle, and
the last had been carried away by floodwaters sweeping along the
river early in the year.
She lay down for a while, head raised, ears stretched back, and
groomed herself briefly. Then, shifting uncomfortably, she got
up and wandered about, careful to keep out of sight, her hind
legs slightly straddled, until she collapsed into a clump of grass,
bleached white by the sun. For a long time she lay, straining,
helping the new life struggling within her to release itself from the

1
darkness in which it had grown for seven months. She tried to rise
again, but fell back and lay on her side, with hind legs backward-
splayed.
When the little impala came, front hooves first, struggling and
sliding on to the wet grass, an explosive shaft of lightning flared to
the fork of a nearby tree, splitting the branches. One fell, its foliage
brushing gently against Swilila’s flank — a comforting, reassuring
caress.
It was at that moment she knew, with animal certainty, that
this one would be different, that he would not only survive to
maturity but would, in some way, make his mark in the small herd
she had run with since her own birth. She would see him grow,
unlike her others, into a fine impala ram, braver and wiser than
any other — even his father Mwami, the leader of the herd — in
this small corner of the Great Valley which would be his world.
Because she knew he would be brave and wise, she named him
Kali-Anuka.
The storm, which had played its rumbustious game over the
Valley for more than four hours, passed over, the thunder rolling
away, stumbling like a drunken giant across the hills to the south-
west. Soon the dampness rose in misty whiteness from the ground,
drifting slowly upwards and back into the humid atmosphere.
Swilila stretched towards her baby and vigorously licked
him all over; as she did so the sun burst through a break in the
scurrying clouds, dappling golden flashes over his damp coat. He
staggered upright and tottered on tiny hooves, trying to shake the
brightness from his eyes, the sudden movements toppling him to
the ground once more. Then he stood again, sharply, breaking the
umbilical cord with an almost audible snap
Still lying, Swilila cleaned up her birth-site and herself,
removing the tell-tale scents, watching her son rise and fall
several times until, only a short while after birth, his legs
sustained his weight. He began probing for his mother’s udder,
overshooting time and time again before reaching the life-giving
target, and his little tail flittered rapidly from side to side as the

2
warm milk began to fill his belly.
The impala herd had grouped closer together, and paused in
its feeding while the afternoon storm had blustered around them.
Now individuals began to move about again within the area of
their narrow home territory, bounded on one side by the sloping
shore of the river, marked on others by Mwami’s dominant scent
stamped out from the glands and the tufts of black hair which
grew low on his hind legs.
Mwami was a handsome old ram, standing tall for an impala.
His coat was deeper red than most, and the white throat and
belly unusually whiter. The characteristic warning pattern of
black and white on his buttocks was sharply defined, and flashed
conspicuously whenever he led the herd from danger. His beautiful,
lyre horns were worn smooth in places where he had rubbed
against trees, and were chipped from the scars of innumerable
battles. One had been broken at the tip several years ago when he
had helped to release a young otter, trapped by the tail beneath
a fallen tree. He moved with a slow dignity which commanded
respect from all others of his species, even those outside his own
select clan; and now he detached himself from them, walking to
the edge of the mopane thicket where he knew Swilila to be.
They talked, these two impalas, in the language of their kind:
soft sounds which matched the meaning of their thoughts, though
their mouths did not move to form the words.
“A fine mulombe,” said the leader, and tossed his head in a
gesture of approval. “Best I’ve seen for a long time. You did well,
Swilila, you did indeed.”
He could have said, truthfully, “we did well”, but it was not
in his nature to take credit for what, after all, was only his duty
for the continuation of his highly-bred herd. After his comment,
unusually generous even for an occasion like this, he turned to go.
But Swilila called him back, politely.
“0 Mwami,” she spoke shyly, “I have a feeling in my heart
that this one” — she dropped her gaze to her son who was quite
oblivious of Mwami’s regal presence — “this one is special, like

3
yourself, and I have named him Kali-Anuka.”
“Brave and wise?” He dwelt on the words, and slowly raised
his head to grasp a succulent mouthful of fresh, green mopane
leaves from a nearby branch. He repeated the words again and
again as he munched. “Yes,” he said at last, “as that is the feeling
you have about this new mulombe, it must have come to you from
Fura-Uswa, the godkin to the animals of the Great Valley. Kali-
Anuka … Kali-Anuka…” he mused. “Eyaa! … I have known of
few impalas able to live up to such a name, but from what I hear
we may need one or two such paragons before long. Yes, Swilila,
you may name him Kali-Anuka, and let us hope he will live up to
his name. Ko caala, Swilila, farewell!”
She watched him as he walked away, proud horned head
slightly bowed in, it seemed to her, troubled thought. And she
was uneasy.
“Ka sike, Mwami!” she called softly.
She turned to her lamb, but the uncomfortable feeling did not
away. She licked and nuzzled him as he pulled hungrily at her
udder, and when he let go, satisfied at last, she walked the few
paces to the mopane tree, reaching up with her long graceful neck
to set about stripping the butterfly-wing leaves from the branches
above her head. They still dripped with cool moisture from the
departed storm.
She thought about her closest friend, the talkative Silulimi who,
she was sure, would have a lot to say about her new lamb. She
would not mind, for Silulimi had given birth to a female earlier
in the lambing season, and the youngster was now over six weeks
old; there would be much to discuss. As she was the first-born,
Silulimi had called her Kusomona.
The afternoon shadows, grey from the mist-veiled sun, were
lengthening as Silulimi and her daughter moved through the herd,
busy with everyday activities, towards Swilila’s birth-site. Her
friend knew the place exactly, and remembered when the more
experienced mother had told her how important it was, when
birth pains started, to move discreetly out of sight of the herd to

4
an area well-shielded by bushes and long grass. This was a survival
technique which Swilila had learnt only after the arrival of her
second lamb, born in open ground.
”Wa buka? How are you, Swilila?” her friend asked as she
approached, glancing admiringly at Kali-Anuka, who was again
suckling. The two does nuzzled each other in greeting.
“I am well.” Swilila replied. With a note of pride in her voice,
she added: “and Mwami has said I may call my son Kali-Anuka.”
“Ah-ha!” Silulimi exclaimed, knowingly. “I take it that Mwami
is the little lamb’s father, or he wouldn’t have agreed so readily?”
Swilila nodded, and smiled with her eyes. “Yes,” she said, “for
the first time.”
“Good for the old ram! Of course,” Silulimi went on, “I’ve
known for a long time he’s been trying for a son to take over when
he’s deposed, or dies, or something. No wonder he didn’t object
to such a high-flying name. Kali-Anuka, eh? — it must have given
him quite a kick!”
“Oh, Silulimi! — you shouldn’t be so disrespectful.” Then, with
a worried stamp of a front hoof, she said: “I’m so troubled about
something, something Mwami spoke of — or at least, hinted at.”
Her friend’s ears came forward, flapping, her interest aroused,
and Swilila told her what he had said.
“My dear, you know what an old worrier he is!” commented
Silulimi. “He’s always fretting about all the terrible things that
could happen to us and, the good Fura-Uswa knows, we have
enough without thinking up new ones.”
While the does had been talking, Kusomona, who was too
young for conversation, investigated Kali-Anuka, thrusting her
muzzle up against his white throat as he suckled, licking and
nuzzling at his fresh, young coat.
“I must go back,” Silulimi said at last, “or Mwami will come
looking for me. Come, Kusomona,” giving her daughter a gentle
prod with her nose, “there’ll be plenty of time to get to know Kali-
Anuka later on.”
Swilila walked a few paces with her; then, alone with her

5
lamb, grazed on a clump of couch-grass. Through the patchy
undergrowth she could see, as she pulled at the scaly rhizomes,
some of the herd moving off slowly towards the clearing where
they usually rested at night. They were safer in the open; in dense
bush it was more difficult to see, smell and hear the approach of
an enemy.
Far away up in the hills came the rasping grunts of a pair of
leopards. Swilila raised her head, and her ears came forward,
instantly alert. But she decided there was no immediate danger
and lay down, close under an acacia bush, and ruminated herself
into sleep. Kali-Anura, his little golden body now supported firmly
on his legs, ran in circles round his mother until he dropped
exhausted beside her, and fell asleep with his head resting on her
neck.
***
The storm on that December day of Kali-Anuka’s birth was the
forerunner of many summer storms to come. For nearly half a year
they would lour angrily from the north, bursting savagely over the
valley, sometimes every day, shaking the ground as the driving
winds slammed the rain across the smooth surface of the wide
river. Everything would seem to drown, and then, quickly, like
the sudden flinging open of a giant furnace door, the sun would
blaze down, and steam would rise in pale mists from the sodden
ground until all was dry again. The dense forests of acacia and
rnopane, the impenetrable jesse bush and the towering mahogany
trees on the river banks, rested under the hot sun, awaiting the
next deluge. The roots of tall grasses and lush green turf, here
and there cropped to the smoothness of an English lawn, thirstily
drank up the moisture and waited for more.
For all free-running animals life is perilous, and yet in its way,
idyllic. Antelopes do not have to fight for their food, and impalas
are no exception; their purpose in life is to survive, to stay alive
by finding a mate and leaving progeny to fill the gaps left by those
who die, from whatever cause. On the whole, Mwami and his herd

6
managed very well.
He was an old ram, approaching eleven years, and for the past
seven he had borne the mantle of supreme authority over his small,
select community. At this time he headed seven rams, twenty-four
does and, with the recent addition of Kali-Anuka, four lambs. Five
of the does were pregnant and would be dropping their young
within a few days of each other; then the little herd would be
increased, at least temporarily, to forty-one head. Until the next
lambing season, this figure could only diminish to a number
governed by the frequency of attack by predators, sickness,
drowning by flood, and killing by man, the creature they most
feared, who carried the long sticks which expIoded at the same
time that death came.
There was something rather special about Mwami’s herd, as
though there were some unknown destiny for them to fulfil. At
a distant point in their evolution, the ancestors of Mwami must
have split off from the rest, and established themselves as an
independent breeding population. Rarely was an outsider allowed
entry; he would have to be a bachelor ram, personally selected
by the leader himself who was very particular, for there must be
no threat to his leadership, or risk of lowering the high quality of
breeding.
Neighbouring herds respected the Pambuka, so-called
because of their higher intelligence and aloofness. They kept as
much as possible to themselves, spending their lives feeding and
ruminating, drinking, grooming and sleeping a little. Appropriate
to sex and season, they mated, gave birth and suckled their young.
In the rutting season, the rams fought one another over the does,
parrying and thrusting with their horns like swordsmen; but these
duels seldom resulted in serious injury, and very rarely in death.
For the most part they exercised the normal behaviour of other
impalas, but the Pambuka’s uniqueness was in its high degree of
communication and its permanence, combining to develop an
unusually close relationship between individuals.
To the animals who suffered from man’s frightening and often

7
tragic indignities, it was merciful that they did not happen with
great frequency in this part of the Great Valley. Many months
could go by with little activity by the Zimikile, as they were known
by the impalas because of their strange, upright posture. It came
mostly from those with the thin mouths; the darker ones killed,
but usually only for food, or skins for clothing; and during the
rains, when they kept to their villages close to the river and fished,
there was hardly sight or scent of them.
For the past two or three years, however, there had been more
movement and activity in the valley by both species than ever
before. Although none of it had, as yet, affected the Pambuka, who
confined themselves to the territory near the river, Mwami had
knowledge of much killing of animals of all kinds, and destruction
of bush and woodland in places high in the hills. Great birds, bigger
and noisier than any which had frequented the valley before, had
been seen and heard flying low over the land, their wings rigid
and unbeating. Sometimes a mist issued from their bowels, killing
all insects touched by it, in the air or on the ground. They died
in their hundreds of thousands, in their millions. Animals eating
the insects became ill, and often died. There were stories of many
gatherings of the dark-faced Zimikile of the baTonga peoples who
lived in the valley, and of angry talk between them and those
others with the paler faces.
What concerned Mwami most of all were the tales of whole
herds of impala wiped out by explosions from those deadly
Zanikile sticks; not only impalas, but nearly all the larger species
of animals. He wondered, fearfully, when the trail of slaughter and
destruction would reach close to the river, though he could not
guess at the purpose of it.
One day, when the sun was falling quickly through the clouds,
down towards its setting, the impalas went to their favourite place,
a narrow sandy beach flanked by woodland, handy for cover in
case of danger. They loved it here; they were good salt-licks, and
up against the small, flat rocks on the sand grew tufts of sweet grass
which they relished more than any other. Although they would

8
strip every delicate blade of it, more would shoot up overnight
to provide another feast on the next day. It was so pleasant here,
later in the afternoons or in the mornings, when insects were
less troublesome in the river-cooled air. During the dry season
they drank at the beach until the rains came again, when all the
moisture they needed was in the food they ate.
A little way upstream, a family of hippopotamus wallowed in
the deep, reedy water; a mother and her calf grazed on a thick
clump of grass which grew on the bank where the strip of sand
ended. From the heap of heaving hippos in the water, two old
bulls detached themselves to fight together, lazily and with little
effect.
Then, from downstream and distantly, Mwami’s keen ears
picked up the steady, high-pitched throb of one of the carrier-
creatures used by the Zimikile when they travelled on water. He
was familiar with these creatures, but more so with the ones which
made no sound, ridden by the black Zimikile when out on the
river, fishing.
As the sound grew louder the hippos silently submerged, the
cow pushed her calf unceremoniously into the water, and followed
just as the small carrier appeared round the bend in the river. The
impalas stood alert and ready for Mwami’s warning snort which
would signal danger, and send them instantly to cover. The carrier
turned from midstream, drifting towards the shore as the throbbing
sound diminished to an irregular clatter. There were four Zimikile
sitting on it, two of them pale and thin-lipped. One stood up,
steadying himself as he raised his gun. All at once Mwami snorted,
the gun exploded, and an unweaned lamb dropped to the sand.
The impalas fled in frantic leaps back into the trees, and later
the little dead lamb was carried to the boat, and dumped carelessly
in the forward well.

9
 2

I t was believed beyond doubt by every member of Mwami’s

heard, and by all the animals and birds of the Great Valley, that
the godkin who watched over them was the spirit of Fura-Uswa,
the grass eater, a white rhinoceros who had lived and died in the
valley many years before.
He had been the last of a species which had thrived, though
never in very great numbers. His near relative, the black, or hook-
lipped rhino, had been more successful because he was wilder and
more aggressive. But the square-lipped white rhino was a gentle,
trusting creature despite his greater bulk, and was therefore easier
game for human hunters. First the black men; then, from their
earliest days of venturing into the Zambezi Valley with not arrows
but guns, the white men.
So, by early in this century, there were no more white rhinos
in the valley, except for one. And he, the last to bear the name
Fura-Uswa, soon fell to a bullet from a gun. But his restless spirit
survived, to keep vigil over all other animals and birds, eternally
dedicated to use his powers in preserving every existing species,
and in bitter hostility against all men who, collectively, caused the
extermination of his own kind.
When a man sets his trap to catch an animal in its cruel grip,
and later comes to see what rich prize he has won, only to find the
trap closed over nothing but air, this is, perhaps, the work of Fura-
Uswa. Or when a boastful hunter, who considers himself a crack
shot, aims to bring down his victim with a bullet to that fatal spot
between the eyes, and misses, it is possible that Fura-Uswa has

10
interfered with its trajectory. But few men know of this and, if they
do, most would not believe it. It was believed by the Pambuka,
and all other animals and birds of the Great Valley.
The Pambuka impalas also believed (though Mwami himself
was sceptical) that the spirit of Fura-Uswa dwelt within Tantalika
the otter, on occasion; that he was the medium appointed by the
godkin to watch over all impalas in the valley, but particularly
those of the Pambuka herd, for they were special and few in
number, to be protected more than any others.
They believed he was chosen because it was his nature never
to remain in one place for long, spending his life roaming the vast
territory, across land and through water, familiarising himself with
all that took place, often able to warn his defenceless friends of
threatened danger that otherwise might have befallen them. And
it must be said that Tantalika took great delight in deliberately
fostering and encouraging this belief of his special powers, and
his relationship with the godkin, for there were always some, like
Mwami, who remained unconvinced.
He led a lonely life, for there were not many otters in the valley,
and his close alliance with the impalas was something he cherished
and wanted to hold for the rest of his days. His friendship with
the Pambuka had come about when he had been a cub, not long
independent of his parents, and the only survivor of a litter of
three. He had been clumsily chasing a young spring hare, losing it
as it slid down the entrance to a burrow, when the heavy branch
of a dead rain-tree had fallen from the ravages of termites, pinning
his tail to the flat rock upon which he sat. Mwami found him, and
with another ram they lifted the branch with their fragile horns,
risking breakage, just enough for the little otter to slip his tail from
the trap between rough bark and hard rock. As Mwami lowered
the branch, too quickly, the tip of one of his horns snapped off.
After that, his head ached for many days.
Tantalika would have starved to death, or been easy meat for
some predator, had it not been for these two, and he had not only
befriended the old ram and all his herd (the other rescuer had long

11
since died), but ever since then felt he owed a debt of gratitude
which he tried to repay in many ways. But in his heart, and despite
his subsequent visitation and appointment as go-between by Fura-
Uswa, he knew he never could.
Mwami taught him to speak impala language, and they spent
many happy hours together before Tantalika was able to converse
in simple phrases. He found it difficult to adapt his voice to the
soft tones an impala understands, for otter language is made up of
many sounds – whistles and chirrups, hissing, whining, squeaks
and growls – all running over each other in a continuous kind of
double-talk. But at last he overcame his disadvantage, and when
Mwami decided he was ready, he called other impalas to join in
conversation so that all could, with practice, communicate with
the otter, and he with them.
Many happy moments passed by thus, with the impalas formed
in a rough circle, lying or standing, the diminutive Tantalika at the
centre, as though he were teacher and not pupil, telling one another
stories handed down through generations, or of new experiences
which would be told, and retold, again and again. They talked of
the curious ways of other animals; of the hippopotamus who wags
his tail when defecating, scattering his dung over a wide area; of
how he sinks to the bottom of the river, and trots along the bed
with ease. Enviously, they spoke of elephants’ ears, those leaf-like
flaps which cool the air and drive away the swarms of insects that
disturb their peace; their tree-branch trunks which swing high in
the air to catch the messages of the wind. They thought it strange
that warthogs, who often shared their grazing, should be so ugly,
and yet such pleasant companions. Was it awareness of their
ugliness that made them kneel to eat, as though in humble thanks
to their creator for sparing them good things with which to fill
their bellies?
Sometimes, when the shadows of day melted into twilight,
darkening under the trees, they talked of the beauty of the world
they lived in: of white clouds sailing over the valley, of moonglow
bright on the river, and the cool taste of water after rain; of shining

12
stars falling, burning paths across the night sky; of the marbled
glory of a summer sunset; of hearing bird-songs tossed from tree
to tree, and the wingbeats of waterfowl migrating from one edge
of the world to the other; or the sweet scent of mopane leaves; the
freshness of a winter dawn; the perfection of a new-born lamb.
Then, perhaps, as night fell, they would talk of some of the
unbeautiful things: of wild rain falling, and thunderclaps that
shake the world; of fire burning through grass, and flame-strangled
trees; of flood, and famine when only dry, bare stalks are left for
sustenance; the pain of disease, or injury; the bloodless end from
a plague of parasites; the mad glow in the eyes of a lioness before
the kill; the scent of man, the fear of death, and death itself … the
long, everlasting silence.
Tantalika learned fast, but it was a long time before the others
could understand him.
***
The name ‘Tantalika’ means, approximately, ‘he who moves
quickly, like a spider’. He certainly moved quickly, quicker in
water than on land, but in appearance he was less like a spider
than anything else imaginable. He had a long, sturdy body, his
pointed tail half its length, and his muzzle was whiskered and
moustached. On each side of his head were ridiculously small,
though very sensitive, ears. He really looked no different from
otters anywhere else in the world, except that his feet had no
claws, and while others’ were webbed, his were not.
He was always full of fun, although so much of his life was
spent alone. He loved playing tricks on his friends, even those who
should be treated with respect and a certain amount of reverence,
like Mwami.
The old ram was getting a bit stiff in his joints these days,
and liked to loosen up sometimes, jogging in circles, or chasing
the young females. One day, after exercising, puffed and hot, he
went to drink at a pool left by the swollen river late in the season.
Suddenly he was startled, but not surprised, when Tantalika

13
dropped into the water, close to his mouth. Mwami looked up,
shaking droplets from his eyes.
“I’m pleased to see you, Tantalika, as always,” he said, a little
stiffly, “but I would be happier if you’d make your entrance in a
more conventional manner.”
The otter trod water, and wiggled his whiskers.
“I just dropped in to ask if there have been any Zimikile seen
in your territory, Mwami,” he said, ignoring the impala’s greeting.
“They seem to be getting everywhere else.”
Mwami told him about the water-borne men, and the killing of
the lamb; but there was nothing more to add. “You will see much
of them soon, when the season of Gandapati and the falling of
leaves begins. Already, up and down the river, they are busy with
things which are difficult to understand, and on the banks — far
away from them sometimes — they make their camps and journey
to and from them every day.”
“And the killing of animals and birds and insects, away from
the river? Does that still go on?” Mwami asked anxiously.
“Yes, Mwami — and worse than before.”
By now Tantalika had edged himself out of the pool, and stood
beside Mwami, balanced three-pointed on broad tail and hind
feet. He scratched his nose, and sneezed twice.
“Fura-Uswa is very angry,” he said, “and believes the Zimikile
may wish to destroy the valley and everything in it. He wants
me to travel to the place where the river falls from the sky into
a deep chasm, then back along the Great Valley until the river
shrinks, and passes through the gorge of Kariba. There I must
report to him about all I have seen, and then he will talk things
over with Nyaminyami, the river god who is known only to the
black Zimikile.”
“Nyaminyami?” queried Mwami. “I have not heard of this one.”
“I know little of him,” Tantalika said, lowering his voice. “Fura-
Uswa has told me only that he is the spirit of a monster, a great
snake who lived in the river long, long before Fura-Uswa was
born. His whiskers tickle the clouds to make the rain come, and

14
his coils push the water away to make the floods.”
“M’m – sounds a bit far-fetched, I must say,” said Mwami.
Tantalika, a little piqued by this remark, was in too much a
hurry for argument. Omitting any farewell words, he ran off into
the bush and was quickly out of sight.
Impalas do not frown when they are worried, but stamp a front
hoof once, or many times, depending on the depth of their anxiety.
Now, despite his scepticism, Mwami stamped his hoof so many
times that it hammered a hole in the hard ground. Although, as
always, he had listened to all the otter had said with a lick of salt,
he was not so foolish as to dismiss it as complete fantasy. There
was, without doubt, cause for disquiet. He looked across at his
herd, and wondered what, if anything, he should tell them.
They stood or lay in groups at the edge of the clearing, some
foraging for food, others grooming, and the younger ones at play.
Swilila and her friend Silulimi lay together gossiping, eyes ever
watchful on their offspring as they chased one another in small,
bucking circles, a short distance away. With sidelong glances at
the youngsters, Mwami walked over to the two does; they moved
to rise as he approached.
“Don’t get up,” he said.
Before he could say anything else, he was interrupted by a
sudden rustling nearby, and the voice of Tantalika.
“I forgot to tell you when I’ll return,” he said, standing between
the resting does and their leader.
Mwami, raised his head. “When will that be?”
“When many moons have passed, and the clouds are again
heavy with rain,” said the otter, and dashed off, without another
word, to join Kali-Anuka and Kusomona in their game.
“Not until then?” called Mwami.
Diving in and out between the leaping legs of the youngsters
in a game he had invented himself, Tantalika shouted back: “Not
until then!” and streaked off towards the river, running with
arched back, zigzagging through the forest of legs, scattering the
impalas, mock-startled, in all directions.

15
 “That’s a long time to wait,” Mwami said, almost to himself. As
he walked away, having forgotten what he had decided to tell the
does, Silulimi leaned towards her friend.
“What is going on ?” she asked quietly. “I’ve been trying to find
out, but no one seems to know anything. I’m sure Mwami was
about to tell us when that silly otter butted in. It’s most terribly
disappointing.”
“But what are you trying to find out, Silulimi dear?”
“That’s the trouble — I don’t know. There’s something going
on, of that I’m sure. You remember the day Kali-Anuka was born”
— she glanced over at the sturdy young juvenile, now almost six
months old and still growing — “and you told me that Mwami
had said something to trouble you? A premonition, you said, of
disaster.”
“Well,” Swilila smiled, “we had that with the last floods, didn’t
we?”
“Oh no — that was nothing! We’re all still here, aren’t we? Or
most of us. And floods come nearly every year.” She thought for
a moment, then said: “Do you know what I think? I believe it’s
something to do with Zimikile. Mwami said, you told me, there
will be need for ‘brave and wise’ impalas — what could he possibly
mean by that? We all know we’re not brave, or wise, or ever likely
to be. We’re beautiful, yes, if we accept the opinion of warthogs,
though anything is beautiful to them, poor things. I grant you
we’re not quite stupid, but we’re about the most defenceless
creatures in the valley. Look at our rams — lovely, curving horns,
marvellously defiant in the face of danger, and sharp enough to rip
through the heart of a lion.”
Swilila shivered at the thought.
“Yes, my dear — but you shiver and shake because you know
our rams would never try and attack anything, let alone a lion.
And if they did, those wonderful horns would snap off like dry
twigs!”
“But Mwami doesn’t always run away.” Swilila said defensively.
“I grant you that. But it’s his duty as a leader — or dominant

16
male as he likes to call himself — to act as decoy. He’s getting too
old and unappetising for doing that with any success, these days.”
“Mwami is brave,” said Swilila, flatly. “Mwami is also wise, and
soon Kali-Anuka will be, I promise you.”
“Oh Swilila, my dearest friend, how I hope you’ll be proved
right! But however exceptional an impala ram Kali-Anuka turns
out to be, I want to know now what it is Mwami is keeping from
us. His silence and the rumours are only leading to a greater fear
among us all. You know the old impala saying: ‘you must see how
deep the river is before crossing it’. Well, if we knew, we could at
least be sure whether we’ll be able to cross it or not.”

17
 3

W hen Tantalika set forth on his journey, his intention was, of

course, to keep his appointment with Fura-Uswa. But this
was not to be until the next rains, and he had many months before
then to roam the valley, gathering information on the activities of
men, so that he could report them to the godkin, as he had been
instructed.
He also made up his mind to take this opportunity to search
for a mate.
Since the separation from his mother over five years ago, he
had not encountered another member of his species in the area of
his birth. On occasions when he had ventured further afield, he
had met with a few, but never an unattached female. Except once,
when a she-otter long past her youth, bit his nose so violently
that he decided to have nothing more to do with her. Now, he
resolved, it was time to redouble his efforts to find a mate, and
after his talk with Mwami, he travelled south-west, upstream, and
on to the broad plains which rolled away from each side of the
river, the flatness broken here and there with gently undulating
hills.
He did not find what he was looking for, but he saw the great
Zimikile birds casting their deadly mist over the countryside. He
heard the explosions from the rifles, and when all was quiet again,
he went down into the shallow valleys, feeling the hush of death
over everything, seeing the animal carrion rotting in the sun, food
for the scavengers, and more than they could cope with.
Failing to discover an object for his frustrated affections, and

18
distressed with the sights and sounds he had encountered, he
moved downstream, north-east towards the place where the hill
is suddenly pressed in on the river to form a narrow gorge; and
he came upon other things which, if anything, he found more
disturbing.
After resting a few days in his holt under the bank across the
river from the Pambuka herd’s regular drinking place, he set off
downstream once more. Not so much, now, to seek a mate, but to
look for other signs of destruction by the Zimikile.
He kept to the water at first, sometimes swimming slowly on the
surface, paddling without effort, dog-fashion; sometimes moving
swiftly, throwing his whole body into strenuous action, shooting
himself forward in a curving motion, with his tail switching
strongly, acting as propeller and rudder at the same time.
After a long spell underwater at a very wide section of the river,
he surfaced to fill his lungs with new air, and his acute hearing
picked up a roaring sound from high ground inland from the south
bank. To him it suggested a large number of carrier-creatures, and
he could see, billowing up towards the cloudless sky, a thick haze
of dust. His sensitive nose was assailed by an obnoxious smell, new
in his experience. Venting air, he dived again, deeply, turned for
the shore and, and unerring in his submarine navigation, surfaced
in the still, shallow water of a sheltered inlet overhung with tall,
riverine vegetation. He paddled ashore, sliding through loopholes
in the dense tangle of tree roots, and wriggled away through the
bush.
The roaring noise grew louder as he approached higher
ground, and seemed to roll towards him, pushing the very air
aside, flattening his small round ears against the stiff fur of his
head. Several times he stopped, nose pointed up, sniffing the scent
of men mingling with the other smell. He reached the top of the
rise, and in a flurry of dust, stones, bushes and dry branches, he
saw before him a massive chain, each link of it larger than himself,
scouring across the ground. At first he was completely bewildered,
frozen into immobility by fear; then he saw, attached to each end

19
of the long chain, a huge steel ball as big as an elephant. Both
rolled in the same direction as the chain, bouncing heavily so
that he could feel the vibrations under his paws. He watched,
incredulous, as a spinney of white syringas, no more than two tree
lengths away, toppled down together in a shower of leaves and
snapping branches, their thick roots dragged out mercilessly from
the subsoil.
Even with his high intelligence, Tantalika could not understand
the purpose of what was happening before his eyes; but when he
peered beyond the fallen trees, and saw a black-faced Zimikile
astride a giant carrier bigger and uglier than any he had yet seen,
he realised at once that this evil noise and the striking down of
the trees was new and certain evidence of the incomprehensible
Zimikile plan to destroy the Great Valley — and everything in it.
He stood rigid, the hair on his back raised, his long tail held
straight. Only his nostrils moved as they worked at the scents
drifting across from the devastation before him. To his left, not
far away, the ground rose again steeply, and partly to escape the
assault on his ears and whole body he ran as fast as his short legs
would allow up the slope, dodging in and out of the thick scrub,
until he reached an open promontory. From there, he stared down
on to an area of destruction, where hundreds of trees lay broken,
limply dying, with others falling to the dragging, rasping chains.
Clouds of blue-grey smoke rose high into the breathless air from
several points, where stacks of green timber burned away to ashes.
Although no tears fall from his eyes, Tantalika wept, with little
whimpering cries which came from his aching heart. Here, in the
land where he had dwelt all his life, the comfortable landscape
was changing, for no reason he could think of, except to satisfy the
inexplicable whim of the Zimikile. And for the first time in his life
he felt a sense of loss. With an overwhelming desire to escape the
dust and smoke, the noise and unpleasant smells, he turned and
ran helter-skelter down to the river.
He took a different trail back to the shore, knowing that the
river curved in a wide sweep south before flowing north-east

20
again; he would thus save time by taking the short cut overland,
and he longed to enjoy moving through familiar woodland before,
perhaps, it was all lost forever.
Like all otters, Tantalika was happiest in his natural element,
water. On land he could, however, move over long distances,
although his short legs had their limitations. He travelled rapidly,
walking or running, rolling or sliding now and then, according to
the suitability of the terrain.
Pausing only to snatch a fat insect or two, warding off the pangs
of hunger, he made good progress and hoped to reach the river
before sunset. Then he could enjoy a fish dinner before settling
down for the night in some river-side hole, or a crevice in the
rocks.
He rustled noisily through deep drifts of dead, dry leaves,
revelling in the sound; over wide, boulder-strewn stretches of
rough ground, he leapt from rock to rock with the nimbleness of
a klipspringer.
He never felt alone when he travelled on land. The valley
was always full of life, and as he cut across open vlei, or dodged
through dense forest, he came across many species. Elephant and
rhinoceros, big as they were, did not harass him, the former gentle
by nature, the latter too cumbersome and clumsy for chasing otters.
He was wary of snakes and the big cats, and once, with the wind
behind him, he failed to hear or scent a lion. Cleaving through tall,
yellow grass, he suddenly found himself in the middle of a pride
of sleeping lions. But they were satiated from the meat of a buffalo
carcass nearby, and slept on.
Late in the afternoon he came across a forest trail made by
human feet, and knew that if he followed it he would reach a place
where the Zimikile lived. He did not fear them, for their homes,
like those of all other creatures in the Great Valley, had always
been part of it. So he kept on the trail, hoping there might be food
to steal at the end of it.
Once before he had entered a baTonga village, seeking a meal
of chicken, for a change. His foray had been unsuccessful, but he

21
had been chased away by thin dogs, big, almost naked women,
and laughing children. In the confusion, goats had scattered,
bleating, in all directions. With the fun of it he had forgotten his
hunger and later satisfied himself with a snack of two toads he had
found hibernating in the hollow trunk of a tree. He remembered
the incident well, for he had been fascinated, in the limited time
he had for exploration before discovery, with the bustling activity
of the place. Children ran about playing and shouting, while the
women, beaded and bangled, with sticks or porcupine quills stuck
through their noses, pounded corn, laughing, talking, and singing
all the time. Their hair was smeared with red-ochre paste, and
Tantalika could smell the strong animal smell of the fat spread
on their skin. At the nearby shore the men stood waist-deep in
the water, fishing with hook and line; others cleaned the few fish
they had caught then hung them to dry on long bamboo poles.
He remembered thinking that if only all Zimikile were like these,
there would be little to fear from them.
He thought of this again as he trotted along the path, passing a
patch of corn; he was sharp enough to notice that the plants were
wilting in the dusty, unwatered soil. He went on, slower now,
nostrils working, trying to detect man-scent. Rounding the corner,
he came suddenly on the village. But there was no sign of life; no
dogs barked at him menacingly, no children played their primitive
games, no men or women busied themselves at the daily chores.
It was a small village, even for the baTonga people. Just a cluster
of huts on a patch of bare earth stamped hard by many feet. The
huts were round and thatched, built of poles or wickerwork and
mud; some, used for storing corn, stood precariously on stilts. A
few discarded drinking gourds lay about. But only the lapping of
the river, and the faint rustling of the wind in nearby trees broke
the silence.
Tantalika’s keen eyes caught movement beneath one of the
stilted huts, but it was only a family of cane rats scrabbling for
grain which had fallen through the floor to the ground. A fish-
eagle swooped slow, gliding silently overhead, but flew on, soaring

22
upwards over the river, head thrown right back calling his “kow-
kowkow-kow-kow”. Standing at his full height the otter felt a new
unease; now it was with the disappearance of some of the valley
people from their homes.
Glad to put some distance between himself and the abandoned
village, he ran down to the shore, staying in the shallows until he
caught a fish, and with it securely clamped between his teeth, he
draped himself over a smooth rock and began eating.
Over on the opposite shore, an elephant trumpeted. Baboons
and monkeys barked and chattered; hippos snorted, and through
the evening birdsong a hornbill hooted unmelodiously, the water
dikkops whistled, and upriver a pair of fish-eagles yelped as they
soared across from bank to bank.
Tantalika listened to all these and other comforting, familiar
sounds, and watched as the river ran in great streams of flame
under the setting sun. Night came quickly, the distant hills turned
purple, and the valleys filled with heavy shadows. How long, he
wondered, before all this might be gone, just as those very people,
the animals and trees he had seen, had already gone?
***
In the weeks that followed, as he travelled further away to the
north-east, sometimes overland but more frequently along the
course of the river, Tantalika came upon more deserted villages
and heard again the awful clamour of tree killing, but it was distant
for he could not bring himself close enough to witness it again.
Twice he came across roads — the wide, hardened trails made
by the Zimikile —and on both occasions there were carriers
moving along them, heavily laden with long, branchless tree-
trunks, or crammed with people, sitting or lying uncomfortably
among their goats and dogs and meagre possessions.
As the great heat of Kavumbi, the month of October, pressed
down on the valley, he tired of venturing far from the river, and laid
up where the current flowed fast and cool, finding a long-deserted
otter holt, littered with the discarded remains of shell foods. It was

23
close to a sheltered beach, rich with crabs and mussels, on the edge
of a shady inlet —a promising fishing ground. He enjoyed himself
today, and it was not until the level of the river rose with the heavy
rains that he moved on, reluctantly, to keep his appointment with
Fura-Uswa.
Soon he could no longer keep to the river. It flowed too fiercely,
even for an otter, where it began to narrow as it entered the long
gorge. He scrambled over submerged rocks which long ago had
tumbled down from the steep banks; but this was hard going, and
his paws were sore and bleeding. So up the hillside, through the
dense woodland he went, hurrying although there was no need.
But he was sensing the closeness of some awful catastrophe and
hearing, frankly, a confusion of sounds, many of which he had
never heard before. Over all, the familiar role of carrier-creatures
funnelled along the narrow confines of the gorge.
He reached the top of another long, low hill, but could see
nothing for trees. For a while he scouted about, at last breaking
through into a clearing just below the summit on the far side.
All the time the cacophony stayed with him, louder and louder,
until it rang in his ears. Once in the clearing, he had an almost
uninterrupted view of the constricted river as it twisted through
the gorge, but to see a little further, he stood up to his full height.
He knew at once what it was he saw, and what, eventually,
it would bring about. His immediate assessment was not an
intelligent guess; it came from stored-up knowledge of generations
of otters who knew of another animal — a rodent — which lived
in places far, far distant from the Great Valley. Like himself,
they spent most of their lives in water. They felled trees in early
summer, gnawing at them, using the logs for building dams across
rivers and streams, filling the gaps with leaves and mud, so that
the barrier held back the water to form a small lake, trapping fish
for winter feeding, and ensuring a playground for their young,
born in the spring.
But this monstrous structure across the gorge was no beaver
dam; and, certainly, it was not built of logs. Great solid towers

24
straddled one side of the river bed, almost as high as the flanking
hills, and a long wall, already half-damming the river’s flow, curved
in a wide arc around the towers. The river surged through the gap
between the wall and towers, and the other bank, spreading out
again beyond to continue its interrupted course, passing beneath
two frail bridges which spanned its width.
Cut into the hills on both banks was a maze of trails, with noisy
carrier-creatures moving back and forth, kicking up the thick red
mud with their whirling, circular feet. Although Tantalika stood
a long way from all this, the noises reached him clearly — the
carriers, the high or low-pitched whining of unknown man-
machines, the clattering of others, banging and thumping; and
sometimes even the shouting voices of the many men who, busy
as dung-beetles at a midden, swarmed everywhere.
Up on his vantage point Tantalika heard the rain coming, first
on a gentle breeze wrestling the trees around him, then carried on
fierce gusts, a hissing, lashing deluge, penetrating his coarse outer
fur, stinging the skin beneath. Usually he loved the rain, especially
when he was on land; but now he longed for a dry place to rest,
where he could nurse his damaged paws.
He climbed down the hillside, and soon found a narrow burrow
under a steep bank which ensured that for however long the rain
lasted, he could rest, snug and warm in the dry. But he was not at
all happy with his situation. The discomfort he felt in such close
proximity to so many Zimikile, not unmixed with fear, was hard
to bear. He wished he could go to Fura-Uswa in the morning, but
the godkin had not yet informed him when to come or, for that
matter, exactly where to go.
The rain fell heavily and continuously for three days and nights,
and Tantalika did not emerge from his burrow except to snatch a
few mouthfuls of damp insects, and an unpalatable lizard.
On the fourth day, when the rain had slackened to a steady
drizzle, he watched for hours as the river below swelled into a
raging torrent, sweeping down from the Great Valley, building up
its strength against the high curved wall and the huge, solid towers

25
of the dam. He watched the men increase their activities, working
desperately in little groups to strengthen the ends of the two
bridges further downstream, for the river was hurling its lashing
waves at them, but not high enough yet to sweep them away. The
grey rain deadened the sounds of men and machines; Tantalika
could hear only the rushing, roaring water, and it seemed to him
that nothing could withstand its terrible force.
Incredulously he stared, hardly daring to breathe, as a long
wave heaved over the curved wall, poured itself into the maelstrom
below, then threw itself against the first bridge. It disintegrated as
though constructed of twigs, and was swept away in small pieces
downriver. The second bridge, a stronger affair, vanished beneath
the wave but reappeared, showering streams of water from its
edges. But it remained intact.
Suddenly, as though some unseen hand had signalled, the
onslaught seemed to be over. A turbulent arc of foam marked
the position of the dam wall underwater, and though the torrent
continued to pour through the gorge, where the dam had been,
the level began to fall.
For a long time Tantalika stood under the wet, misty sky,
marvelling at what he had seen, and wondered if, perhaps,
the assault on the dam had been the work of Fura-Uswa … or
Nyaminyami. He was soon to know.
***
On the day when Tantalika first set eyes on the dam at Kariba, and
heard the rain coming from the north-east, the sun was blazing
down from a clear sky many miles away, upriver. Everything
seemed normal this morning, and when Mwami and his impalas
went down to the beach where the sweet grass grew, they hardly
noticed a slight rise in the level of the river since the previous
day. They did not go down at all on the next day, for heavy
rain had fallen during the night and well into the morning; they
were content to feed on the grass where they stood. But when
they trailed again to the beach on the following morning, it had

26
disappeared, the sheltering trees stood an impala’s height in water
and, to Mwami’s amazement, the usual steady flow of the river
was stilled. He looked closer, and it seemed that the current had
reversed, moving almost imperceptibly upstream instead of down.
This cannot be, he thought, or has the world somehow tilted
the other way? He lifted his head to the sky and he could see,
dimly, the pattern of black and grey clouds far away to the north-
east, heavy with rain. He shifted his gaze to the opposite bank, and
there, too, some of the trees were partly submerged.
Only twice before in his long life could he remember seeing
such rapid flooding; but both times the river had increased the
speed of its flow, not diminished it — and certainly not turned it
about.
He began to wonder when Tantalika would return. Perhaps it
was something to do with Fura-Uswa, or with the Zimikile, and
although he was reluctant to accept the possibility, the otter might
have some explanation to offer for such a strange phenomenon.
He had said he would return “when the clouds are again heavy
with rain”. They were now, most days, but it would not be long
before the rainfall would dwindle to an occasional showery storm,
and the long dry months of winter would begin again.
A handsome ram of more than two years, who had earned
the name of Yandika for his friendliness, came up quietly behind
Mwami.
“What do you make of it, Yandika?” asked Mwami.
“A lot of rain downriver,” the young ram said, and moved to
Mwami’s side. “But I don’t think we’ll get it today.”
Mwami stamped a hoof irritably.
“No, no, Yandika — I mean the river. Look — look how wide
and full it is. I have seldom seen it come up so fast, and can’t you
notice something strange?”
Yandika lifted a back hoof to scratch his chin.
“Well,” he said, “we’re in for a bit of a flood, I suppose. But it
shouldn’t last long.”
“But can’t you see? Can’t you see it’s flowing the wrong way?”

27
 Yandika looked, but he could not see, and wondered if poor
Mwami was imagining things. He was getting very old now, and
senile; recently, on many occasions, he had seen or heard things
no others had. Perhaps he had better humour the old chap.
“Well, yes — I suppose it is,” he said, but as he spoke he realised
Mwami was right, for out in midstream the smooth surface gently
eddied in wide circles which moved, always, upriver.
There was nothing more to say. Neither of them possessed the
intellectual power to work out any answer to the puzzle; it was
completely outside their experience.
Another day passed and by then it was raining over the whole
valley; a steady, soaking drizzle. Still the water rose, and the river
continued to back slowly upstream.
Later, the high ground to which the impalas had moved became
isolated, an island from which, if the waters did not fall, the only
escape would be to swim. Few of them, except Kali-Anuka, who
had received many swimming lessons from his father, would be
willing to enter the water without persuasion.
But it was not necessary.
As though somewhere the pent-up waters had been released,
the level began to fall, only slightly at first, but then in a steady,
gurgling stream; and the danger had passed.

28
 4

A lthough Tantalika always recognised the moment when Fura-

Uswa wished to communicate with him, he never knew for
certain whether he was awake or sleeping.
But his instructions were clear: before the fullness of the
moon of Muyobo, he was to go to the Big Rock, which lay on the
bed of the gorge, close to the Zimikile dam. There the spirit of
Nyaminyami dwelt, and there Fura-Uswa would be awaiting him.
When the time came he went down into the gorge, dived deep
into the rushing waters and, battling strongly against the current,
reached the entrance hole in the bottom of the rock, and up into
the dry, hollow chamber. It was quite round, and big enough for
the largest river-snake to curl up in. Though he could feel the
presence of Nyaminyami, he never heard his voice. Fura-Uswa
was there, too; he knew this immediately, for high in the chamber
hovered a tiny light, no bigger than a firefly’s.
He waited, braced against the wall, his body shaped to its curve,
his hind paws hard against the edge of the hole. At last, when his
tail ached with cramp, the point of light slowly grew brighter until
the chamber was flooded with a pure white radiance. He waited
for Fura-Uswa to break the silence, twisting upright, and letting
his tail hang down in the hole to relieve his cramp.
“Welcome, otter!”
It was a small voice, like the squeaky grunting of a mongoose,
yet it filled the chamber overwhelmingly, echoing around the
walls.
“I welcome you in great sorrow,” began Fura-Uswa, “for I am

29
now certain that those creatures you call the Zimikile are trying
to destroy all the living things in the Great Valley, and even the
valley itself. They began this fiendish plan many, many moons ago,
slaying my own kind into eternal extinction. They have tried with
others, but have not succeeded; now they have become impatient
to destroy everything, without delay.
“I have tried to stop them, but alone I did not have the power.
I can do much but not enough. Only Nyaminyami, the great River
God (who is here but you cannot hear him) can bring down the
forces from the sky, from under the earth, and from the air, to
thwart the evil intent which crawls from men’s hearts into their
minds.
“Twelve moons past, Nyaminyami brought all the waters from
the great waterfall that thunders, and the river flowed with such
force that their mountain was swept away. But they ignored the
warning, and re-created what had been destroyed. Now, he has
tried again, as you saw with your own eyes. This time he pushed
the waters down from all other rivers, too, and made the clouds
heavier with rain than ever before. This time he has succeeded,
this time they will, surely, heed the warning unless they are mad!”
By now Fura-Uswa’s voice had pitched to a high, shrieking
scream. Tantalika’s paws went up to cover his ears, but he knew
this would anger the godkin, and he brought them down.
It was very quiet in the chamber, and when Fura-Uswa spoke
again, his voice was so small that Tantalika could only just hear
his words.
“This is what Nyaminyami believes,” he said, “but I know the
ways of men better than he. They will not give up easily.” There
was another long silence, and then Fura-Uswa said, in his normal
voice: “Now, otter, tell me of what you have seen while roaming
the Great Valley.”
Tantalika spoke of the abandoned Zimikile villages, and the
killing of animals, insects and trees. But he wondered if the godkin
listened, for before he had finished, Fura-Uswa interrupted.

30
 “If the Zimikile make another mountain across the gorge,” he
said, “it will be twice as strong as the one which now lies broken,
under the river. Then, neither I nor Nyaminyami will be able to
save the Great Valley, and it will drown under the Zimikile sea.
All living things that can run, or crawl, or fly, or swim, must go as
high and as far from the river as they can. We will know if this is
to happen, for the moon of Nalupale will not be visible in the sky
... that will be the omen, and all must take heed, at once.
“Then, otter, you must come to me again, but not here. You
will come to the baobab trees, the place of Ma-buyu, where I will
be spending next summer. There is too much water hereabouts; I
do not care for it, and shall be glad to be gone.”
The light in the chamber dimmed, and when it became a tiny,
sparkling dot, as it had begun, Tantalika was just able to hear
Fura-Uswa’s final words.
“Now go, otter,” he said in a thin whisper, “and go well!”
***
It was never very clear to Tantalika what transpired during his
rare meetings with the godkin, and he always found it curious that
afterwards, for several days, he would find himself remembering
things that had happened, and the words that had been spoken, of
which he had been unaware at the time.
Now, as he began his return journey, thoughts entered his
mind which he knew were not his own, but those of Fura-Uswa,
although he had no recollection of them having been spoken. They
answered some of the riddles which had been bothering him ever
since he had first known of the the strange actions of the Zimikile
in the valley. But, he decided, there was plenty of time to piece
everything together to make a whole, which he could tell Mwami
at the end of his long journey home.
But it took longer than he had intended. When the angry waters
had piled up against the dam, the first sudden flood had lasted
only briefly, but the river continued to flow, swift and swollen.
Even he was not a strong enough swimmer to move for long

31
against the force of the current. The river was, over some stretches,
five times wider than normal, and with all its many tributaries
rushing down, overflowing, to join the mainstream, he was forced
to make a detour for long distances southwards where the floods
had not reached. If they had, he was able to keep to high ground,
occasionally having to cross water which cut through the valleys.
But. this suited him well for he met with many impala herds who
had pulled back from the floods, and he told them the reason for
the floods, regretting he could not reach those who dwelt in the
north.
He had just swum across one of these valley stretches, walking
sometimes on the shallow bed, and was crawling out on to a smooth
rock when he sniffed the pleasant scent of otter. He whistled, and
scrambled over the rock towards a broken kopje, following the
scent with growing excitement. He heard an answering whistle,
and an overwhelming warmth filled his heart.
Sitting on a boulder, a small she-otter waited for him. He did
not speak to her as he came up, keeping his distance, until she gave
a little flick of her tail. Then he chirped at her, moved closer, put
his forepaws on the stone and looked up into her face. He chirped
again, reaching up to touch her nose with his, then licked her face.
She continued to ignore him, so he whimpered impatiently and
bit her ear. She slid off the rock, down into the water and with a
playful, inviting sweep of her rudder swam away.
He followed her, swimming more strongly than she, until they
swam side by side; then they rolled and splashed happily in the
shallow water, stirring up the red mud. Soon they tired of the
game and together, on shore again, they searched under stones for
insect larvae.
Her name was Vutuka, because of the white blaze between her
eyes, and Tantalika fell in love with her. She was much younger
than he, only in her second year, and had been alone since her
mother had died in a wire snare set by two young poachers soon
after she was weaned. That she had survived for so long, fending
for herself, was remarkable, and this endeared her greatly to

32
Tantalika. He was gentle with her, for she seemed a little frightened
of him, so that he dreaded doing anything to drive her away. But
after a few days together she lost her fear, and although it was too
late in the season to take her as his mate, she returned his love in
the only way she could, by swimming off, frequently, and bringing
him gifts of fish.
In his ecstasy at finding her at last, Tantalika temporarily forgot
about the impalas, the dam and Fura-Uswa; he forgot about the
life-threat to the valley which, before, had been uppermost in his
mind. So for many days they hunted and played together, sleeping
where they had met at the kopje, in a crevice among the boulders.
But when the floodwaters had drained off, and they had to seek
fishing grounds at greater distances, Tantalika began to pine for
his old bachelor haunts, and they set off one day for Mwami’s
country, far to the south-west.
On the way they passed many places where the Zimikile had
cleared the trees and bush, and when they neared the river all
traces of baTonga villages had gone, swept to extinction by the
floods. None had been rebuilt, as though the people did not
intend to return.
Tantalika visited many more impala herds, conveying Fura-
Uswa’s message to them, It was vague and garbled, but they were
able to grasp something of the meaning which lay behind the
recent events in the valley, and were forewarned of possible new
trials to come.
Early one evening, the two otters had been diving for fish in
a quiet little creek, and each with a victim held in the mouth,
ware racing to the shore when Vutuka, who was ahead, suddenly
dived. While she was still under, Tantalika saw a crocodile sliding
through the water in her direction. Its craggy nostrils and eyes
were visible, and although it moved so silently only a slight ripple
disturbed the surface . Tantalika dived too, trying to catch up with
Vutuka to warn her of the danger, but he was too late and saw,
through the underwater gloom, her lithe body shoot upwards.
There were sharp, confused movements, and the water seemed

33
to boil when the croc snapped at her tail with its massive jaws.
Coming up under the croc’s belly, he diverted its attention from
her, and it twisted round to snap at his head. But Tantalika was too
quick, coiling his body so that his short front legs were positioned
to poke his fingers into both eyes of his adversary, who hissed in
frustration and pain, The powerful tail swung round and slapped
at the otter, but missed, sending up a spray of water. Nimbly,
TantaIika jerked himself on to the croc’s head, held on by his
hind legs for dear Iife while he gouged his fingers deeper into the
croc’s eye-sockets. Thrashing about, trying to dislodge the little
otter, the croc, with a desperate effort and spurred by the pain,
threw its head upwards and sideways. Tantalika was dislodged so
successfully that he was thrown far enough for a head-start in his
streak to the cluster of reeds near the shore. He spIashed through
them, pulled himself up on to the bank and collapsed across a
dead tree trunk, well out of harm’s way. He watched through half-
closed eyes as the thwarted, sore-eyed crocodile cut through the
water towards the opposite bank,
He looked for Vutuka, but could not see her. For a long time
he lay on the tree, all his senses alert for some sign of her. It was
twilight before she darted up out of the water in front of him, a
large fish clamped in her jaws for both to share. He admonished
her for going back into the water, but he felt closer to her than ever
before, and she to him.
In the morning they moved away from the creek, for where
there is one crocodile there are usually more. They set off once
again upstream, but it was many days before they reached the
territory of the Pambuka. By then the river had calmed to the
languid flow of winter months, for almost a whole year had passed
since the otter had first set forth on his travels.
Kali-Anuka and Kusomona had also been developing a close
bond. Neither had reached full maturity, and certainly their
mothers still treated them as juveniles, not yet permitting them
to stay out of sight for more than a few moments. Mwami himself
would not normally allow this even of mature impalas, jealously

34
guarding his herd, fearful not only of the dangers which could
threaten a single, isolated individual, but also of the possibility of
trespass into alien territory, which is contrary to the social laws of
the impala species.
It was a very dark night when Kali-Anuka and Kusomona
wandered too far away and very nearly came to grief. The darkness
had fallen when Mwami carefully led his charges to a new resting-
place he had discovered, a little further away from the river than
the normal one. The stars were invisible behind an overcast sky,
which seemed to press down heavily over the parched woodland,
holding the still, sun-warmed air from the day close to the ground.
The two youngsters trailed behind their mothers, chasing each
other in the darkness, but always within scenting distance of the
herd. Then, at one moment as they ran into a clump of thorn
bushes, Kusomona heard a sound above her head, a ‘click-click’
so close that she jumped in alarm, and fell against her companion.
Before they knew what had happened the dry, cracked ground
gave way beneath them and they fell, in a flurry of dust and kicking
hooves, down the steep slope of an eroded gully.
“What scared you?” asked Kali-Anuka, as they scrambled to
their feet.
Her little voice trembled.
“Just an owl, I think,” she said. “But it was so close and loud!”
They laughed together in a burst of short snorts, and turned to
climb up from the bed of the donga, but it was too steep, and all
their sharp little hooves did was to dislodge more and more of the
loose soil,
“Come on,” ordered Kali-Anuka, “let’s try somewhere else.”
They shook the dust, off their coats and walked together, Kali-
Anuka leading, along the rough floor of the gully. The further they
went, the narrower it became and its sides higher and steeper. No
animal can see in complete darkness, and down here not a glimmer
of light penetrated from the cloud-masked sky above; the only thing
to do was to turn back and seek a way out at the other end.
They reached the starting place and both lifted their heads

35
high, calling and snorting as loud as they could. Kali-Anuka even
managed an immature roar; but it was no use, and none heard.
They went on, but it was a long time before the donga broadened
out and the sides became less steep. And then, with blessed relief,
they were able to gain faltering footholds with Kali-Anuka helping
his friend by shoving at her rump with his head.
Once at the top they laughed at their adventure, then considered
the next move, for they both knew they were now far from the
herd.
Kusomona was apprehensive.
“Don’t worry,” said Kali-Anuka, “we just need to follow the
edge of the donga — and make sure we don’t fall into it again!”
They went, and although they could see only the vague shapes
of trees and bushes and rocks looming up close in the blackness,
they found where they had fallen. But there was no sound or scent
of the other impalas.
Kusomona, now on the edge of panic, trotted away from the
acacias, calling her mother.
“Mawe!” she cried, “maaa-weee! ... are you there?”
But her soft voice did not carry far and, as if mocking her, an
owl hooted from high in a tree as she passed beneath it, and there
was the whisper of its downy wings as it flew close above her head.
She ducked instinctively, then fell back to be beside Kali-Anuka.
“Oh Kali — I’m so frightened!” she murmured.
Comforting her, he licked and nuzzled her face and neck. They
stood still for a moment, and he could feel her body shiver against
his, not with cold, but with fear.
They found, at the foot of a precipitous kopje, an overhang of
rock forming an open cave. Nothing, except perhaps a venomous
snake, could attack them from above without warning, and
they lay there all night, snatching short moments of sleep until,
gradually, the woodland shapes took on recognisable forms as the
rising sun tinged the sky a pale pink.
Kali-Anuka waited, head raised high and nostrils quivering as
he tried to pick up the scent of impalas, but there were so many

36
other animal smells on the air he was unable to separate them.
Then, as full daylight suffused the sky, he smelt the river, and
knew what direction they should take.
“We must go like the wind,” he said. “Keep close behind me,
and keep going — whatever happens!”
They went, each in a swift, diving rush, zigzagging in great
leaps, airborne over bushes and boulders, plunging on towards
the river. Birds flew up from the ground, and off low branches,
scattering before them in twittering panic. A family of warthogs,
busy rooting out rhizomes, galloped away squealing, with tails
erect. A lone zebra, fooled into a desperate bid for self-preservation,
tossed his mane and fled behind them, certain that a cheetah, at
least, was at his heels.
Leaping over a straggling flame acacia, Kali-Anuka landed
beside a peacefully ruminating Mwami. Kusomona followed,
nearly impaling herself on his horns; then came the astonished
zebra. Jumping up, Mwami roared, and the rest of the herd
swirled round uncertainly until all were in full flight from their
non-existent attackers.
There is only one form of serious punishment for an impala, and
that is banishment from the herd. But Kali-Anuka and Kusomona
were too young for such a severe sentence, and got away with
hard, mature advice from Mwami, and a mild scolding from their
mothers.
And for all they knew, the zebra kept running.
***
It was night, with the cold, white moon of Gandapati riding high,
and all the stars of the heavens flashing like diamonds. Under the
silvery brightness, in a clearing near the edge of some woodland,
the herd of impala rested, the only sounds an occasional sharp tap
of a hoof on rock, a muted snort, or, if one listened closely, the
steady munching of dry browse. Not far away the river gurgled
sluggishly, and across the water came the low, regular “hurruhm
… hurruhm … hurruhm …” from a young lioness. A hyena

37
barked; there was a sudden crescendo from chittering monkeys, a
hollow bird call, and then all was quiet again, except for the rustle
of brittle leaves in the night breeze.
Under a solitary buffalo-thorn tree which grew out of an
old termite mound, a group of four impalas listened to an otter
telling a story, and only one impala, the wise old Mwami, found
it difficult to believe all Tantalika said. It was not that he thought
him a liar — that is a word unknown to any section of the animal
world — but he had known the otter long enough to treat with
suspicion some of his extravagant talk, never quite sure where a
reasonable balance between fact and fantasy could be found. But
perhaps it did not matter, really, so long as no harm was done
and no impalas were misled on important matters. The others
listened spellbound, and Vutuka, a little shy among her strange
new friends, hung on every word, understanding none. She lay,
fully stretched, beside Tantalika, her chin resting comfortably on
the thickest part of his tail. Half-reclining, Mwami sat, flanked by
Yandika and Kali-Anuka; the only doe in the audience was Swilila,
who rested with her legs tucked under her belly, ruminating
thoughtfully throughout the otter’s story.
It was Mwami who interrupted the non-stop flow of words,
when Tantalika had described, vividly, his entrance into the Big
Rock, and the round chamber within it.
“Tell me,” he said, “how do other animals manage when they
go to the Big Rock, as they must do, sometimes?” He did not
wish to embarrass the otter, but he felt the others were owed an
explanation. “An elephant, for example. Or a buffalo. Few animals
cannot swim, after a fashion, but very few I know of can swim
underwater.”
Tantalika scratched his head between his ears.
“M’m,” he said, “I’ve never thought of that … I’ll ask Fura-
Uswa next time I go to him.”
Mwami shook his head, and smiled with his eyes.
The otter quickly resumed, remembering everything Fura-
Uswa had said, and more besides. He was quoting the godkin’s

38
prediction that the Zimikile would not give up easily, when a
snore from the now sleeping Vutuka brought giggling snorts from
Yandika, cut off by a muted one from Kali-Anuka.
“Listen!” he said urgently.
Four pairs of impala ears came forward, and Mwami climbed
to his hooves. Tantalika pointed his nose upwards, sniffing the
night air. All their senses were straining. But except for a breeze
whispering through the trees, and the calls of night birds above
the shrill vibrations of cicadas, there were no unusual sounds.
“I hear nothing,” said Mwami, but despite himself he spoke
quietly. “What was it, Kali-Anuka?”
“A carrier-creature … far away,” Kali-Anuka said, with certainty.
“I can’t hear it,” said Tantalika, sniffing between the words.
“But I can smell it, and I should know about . . .”
“There it is again! Listen . . .”
They could all hear it now, and smell it, too. But the sound
came in waves, rising and falling in intensity.
Mwami was the first to relax, and lowered himself to the ground
once more.
“The nearest Zimikile trail is far, far away,” he said with
confidence. “It is a trick of the wind that we can hear and smell
it at such a distance. Come, Tantalika — continue your story, for
dawn will soon be here and we will have to move away.”
Vutuka, disturbed from sleep, settled down again with her head
on Tantalika’s tail; the impalas, stimulated by the minor diversion,
waited for the continuation of the entertainment. But Kali-Anuka
remained more sharply alert than the others.
“Now you will want to know why the Zimikile have been doing
such strange things all over the Great Valley,” Tantalika went on,
and the impalas nodded eagerly, although Mwami wondered what
the otter could possibly think up next. “I reported on all the sights
I had seen, but Fura-Uswa already knew of them, and told me
they are because the sharp-faced, pale Zimikile want to stop the
river with their dam, so that the valley will flood into a great sea,
which they would rather have than what is here now. But if the

39
dark people are not moved away they will all drown; many trees
must die for them, so that they have ground on which to grow
their food. Insects have to die, although there is only one they are
frightened of: the inguluzi which bites and sickens to a sleeping
death. And because this fly feeds on the blood of so many animals,
they too must die.”
“And birds?” Swilila asked quietly. “I hear many birds are
dying, too.”
Tantalika inclined his head, and gazed into the dark foliage of
the branches above him.
“Of what use are the birds .. to these Zimikile?” he asked.
In the pause that followed, Kali-Anuka listened for the sound
he had heard before; but there was nothing, although the faint
scent of a carrier-creature was still in his nostrils.
“The really important message I have from Fura-Uswa,”
Tantalika said pompously, “is this: should the Zimikile make
another dam, it will be twice as strong as the last. Then, neither he
nor Nyaminyami will be able to save the Great Valley. All living
things will have to go far away from the river; we will be warned of
this should the moon of Nalupale be invisible in the sky.”
“Will you go?” asked Kali-Anuka.
“We’ll see, when — if — the time comes.”
To the east, the sky lightened along the horizon, and, hastening
to finish his story, Tantalika accounted for his journey home, and
of all he had seen and done; but he did not dwell long on his
meeting with Vutuka. When he had done, there was a long silence,
partly because Mwami had fallen asleep, and Vutuka’s snoring had
ceased.
Once more, it was Kali-Anuka who asked a question.
“You have told us this mountain across the river — this dam,
as you call it — will cause the whole of the Great Valley to flood,
if the Zimikile have their way. I can understand that. But I cannot
understand why they wish to do this? For what purpose? Surely
they do not want to store fish, or make a great pool for their young
to play in, like your friends from far away?”

40
 Tantalika was nonplussed. He could think of no answer to this,
not even one he could invent.
“There must be a reason, Kali-Anuka … but I don’t know what
it is,” he admitted lamely.
“Does Fura-Uswa not know, either? Does perhaps Nyaminyami
know, but has not told the godkin?” There was a note of sarcasm
in Kali-Anuka’s voice, but it was lost on the otter.
“All I can do is to ask him,” said Tantalika.
It was not only because he wanted to escape from more
questioning that Tantalika suddenly moved a couple of short paces
forward, so that Vutuka’s bristly chin thumped to the ground
under his tail. She awoke with a start and, at a sign from her mate,
both otters ran off towards the river to begin their normal activities
of the day, for by now the starlight had flickered and died as the
sun crept up towards the distant skyline.
For the impalas, having rested inactive for much of the night,
there was an immediate urge to feed, and they moved off to join
the rest of the herd among the trees. Mwami lingered behind and,
feeling the need to relieve himself, paused for the purpose at the
midden — the communal dung heap.
He stood with his hindquarters towards a spreading fig tree,
and an early-rising oxpecker flew down on to his shoulder in
search of ticks. His business completed, Mwami was about to
move off when the tick-bird suddenly flew up with its rattling,
warning cry. At the same moment the old impala heard the sharp
crack of the bullet from the rifle, and felt the scorching pain as
the red-hot lead pierced his flank. He tried to leap away, but the
springing power had gone from a hind leg, and he crumpled to the
ground, his blunted horn shattering against a rock. He managed a
warning roar but the herd had already run off at the sound of the
shot, to seek safety deeper among the trees. Only Kali-Anuka and
Yandika remained, standing together still and alert, in the middle
of the clearing.
There was another shot, closer to Mwami this time, but the
bullet missed, ricocheting off the rock under the ram’s remaining

41
horn, whining away through the air, dropping uselessly in a small
explosion of earth. Breathing heavily from shock Mwami saw the
blood oozing from the wound, down his leg, and then looked up
into the pale face of the hunter, a few paces from him. Slightly to
one side was another, dark-faced and with a rifle slung across his
shoulder.
Gathering all his remaining strength, unsure whether to attempt
flight or, uncharacteristically for an impala, to fight back, Mwami
heaved himself painfully up on his legs, twisting round so that he
faced his adversaries. Two rifles were raised and pointed at him as
he snorted his defiance, and lowered his single horn. He swayed a
little, recovered, and thrust forward at the two hunters.
A sudden staccato clopping of hooves on hard ground, and a
brushing of undergrowth, made the two men turn away, startled.
Mwami’s horn, held as low as he could, with his full weight behind
it, pierced the man’s stomach, and as he fell, the impala’s sharp
hooves split his face from ear to chin.
The other fired aimlessly at Kali-Anuka and Yandika who were
leaping towards him. Mwami, carried on by his own momentum,
stumbled, and zigzagged drunkenly through the bush with blind,
unconscious instinct, unaware that he had got his man. The
wounded victim screamed with pain as his companion ran to him,
once he saw the two young rams had veered off to follow Mwami
into the bush.
They found him quickly, lying on his side in the middle of
a little clearing, his beautiful coat dulled, the white lower parts
streaked with blood, already drying except where it flowed from
his deep wound.
He was alive, but clinging to his last moments as creatures do
when close to death.
Kali-Anuka and Yandika stood over him, heads lowered,
licking away the blood. The old ram spoke with an effort, his voice
softer than usual.
“Kali-Anuka,” he said, “do not believe all the otter says, but
heed him. Before Yandika, I am bequeathing you the leadership of

42
the Pambuka … you may be challenged, but do not fail me. Only
you… “ here he faltered, struggling with his last words, “… only
you can save my Pambuka … from what … may come. Ko caala,
my son … ko caala …”
His voice faded altogether as the old ram died.
“Ka sike, Mwami!” Kali-Anuka murmured, and Yandika
echoed his farewell.
Although there was still the scent of man — and man’s blood
— on the air for a long time, the hunters were not see again. But
later that morning, all the Pambuka heard the distant sound of a
carrier-creature; and it grew fainter and fainter until they could
hear it no more.

43
 5

S oon it was rutting time again, and the mature rams fought over
the ripe does. Wherever impalas ranged in the Great Valley,
there came the clashing of horns and those strange, turkey-gobble
roars and sibilant snorts which are peculiar to them at this season.
Kali-Anuka was challenged neither for his leadership, nor for
his possession of Kusomona, and for almost half a year a peace
descended over the herd, and they wished it could last for ever.
Their lives drifted by gently, with food plentiful after two seasons
of heavy rains and floods. There were few unpleasant incidents to
remember; and Kusomona’s smooth white belly filled out with her
unborn lamb.
Nothing was seen or heard of Tantalika, nor Vutuka, until the
first tentative rains began. Then he suddenly appeared amid the
herd at the river beach one damply oppressive afternoon. He ran
about calling for Mwami, but it was not until he found Kali-Anuka
that he received the news of the old ram’s death.
“Why do you rush about, calling for Mwami, when he has been
gone for six moons?” asked Kali-Anuka.
The otter stood erect, and leaned against a rock, taken aback at
his friend’s words.
“Gone?” he said. “Gone where?”
“His bones lie close by, and sometimes I think his spirit still
lives with us. Our Mwami is dead, Tantalika, struck down by the
noise from a Zimikile stick.” His voice was bitter.
“I did not know. Truly, I did not know.”
“But you’re supposed to know all things. Does the spirit of

44
Fura-Uswa no longer converse with you?”
“Yes, yes — of course. But it is unlikely he would be aware of
such a small matter —”
“A small matter?” Kali-Anuka tossed his head contemptuously.
“You call Mwami’s death a small matter? He, who once saved your
life, he who was loved and respected by us all — by all impalas of
the Great Valley? You disappoint me, my friend.”
“I didn’t mean it in the way you think, Kali-Anuka. Nor do
I regard such a loss as of no consequence. But to Fura-Uswa it
can be of little significance, for many, many animals and birds die
every day in his great domain. You understand that, don’t you?” he
added, almost pleadingly.
“I understand only that you’re an ungrateful otter, when I’d
hoped the friendship you had for poor Mwami, and the debt you
owe him would continue with me, as his successor, and the others
of the Pambuka.”
“But it does!” insisted Tantalika. Then, as Kali-Anuka turned
away from him, he dropped on all fours and said angrily: “I’ll show
you how much, Kali-Anuka:”
His fur bristled defiantly, his whiskers twitched, and he ran off
into the river, swimming back to his holt on the far bank.
The news of Mwami’s death affected him profoundly.
Although his friendship with young Kali-Anuka was strong, it
had not as yet had the chance of developing to the deep trust,
the respect he had held for Mwami. It would come, he hoped,
but this had been a bad start. He was understanding enough to
realise why his unthinking remark had upset Kali-Anuka, but
he remained cross and in a dark mood which was not helped
by the absence of Vutuka. She had gone off the day before on
some private expedition of her own, and he did not expect her
to return until Maziba, the first month of the new year, which is
the mating time for otters.
In self-imposed solitude, he hid himself away in the hollow
under the river bank; this was out of character, for usually during
the summer months he preferred to roam day and night revelling

45
in the rain and dampness, snatching brief sleep wherever he
happened to be.
Now, he did not venture outside except to feed, and as the days
passed, his boredom grew with his inactivity. But one evening,
when he judged the moon of Nalupale to be near to fullness, he
eagerly emerged from his holt, though his heart was filled with
foreboding as he cleaved upwards through the water. He broke
surface, shook the water from his eyes, and looked up to the sky
as he made for the shore. He scrambled, his little heart singing, on
to a rocky ledge which thrust out above the water. He lay there,
bathed in the silvery light from the star-scattered sky and his own
happiness, watching the high horizon as it was slowly steeped in a
band of light from the rising moon. As the light grew in intensity,
so his heart lifted even more.
But then the tip of a dark cloud, white-fringed, heaved up
over the uneven skyline, and grew bigger; the moon came with
it, behind, and invisible. Appalled, Tantalika stretched up on his
hind legs, as though by doing so he could see over the cloud, which
rose up along the horizon, the white edges darkening rapidly. The
light from the moon faded, and the great, unbroken mass rolled
up and over the valley, a huge, sliding canopy. Then the rain came
down, hot and grey, and Tantalika slipped off the rock, to swim
slowly and miserably back to his holt.
For the rest of that night he remained there, scratching idly at
the earth floor with his little fingers, pondering deeply, picturing
the terrible flood to come. He was not concerned about his own
fate, for he above all animals was best equipped to cope with it.
The rain was still falling, but softly now, when he crossed
the river soon after dawn. He found Kali-Anuka lying alone,
ruminating, under a big waterberry tree, and came up to him
quietly, from behind.
“I just nosed in for a chat,” he said with forced cheerfulness,
noting that Kali-Anuka did not even start at the sound of his voice.
“Wa buka, Tantalika,” Kali-Anuka greeted, coldly, and
continued chewing.

46
 The otter went straight to the point of his visit. “Kali-Anuka,”
he said firmly, “I am sorry I lost my temper with you the other
day. Before that I did not know I had one, but poor Mwami’s death
upset me very much, and I did not think how — er, any impala
could possibly take his place,” He hurried on without a pause.
“But I know now I was very wrong and should encourage you, not,
as I did in my thoughts, condemn you so soon after you took his
place. We must remain friends — close friends — for the sake of
all the Pambuka, and all other impalas. Specially now,” he added
solemnly, “when so much danger threatens.”
Kali-Anuka had not interrupted this little speech, nor did he
say anything for a few moments after it.
Then, swallowing the last lump of cud, he dipped his head in
acceptance of Tantalika’s apology.
“I agree, Tantalika, and I was to blame as much as you. Mwami
would have wished us to remain close, and to be angry with you is
to be angry with, ahem — Fura-Uswa. Now,” he said quietly, “tell
me what new danger threatens.”
“It is the danger I spoke of before Mwami died. Last night it
was the moon of Nalupale — not quite full, for as you know,
all strange happenings and witchery are squeezed into that last
portion. But the moon could not be seen, because of the storm
clouds, and this was the sign that the Zimikile have rebuilt their
dam. Soon the river will rise, and go on rising until the whole
valley drowns beneath it.”
At first, as he remembered Mwami’s dying words, Kali-Anuka
was not perturbed overmuch with the otter’s news.
“When will this happen?” he asked, calmly.
“That I don’t know. It could begin soon. I will have to go to the
place of Ma-buyu, and Fura-Uswa will tell me.”
“Do you know where this place is?”
The otter hesitated.
“Well, er — yes, I think so. In fact, I’m quite sure, and it is
across the river, far to the north.” He hesitated again, not sure
of how much he should tell the impala. Then: “Last night came

47
the strange sensation I feel whenever Fura-Uswa wishes to
communicate with me.” He groped for a way of expressing himself,
so that Kali-Anuka would understand. “His voice cannot be heard
at these times,” he went on, “but pictures form deep in my mind,
and with them, I am guided to the meeting place, or wherever he
wants me to go.”
Kali-Anuka pondered these words, half-believing them, but
still he remained sceptical. There was really, he decided at last,
only one way to find out the truth, once and for all. He scrambled
to his hooves, and shook himself.
“I’ll come with you, Tantalika,” he said firmly. “We’ll go
together to this place you call Ma-buyu, the place of baobab trees.”
The otter stared at him in disbelief. He did not want the impala
to go with him to share in that mystical connection with Fura-
Uswa, which was a tenuous thread, easily broken if he incurred
the displeasure of the godkin. But he could not say this, knowing
that Kali-Anuka’s scepticism would be reinforced.
“You cannot go with me,” he objected, “for I know you impalas
are poor swimmers, and the river is too wide for you to cross.”
Kali-Anuka smiled, his eyes softening.
“Do you forget who my father was?” he asked. “When I was
very young, Mwami taught me to swim better than any of our
kind, and twice we crossed the river together, and back again. It
was not difficult, although we had to watch out for crocodiles.”
The otter tried once more.
“I don’t know what Fura-Uswa will say to this,” he said,
guardedly. “He may be very angry.”
“Well, let’s go and find out, shall we, Tantalika?”
Kali-Anuka appointed Yandika as temporary leader during his
absence. He told none the reason for his journey, except Yandika
and Swilila, for others did not need to know. He begged Swilila and
Silulimi to watch over Kusomona, and the birth of his offspring
should it occur while he was away.
So, when all had been arranged, the otter and the impala went
down to the familiar beach, and side by side splashed into the

48
shallows, beginning their extraordinary trek to a place that one of
them suspected did not exist.
They swam across the broad river without mishap. Quickly
out-distancing the impala, Tantalika slid up on to the ledge of
rock where, the night before, he had sat watching for the moon.
Kali-Anuka’s hooves squelched in the mud under the reeds, and
he hauled himself up beside the otter; he stood quietly for a long
time, breathing heavily after his great exertions, unable to speak.
“You did very well,” said Tantalika. “Very praiseworthy — for
an impala!”
Kali-Anuka snorted, but still he could not speak.
“A bit slow,” the otter said, critically, and fingered his
moustache. “If you grew a tail like mine, instead of that rabbit
stub, you’d do better!” He chuckled at his little joke, snapping his
teeth together several times.
When Kali-Anuka had rested, they moved upstream, keeping
close to the river except where the tangled undergrowth forced
them to strike inland for short distances. Although it was still
early morning, the heat lay heavy, in slow-moving wraiths of mist
carried along by the languid river flow, not yet hastened with the
torrential rains to come. After the storm of the previous night,
water dripped from the trees, and the ground was soft and slippery
where the winter dust had mingled with the first showers to a
smooth paste. Often, Kali-Anuka nearly fell as his hooves slithered
in the thick mud.
By late morning, they reached a tumble of big boulders, forming
a low kopje which jutted out from the bank and seemed, at first
glance, to be an island, but a narrow strip of sand connected it
to the shore. Without hesitation the otter turned away from it,
northwards, with his companion following, unquestioning, in his
path. They did not go far, for Kali-Anuka was weakening quickly,
and called for a rest; the swim across the river had taxed his
strength more than he cared to admit.
They rested under the shade of a big marula tree which, in
early winter, would bear the acid-sweet fruits so much relished by

49
many wild animals of Africa, who sometimes became intoxicated
from eating fermented fruit lying on the ground. Kali-Anuka ate
the fallen, waxy-white flowers from a young baobab nearby; he lay
down, his rubbery mouth working as he munched in his sleep.
Ever active, his reserves of energy seldom used to the full,
Tantalika rested only briefly before he returned to the island kopje
to scratch for tiny crabs under the small boulders which littered
the water’s edge. He thought no more of his efforts to dissuade
Kali-Anuka from accompanying him to Ma-buyu, but put his
mind to cracking the shells of the crabs he caught, one by one,
against a rock, stuffing the sweet-tasting meat into his mouth with
his usual gusto.
His hunger satisfied, and Kali-Anuka on his feet again ready
to continue the journey, the otter did not hesitate to lead the
way northwards, crossing many small streams and sandy pools,
patterned over a wide, softly rolling plain which spread below the
foothills of a low escarpment.
Soon the afternoon heat, the long, slow climb ever higher over
the foothills towards the summit of the escarpment, began to tell
on the limits of the impala’s endurance. They rested again, Kali-
Anuka deciding that contrary to whatever the otter may wish, they
would remain here until next morning.
There was a little waterfall nearby, tumbling down from a ledge
into a broad pool, the bed worn deep under the fall by centuries
of erosion, but elsewhere silted up with sand. Further down, the
pool narrowed into a stream which gurgled over a bed of stones,
to disappear under a dense overhanging tangle of rose-flowered
wild gentian. This little sanctuary was coolly shaded by a grove of
low-branched waterberry trees and, except for the trickling stream
and wind-whispering of the trees, it was quiet — even the birds
were resting.
Kali-Anuka found plenty to eat: fresh green grasses, leaves, and
the fleshy, acid fruit of the waterberries. The otter had to work
harder, in the deepest part of the pool, scooping small fish into his
mouth, finding none bigger than the length of his fingers. After

50
drinking, they both settled down to rest through to the evening,
Tantalika stretched out along a cool slab of rock, lightly washed by
the running stream, his tail dangling in the water; the impala half-
lying, with his head up, almost hidden among the reeds which
grew close to the waterfall.
Late in the afternoon, a small herd of elephants threaded
through the trees along a well-worn trail, their stomachs rumbling.
In single file on their heavy, soft-soled feet, heads nodding
rhythmically, trunks swinging, they plodded on silently towards
the pool. Two calves, thinly trumpeting, ran to keep up with their
mothers.
The leading elephant, a big cow well past her prime, paused
a little way from the edge of the pool, and as though this was a
signal to the others, they gathered in a group behind her, standing
close. The tip of the old cow’s trunk brushed lightly over the
ground, scenting suspiciously; then it swung high, waving from
side to side, analysing the scents carried on the wind. Her great
ears, unfurled, spreading like a pair of broad wings; satisfied, she
relaxed and slowly walked to the water. Before she reached it, she
was overtaken by one of the calves, who splashed eagerly into the
shallows, squealing with delight.
The noise awakened Tantalika, who instantly slipped off his
rock into the pool, unaware of what had alarmed him. Playing
safe, he swam underwater until he had to come up for air, and
when he did, the old female, who had just sucked up a stream of
water, squirted it full in the otter’s face.
There was a great blast of trumpeting from the elephants, and
the trees around shook to their roots from the laughter. Tantalika,
spluttering for air, fur bristling with anger, swam away and
crawled over the sand to join Kali-Anuka, who stood quietly, his
eyes hiding a smile.
“That wasn’t a nice thing to do,” said Tantalika grumpily.
“Quite unnecessary, in fact.” He glared across at the elephants,
now enjoying their drinking and bathing, their little joke already
forgotten. The otter did not stay by the pool, but wandered off in

51
search of a more peaceful spot.
Soon there was a large gathering of animals scattered round
the pool. A pair of sable bulls drank side by side with a family
of warthogs; a group of grysbok shared the stream with a dozen
robust buffalo; zebras, duikers, impalas and water-buck crowded
round, drinking, all nervously alert for any unusual sound, scent
or movement.
Kali-Anuka felt a soft, wet nudge against his shoulder. He
flinched, but it was only the nose of another impala ram who had
spotted the stranger standing there alone.
“Nduwe ni? Who are you?” asked the ram. “I have not seen you
here before, have I?”
“The answer to your second question is — no. To the first
question I answer — I am Kali-Anuka, the leader of the Pambuka
herd from across the river.”
The other pondered this before he spoke again, and there was
more respect in his voice.
“Wa buka, Kali-Anuka. But — forgive me if I doubt you — isn’t
the honoured Mwami your leader?”
“Mwami is dead. Hadn’t you heard?”
“We have little news of events in the Great Valley. I believe
there is some strange animal who should keep us informed, a
messenger from Fura-Uswa, the godkin I was told about when
I was very young. But I haven’t led my herd for long, and know
little of these things. I’m sorry to learn of Mwami’s death — all
of us know of him. But tell me, Kali-Anuka, why are you, of the
Pambuka, here — on the wrong side of the river?”
“There’s no wrong side, my friend,” answered Kali-Anuka.
“The river and the Great Valley on either side of it belong to us all.
I’m not sure, however, that this happy state of affairs will continue
for very much longer.”
The ram lifted a hind hoof to scratch under his chin.
“Oh?” he said, “why do you say such a thing?”
“Come with me and we’ll talk to Tantalika, the otter.”
His name was Kwizima, this stranger from another herd, so-

52
called because his intelligence was rated quite high. He had proved
this recently when, more by cunning than by physical strength, he
had overcome three adversaries, and taken the leadership of his
large herd.
“What kind of creature is that?” he asked as Tantalika,
responding to Kali-Anika’s call, warily emerged from an empty
warthog hole. “It looks like an oversize mongoose!”
Tantalika balanced on his hind legs, and drew himself up to his
full height, so that his eyes met those of the questioner.
“I am an otter. But if we are to engage in any kind of conversation,
you may call me Tantalika,”
“Wa buka, Tantalika. And you may call me Kwizima. But tell
me” — the impala tapped a front hoof, puzzled, — “how is it that
a — an, er — otter, speaks in impala language?”
“The great Mwami, of the Pambuka, taught me.” The otter tilted
his head to one side, quizzically. “Who taught you, Kwizima, for I
find it hard to understand your words?”
Kwizima snorted, amused.
“We are the impala of the north,” he explained, “and therefore
our words may sound a little different, as do those of the south
and other parts of the valley to us.”
“Ah yes, of course. I’ve found this difficulty before when I’ve
talked with your kind. Those who live far to the west I cannot
understand at all.”
Kwizima realised, then, who Tantalika was. “Tell me,” he said,
“Kali-Anuka has spoken words of foreboding to me. What do you
know of this?”
“I know enough, and it is true,” Tantalika affirmed. He dropped
to his paws, his feeling of antagonism towards the stranger
evaporating. “The valley is to disappear under a great flood, and
unless all animals move far, far away, they will all drown.”
“When will this happen?”
“I don’t know. Kali-Anuka and I have undertaken this journey
to find out. But happen it will — you can be sure of that. I’m sorry
not to have told you before, but I haven’t known of it for long

53
myself … and I’ve been rather busy.”
Tantalika did not want to elaborate further; he did not wish
to talk about Fura-Uswa, or the Zimikile dam. It was all too
complicated, and he felt there would be little chance of an impala
from a strange herd understanding much of it. He had given his
warning, and it was up to this Kwizima whether or not he did
anything about it. His duty was done, just as it had been done
many times before, and it was only ever to the Pambuka he gave
the full facts.
He need not have been concerned. Kwizima turned to Kali-
Anuka, who had remained a silent listener throughout the
conversation.
“Do you believe this ?”
Kali-Anoka hesitated before replying. “I will tell you after we
have completed our journey,” he said.
“H’m.” Kwizima asked no more questions. “So be it,” he said.
“Always our lives are as uncertain as a morning mist — they are
there, they are gone. I, and each member of my herd, will meet
this flood you talk of, should it come, just as we meet every flood,
every year, or any other threat to our existence. But I will be
obliged if, when you pass this way on your return from wherever
you are going, you will tell me a little more of what we can expect,
and when.”
“Of course,” agreed Tantalika.
“We will find you here?” Kali-Anuka asked.
“Invariably. But if not, because of bad weather, or some other
reason which will be clear to you, we are never far away. Ko caala,
Tantalika … ko caala, Kali-Anuka!” With a toss of his horned
head, Kwizima leapt away to rejoin his herd down by the stream,
leaving the others silent for a few moments.
When he spoke again, Tantalika said, almost to himself: “I
liked him, in the end. I hope we’ll meet him again.”
***
A son was born to Kusomona that night, and just as his father

54
had entered the world to the music of thunder and the flashing of
lightning, so did he.
It is unusual for an impala doe to give birth after sunset, or at
any time during the hours of darkness, and Kusomona’s instinct
told her, as the brassy sun fell behind the storm-clouds gathering
about the valley, that she must take extra care now that predators
were becoming active. Restless and uncomfortable with early
birth pains, a little bewildered, she wandered about, searching for
Swilila and her own mother, Silulimi. She found them at last, just
as the first rumble of thunder reverberated around the hills, and
heavy drops of rain splashed noisily among the branches of the
sheltering trees setting the leaves a-dancing. The storm grumbled
about the darkening sky with no dramatic display of its anger, and
the rain went on falling steadily while Kusomona, still restless,
constantly shifted her position, standing, lying, then standing
again. Swilila and Silulimi stayed close to her; there was no need
for talk, but their presence was comforting.
She lay quietly at last, hardly conscious of her own efforts, and
quite oblivious of her surroundings; she did not realise, for some
time afterwards, that her lamb lay beside her, shaking his head
and ears to clear them of moisture.
Then she looked back, surprised and alarmed, stared at her
baby, sniffing towards him with ears pricked forward and eyes
wide. Her alarm quickly changed to fascination. She cleaned herself
while the lamb struggled to stand, his hind legs still hindered by
the membranes enclosing them. Then, seeing he needed help, she
started to lick him clean.
The rain pattered down, and the thunder rolled away on huge,
lightning-lit clouds. Except for the calls of night-birds, and the
hunting roars and barks of animal hunters far away, no sounds
disturbed the start of the life of Mwami-Mupati, son of a leader,
and nothing happened to delay the establishment of a strong bond
between mother and young, so essential to the survival of any
new-born animal in the free but dangerous world of the wild.
The grandmother does remained close to Kusomona and her

55
suckling lamb all night, and in the morning, during that strange,
silent limbo before sunrise when even the birds and cicadas are
quiet, all four impalas walked together to mingle with the others,
little Mupati stepping unsurely beside his mother, his eyes big
with all the wonders they saw.

56
 6

T he place of the baobab trees, Ma-buyu, was unique for several

reasons. Nowhere else but in the northern part of the Great
Valley existed such a forest of these huge, grotesque trees, although
there is another many hundreds of miles south-east, in the valley
of the Sabi river. But most astonishing of all, no man, in all his
wanderings, his explorations and exploitations across the vast
valley territory, has ever become aware of the forest’s existence.
The baobab tree is rich in stories of African myth and magic.
No wonder, for it is among the longest-living trees known, its
life measured in thousands rather than in hundreds of years. The
enormous girth, the odd-shaped branches, twisting eerily upwards,
suggest they are capable of movement as, indeed, they are when
the Bimbe winds of August blow strongly from the south-west,
across the desert and swamps of Namibia and Botswana.
But there was no wind to stir the branches of the baobabs of
Ma-buyu on the night Kali-Anuka and Tantalika reached there.
All through the day following their encounter with Kwizima,
they plodded on through dense thorn-bush hour after hour, the
heavy, humid air pressing down cruelly on them. Kali-Anuka’s
long, delicate limbs were torn and bleeding, aching all the way
down to the tips of his hooves. All day they had met no other
animals, and had neither seen nor heard any birds in the stunted
trees scattered among the thorns of the territory they traversed.
Then, as evening twilight came, the bushland gave way to a narrow,
rock-smooth plateau. To Kali-Anuka, the relief of not having to
scour through the thorns was intense; he had rested many times

57
that day, and did so again, lying on the hard, bare surface, his
aching, burning body grateful for the touch of cool rock.
Tantalika looked back at his companion, then ran across the
plateau where it ended abruptly, like the edge the world. Belly
pressed against the surface, he peered over into the void below.
It was as he had seen it, in his mind’s eye, this place of Ma-
buyu. The great forest of trees far below, the thick, domed
trunks reflecting silvery-pink from the imperfect round of the
moon, now high above. The forest was enclosed on all sides by
vertical cliffs twelve times the height of the trees themselves. All
were fully grown, and at this time of the year the branches were
thinly decorated with the large, whitish flowers which carry the
unpleasant scent of rotting flesh.
He shuffled on all fours along the edge of the cliff, until he
found the path he knew to be there, cut with unknown tools
by unknown workers, aeons before. It was wide enough for
an elephant or a rhinoceros to descend safely, and led straight
down to the bottom of the abyss. Calling softly to Kali-Anuka to
follow, he had no difficulty in half-running, half-sliding, down to
where no sound disturbed the absolute silence, no breath of wind
whispered in his ears; and the baobab trees — many hundreds of
them — stood deep-rooted in utter immobility.
A long way behind and above him, Kali-Anuka slipped and
stumbled down the steep path, bracing his tired legs against the
slope. He was not frightened; only bewildered at being so close
to the unknown. Then, at last, he was down, standing beside the
impatient Tantalika, with the clatter of dislodged stones falling
after him, echoing through the silence.
Together they set off for the middle of the forest, where
Tantalika had been told to go. Before they reached it they had
to skirt round each tree individually, they grew so near to one
another.
It was the only clearing in the forest, closely walled by the
smooth, round tree trunks, and they waited there as a cloud passed
across the face of the moon, plunging them into darkness. They

58
both lay on the moist sand, Kali-Anuka licking his raw wounds,
the otter nibbling at his paws, longing for a mouthful of crab, or
fish, he was so hungry.
Suddenly, the moonlight began to flash about the chamber,
and the squeaky, yet overwhelming voice of Fura-Uswa came,
filling the whole place with its sound. “Once more I welcome you,
otter, but in greater sorrow than the last time. But first I ask you,
who is your friend? Can it be Mwami, of the Pambuka, of whom
you have spoken so often and praised so highly?”
“No, it is not Mwami,” answered Tantalika. “He is dead, and
this is his son, Kali-Anuka, who now leads the herd.”
“Ah!” Fura-Uswa’s exclamation cut the air. “I am pleased, for
he must be brave, this impala, as brave as his father, to come with
you here.
“Now, otter, I have bad news for you,” he went on. “Men have
mastered Nyaminyami and me … there is no more we can do.
They are blind with their own power, and because they want to
take the Great Valley for themselves, they have conquered us. We
have lost to the madness and greed of these creatures who, I may
remind you, were the last animals to be created.”
Kali-Anuka raised his head, and with all the vocal strength he
could muster, he directed a question at the unseen Fura-Uswa, the
question he had asked Tantalika once before.
“But why do the Zimikile wish to take the Great Valley from us?
Why is our valley to drown — what is the purpose?”
“I can tell you why, now I know,” the godkin retorted angrily.
“It is because they will use the captured waters — by what
means even I cannot understand — to give light where there is
darkness, to give heat where there is cold, cold where there is
warmth, and to make the strength they do not have themselves
to drive strange machines which are beyond my comprehension.
Man turns everything on earth to his own ends. He believes he is
all-powerful, and to him no other creatures are of consequence.
But one day, whether in twelve or twelve hundred moons, he will
discover there is nothing left, not even himself.”

59
 The godkin’s voice had dropped to a whispering chitter, yet a
deep bitterness was there. When he spoke again, his voice was so
quiet that his listeners found it difficult to hear the words.
“After I came here from the Big Rock at the time of Ikando,
the spirit go-between of all the birds, Inkwazi the eagle, flew to
me and told of more building of this dam, as you call it. The river
waters were still flowing there but soon, Inkwazi said, the Zimikile
will halt the flow, and we all know what will happen. The highest
hills will become islands. The river will no longer be a river, but
a lake as wide as the sky. . . and our valley will have gone from
sight, for ever.”
The voice of the godkin became smaller and smaller; neither
Kali-Anuka nor Tantalika could hear it without straining their ears
until they ached. There was a distant rumble of thunder, and the
fresh smell of rain came on a flutter of wind; once more the moon
was obscured by cloud, and the heavy darkness descended over
the place of Ma-buyu.
“Go now, Tantalika,” said Fura-Uswa, calling him by name for
the first time. “Go now, Kali-Anuka, and as quickly as possible
lead your herd to the safety of the highest hills you can find. Tell
others of your kind the same. And you, otter, travel as quickly as
your name, carrying my warning to all impala herds, far and wide.
I too, have much to do, for although other go-betweens already
know what has to be done, many more are coming to me — the
elephant-shrew of the elephants, the night-ape of the leopards, the
eagle of the big birds, and all the rest … so go now, and go well
… ko caala … ” and the words of farewell trailed away, receding
upwards above the tops of the baobabs, and were lost in the lonely
vastness of infinite space.
With the next rumble of thunder, closer now, Tantalika
scrambled away, feeling his path through the trees. Kali-Anuka
followed close behind, blindly, until a renewed burst of moonlight
showed them the steep path which led them, thankfully, to the
summit of the cliff.
They crossed the bare rock plateau and sheltered among the

60
thorn-bushes, and for once Tantalika was happy to rest with Kali-
Anuka; they were both very tired after their strenuous efforts, and
the excitement of the night. The moon shone palely through misty
clouds, and the rain, for the time being, held off.
Although without food or comfort, Kali-Anuka’s mind was
filled with puzzling questions. But, above all, he dearly wanted
the answer to one of them.
“How was it,” he asked sleepily, “that although Fura-Uswa did
not speak in either otter or impala language, we both understood
every word he said?”
If Tantalika answered, Kali-Anuka did not hear. His eyes closed,
his head drooped, pillowed on the otter’s back, and he fell asleep.
***
There was nothing exceptional about the storm that night; it was
one of those which mutter, and pour down token showers of rain
as a warning of better things to come. But on the next day the
Zambezi river rose to the highest level normally reached at the end
of the rainy season, in March or April.
The Pambuka herd, as is customary with most impalas at the
start of a new day, was lying down, sleeping or ruminating, and
after the period of grooming came the first feeding session, with
unweaned lambs suckling their mothers, pausing now and then
to rest or play. Little Mupati, at three days old, stayed close to his
mother, and always in affectionate sight of Swilila and Silulimi.
Everything seemed perfectly normal. Later, Yandika signalled
silently to those who wished to go down to the territorial beach.
It was not far away, across a belt of low undergrowth, and down
the gentle slope through the trees. But as Yandika led a loosely
grouped contingent of impalas down the well-trodden trail, he
scented water sooner than usual. There, above the line of the
trees, the river seeped between the trunks and the bushes, forming
little rivulets which twisted and turned as they probed across
the uneven ground, ever-widening. They filled the hollows, and
then linked together into larger pools, which in turn spread into

61
miniature lakes, becoming part of the river surface itself. The trees,
which before had stood as a screen above the beach, now grew
out of the river; the beach, and the grass they loved so much, had
disappeared. The river’s normally ruffled surface had calmed to a
slowly heaving swell.
At first, the significance of all this change did not strike Yandika
or the others. It had happened often before — every season, in fact
— though never so early, and never in quite the same way, or as
quickly. With a gesture equivalent to a shrug of the shoulders,
Yandika moved forward to the water and began to drink although
he was not thirsty.
But something was wrong, was not as it should be, and Yandika
lifted his head more frequently than usual, turning it sharply to
right and left, unaware of the danger he sought. His companions
became increasingly nervous, some backing away from the
creeping waters, frightened to drink.
A sudden wind blew up, and as suddenly died; but it whipped
the river into small waves which drove the water even further over
the land, and at a snort from Yandika all the impalas wheeled
round to flee in close formation to the higher ground they had just
left. Together, Swilila and Silulimi joined Yandika, and there was
a deep fear in Swilila’s eyes.
It was Silulimi who spoke, in an agitated whisper. “Swilila has
just told me of Tantalika’s story, on the night before poor Mwami’s
death,” she said. “Do you remember?”
Yandika remembered.
“He warned that if the moon of Nalupale could not be seen,
the river would rise, and the Great Valley would drown.” She held
her words for a moment, and then said: “There was no moon that
night, Yandika. That is why Kali-Anuka has gone with the otter to
ask Fura-Uswa if this is indeed so. Is that right?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I didn’t think this was the reason Kali-
Anuka went with Tantalika. He told me only that he wanted to
prove to himself that the otter spoke the truth. And now” — he
turned his head towards the swollen river — “it seems he did.”

62
 In the pause that followed, there was a sudden scurrying nearby
as a large colony of dassies, flushed out of its warren under a heap
of boulders, sped in retreat from the advancing water, barking and
whistling in alarm.
“We should go, too,” said Silulimi. “We should leave our home
range, and go far away up into the hills.”
It was not in Yandika’s nature to take offence at another’s
suggestion, even coming from a female, but he was unsure of
himself. He hesitated, his front hoof stamping the ground; then,
with a toss of his head, he made up his mind.
“We’ll stay here for one more night, until Kali-Anuka returns.
We’ll go into the hills, to our usual place away from the flood,
but no further yet. The river, surely, cannot reach there before
morning, and then Kali-Anuka, when he comes, will know where
to find us, and tell us where to go.”
Swilila exchanged a nervous glance with her friend. She looked
back as Yandika had done a moment before, towards the river.
“I wonder,” she said, very quietly, “if Kali-Anuka will be able to
swim the river by then.”
High above the gorge at Kariba, early in the morning of the
same day, a solitary fish-eagle flew in wide circles, his white neck
and head bright in the rays of the hour-old sun. As he glided,
using his wings only to turn and keep his height, he did not voice
his ringing cry, for he was not on the hunt for fish in the narrow
river which tumbled over its rocky bed between the hills below
him.
Inkwazi the eagle was a long way from home, a large nest of
sticks high in a tall tree upstream where the river was wide and
well-stocked with fish. He often flew far afield, but seldom as far
as this; the last time was when he had carried the message to Fura-
Uswa that the man-made mountain across the gorge had risen
again. He did not, of course, fully understand what he saw now,
but he knew enough of the ways of men — those wingless birds,
as the creatures of the air regarded them — from his countless
observations of them from above, to know what they were doing,

63
even if he did not know why they did it.
The massive structure spanning the gorge gleamed white.
The great towers of concrete, higher than any tree, joined in a
continuous curve, and looked for all the world like the uneven,
lower teeth of a giant baboon. At the base of one of these towers,
just above the river bed, the waters of the Zambezi were being
constricted through a narrow, gridded gap. On a causeway above
stood a man wearing a white helmet, and nearby on the river
bank were many men who seemed to be watching him, as though
his actions were important. Behind him was a long line of huge
carriers, filled with boulders.
Inkwazi the eagle swooped low over the scene, so low that
his keen eyes could pick out the smallest details. One of them
was a round object strapped to the man’s left wrist, and had he
known of such things, he would have recognised it as a watch.
The man kept glancing at it, and eventually raised his right hand,
slowly, above his head. Suddenly, he dropped his arm to his side,
and the first carrier moved past him and tipped its cargo into the
strangled river. The heavy stones hurtled down with a roar, hitting
the water in a single splash; for a moment it bubbled and boiled,
swirled uncertainly, and then a muddy stain floated to the surface.
Another carrier emptied itself; then another.
As Inkwazi flew upwards he saw, below the dam, the river flow
checked to a mere trickle; but above the dam there was no flow at
all … except backwards, upstream.
As he watched, he understood without doubt what these
‘wingless birds’ had done. He had seen enough and, soaring high
in a wide curve, he flew off, westwards, and at last voiced his
rasping call. To some of the men below who heard him, familiar
with the fish-eagle’s call, it sounded different from all others they
had heard. It was not a challenging cry, but a cry of despair.
***
On the first day the waters of the slowly broadening river probed
hesitantly to either side; they crept and coiled around rocks and

64
the boles of trees, poured in wide cascades into depressions, and
inched higher and higher up the slopes. Gradually, everything that
grew close to the ground was obliterated.
The smaller animals, mostly those who dwelt underground,
deserted their old haunts; tree dwellers remained, safe for the
time being. Larger creatures waited, and moved back only when
they had to, trying as best they could to live normally through the
day; but uneasily, looking over their shoulders, as it were, at the
advancing tide.
Flotsam floated on the thick, muddy water. Dead tree-trunks
and branches, sticks and leaves, clung together to form loosely
drifting islands. Living, shallow-rooted plants floated to the
surface when the soil binding them washed away, and millions
of drowned or drowning insects, with no chance of survival, all
compacted into solid layers of rubbish, moved flatly inland from
the old course of the river.
By sunrise on the second day, the Zambezi had risen twenty
feet over its length of 150 miles through the valley, from the
age-old gorges at Victoria Falls to the new, man-made barrier at
Kariba. Already the face of the valley had changed irrevocably; but
it would change again and again, many times, before becoming
fully shaped in new permanence. All through that day the waters,
layered with debris, spread across the riverine forests into the bush
beyond, over the plains encircling the hills. Small animals — rats,
mice, shrews, hares, and even squirrels — easy prey for eagles
and hawks, were helplessly marooned on the islands of matted
brushwood which sometimes floated away from the impermanent
shores into the mainstream, blown by the wind.
Up and down the river, for the whole length of the vanishing
valley, it was the same. But where the shorelines were rank with
vegetation, and the ground was broken or hilly, the tide moved
in slowly; where the broad aprons of flat land edged the shores, it
swept across rapidly with few obstacles in its way, merging with
the simultaneous flooding of the tributaries on either side.
There were many, many tragedies that day in the Great Valley,

65
with thousands more to follow as the days became weeks, the
weeks became months, and the months lengthened into years.
Yet there was a strange and terrible beauty about the spectacle of
a valley which had lived, vibrantly, for millions of years, slowly
drowning by the hand of man, to serve him in its death.

66
 7

A s Tantalika and Kali-Anuka journeyed south from the place

of Ma-buyu, following the same trail they had covered before,
they did not hurry. It was not for lack of urgency to rejoin the
Pambuka that Kali-Anuka slackened the pace. He knew only too
well that the sooner he got back, the sooner he could carry out a
plan to move the herd to safety when the river began to rise. He
did not, of course, know when this would be, but it would be best
to go, anyway, and find a piece of territory to claim as their own.
But hurrying would not help to conserve the strength he would
need for swimming the river. His taxing efforts during the past
two days had sapped his energy enough already; there had been
few opportunities for him to consume sufficient food, and pain
shot through his legs and body with every step he took. He could
no longer hold up his head, and it drooped down almost between
his legs.
In contrast, Tantalika, though covered in festering sores from
countless tearing, stabbing thorns, ran buoyantly ahead, taking
advantage of every puddle or pool to indulge in a cooling splash
and, if he was lucky, a hunting game with a fish, usually ending
in a tasty meal. The system worked very well, if unintentionally,
for these diversions enabled the stumbling impala to catch up,
with the knowledge that there would be water to drink where he
found the otter, and then he would enjoy grazing or browsing
while Tantalika amused himself.
They had no memorable encounters with other animals, and
there were no impalas in this rough country to be told about Fura-

67
Uswa’s grim warning. Even though Tantalika scouted round as
they approached their resting place of two nights before, he could
find no trace of Kwizima or any members of his herd.
So, at the end of the first day on the return journey, they reached
the waterfall which trickled down over the ledge into the pool.
They did not expect to find many animals there, for the sun had
long set, and only the deeply-filtered light from a pale moon, low
in the overcast sky, outlined the features of the place. There was a
pair of grysbok drinking at the stream, with a single lamb which
suckled its mother as she drank; and where the pool narrowed,
a solitary male bushpig wallowed, stirring the water to a sandy
soup. The bushpig was not alone for long; a sudden crashing of
undergrowth a short distance away heralded the arrival of the rest
of his party, disdaining the silent caution of most animals when
approaching a drinking point. It was as though they were satisfied
that none of their natural enemies were on the prowl.
Kali-Anuka noted this with relief. He was in no shape to deal
with a situation requiring swift retreat. After a brief drink, he
browsed for a while off the low bushes near the pool, then retired
to ruminate, resting his tired body in long grass near a waterberry
tree by the edge of the stream.
The need for sleep overwhelmed Tantalika at last and, after he
had satisfied his hunger with a few mouthfuls of fingerlings, he
spread his wet body over a slab of rock close to Kali-Anuka, where
the pool ran into the stream, and slept.
An otter will sleep for long periods, but an impala — even one
as exhausted as Kali-Anuka — never remains asleep for more than
a few moments, with all senses remaining wakeful. So Kali-Anuka
was first to hear movement from the thick wild gentian bushes
downstream. The sound, whatever it was, continued, and soon
he saw a small, dark shape moving stealthily, sliding easily over
the rocks in the stream, but because of his tiredness, Kali-Anuka
was slow to react. Then, suddenly alarmed, he struggled to stand,
tensed himself to leap away, when a veering breath of wind carried
to his nostrils the scent of otter. Looking down, he saw the flash of

68
white fur between her eyes.
“Vutuka!” he called softly. “Vutuka — I am Kali-Anuka, of the
Pambuka!”
The little she-otter paused, standing on her hindquarters just
below where he stood, her head to one side, looking up at him
from her brown eyes, her long whiskers trembling suspiciously.
He peered down at her over the top of the grass, smiling with
his eyes, remembering she would not understand his words.
“Kali-Anuka,” he repeated, slowly. “Friend of Tantalika,” and as
he said the name he looked deliberately across to where the otter
lay, still asleep. Vutuka’s eyes shone, yellow in a moonbeam as she
turned her head to follow his gaze. She reached Tantalika in two
or three easy sprints, nipped at one of his ears so that he awoke
with a jump; then both otters rolled together into the deep pool,
disappearing below the surface to play their underwater game for
as long as they could hold in their breath. When at last they came
up, Vutuka first, they swam to the far bank, both running over the
sand and up the steep slope to the top of the ridge, and away into
the night.
Kali-Anuka listened to their ecstatic squeaks and whistles until
they became so faint he could hear them no more, and he wondered
if they would return that night. He feared not, knowing Tantalika
so well; with such a pleasant diversion as Vutuka’s arrival, all
sense of purpose, all other thoughts would vanish from his mind.
Irresponsible — that was the description poor old Mwami had
often used when talking about Tantalika. He had been right.
As he stood chewing the remains of a mouthful of cud, Kali-
Anuka searched through the dim light, and brought his ears
forward to catch any obtrusive sound above that of the water. The
little grysbok and the bushpigs had long since departed, but his
nostrils worked hard to detect the scent of less welcome visitors.
There was nothing; no sounds except from the waterfall, the “hu-
hoo-oo” of a pair of owls which came from different directions as
they flew from tree to tree, the incessant, raucous toad-calls, and
the vibrating song of cicadas. He plucked more leaves, and lay

69
down once more to await, without much hope, Tantalika’s return.
He dared not sleep again that night, and when the dim light
from the moon vanished as it lowered under the horizon he could
see only the white water falling over the ledge and tumbling
along over the stones, it was so dark. Unceasingly his ears flicked
forwards and sideways, straining for every sound; his nostrils
twitched, testing the air for every new scent.
At the first grey glimmer of dawn, he moved quietly away from
the pool and into the morning mist which lay thick under the
trees. Rather than remain longer, it was better to take a chance in
the bush, relying on his emaciated condition to discourage some
predator from giving him a second glance. He felt greatly refreshed
after the inactivity of the night. He had fed well, and although the
sores on his legs still pained him, his muscles ached less, and there
was a spring in his step as he found the trail he and Tantalika had
followed on their outward journey.
It was a long trek to the river and, if he was to conserve
sufficient strength to cross it, he would have to rest frequently
on the way. He thought he could reach it before dusk, intending
to rest another night before venturing into the water. This would
certainly be the most difficult part, for without Tantalika to draw
off threatening crocodiles he would be more vulnerable to attack.
At the thought, his courage faltered. He stood still for a moment;
then braced himself with a reassuring snort and a shake of his
head, and resumed walking.
The trail followed downwards to the river, in and out of the
valleys between the hills, with the morning sun shafting obliquely
through the tree cover and ground mist, forming restless patterns
of light and shade. Small creatures scuttered away at his approach,
but he met no other, larger ones, and did not look upwards to
the woodland birds who screeched and chirped and sang to one
another, revelling in the gift of another day.
Four times during the morning he lay down, and then he was
clear of the wooded hills, in open ground and looking down on
the wide, flat plain stretching before him to the river. It was a

70
relief to see it, and to smell the scent of the river; he only had to
negotiate one last, steep descent, before he was on almost level
ground. The going would be easier then, despite the many streams
to cross, and there was shelter to be had, here and there, where he
could rest under the sparsely scattered trees.
But something had changed and at first he was puzzled. It was
not because, somewhere on the trail, he had inadvertently strayed
from the route he and Tantalika had followed before, and was
looking down on the plain from a point further west. Nor was it
because the plain was studded, now, with several small herds of
animals, some stationary, some moving slowly in one direction or
another; always, he noticed, away from the river. Over to his right
were zebras and a herd of impala, with many warthogs mingled
among them. To his left, kudus, eland and waterbuck circled
aimlessly round a low kopje which thrust up, incongruously,
above the level plateau. In front of him more impalas, with sable,
roan and buffalo for company, grazed placidly on the bright green
pasture, and a group of elephants lumbered past them. He could
not recollect having seen so many different animals assembled in
one place before. But he had seen so little of the world, of the
Great Valley, outside his own territory until a few days ago that his
knowledge of it was limited.
Straining his eyes, he stretched his gaze beyond the plain to the
narrow fringe of trees which marked the river shore, and despite
his animal disadvantage of poor vision over great distances he
could see what, indeed, had really changed. A cold fear crept over
him and grasped at his heart; a front hoof stamped the ground as
he realised what had begun to happen.
From his high vantage-point he could see, indistinctly, the
wide river sparkling under the high sun, over the tops of the trees
by the shore; but now there was a new shoreline on his side of the
trees, and long, liquid tentacles crept out across the plain; some
of the streams had burst their banks and joined one another to
become one. The Great Valley had already begun to drown; just as
Fura-Uswa had predicted.

71
 He judged the river to be almost twice as broad as before, and
it was hopeless to think he could swim across. He searched his
mind for some solution, but found none. Then he saw, far away
downstream where the river took a southward bend, a spur of
land which rose a little higher than the plateau; here, temporarily
at least, the waters were contained and had not yet spilt over the
bank. It was his only chance, but he would have to hurry if he was
to reach it before sunset or before it was submerged, too.
Tired as he was, he hesitated no longer. He set off, bearing
to his left, finding an easy path down the hillside to the flat
ground below. It was soothing to feel the soft, close-cropped turf
beneath his hooves, and he moved at a steady, loping trot towards
his chosen goal. He could have moved faster, speeding along in
leaps and bounds, but would soon have exhausted himself, and
attracted the attention of the other animals, perhaps starting a
disastrous stampede.
He made good progress, passing close to other creatures, but
they did not hinder him. Once, as he ran through, breaking up a
group of grazing impalas, he called to an old ram he assumed to
be their leader.
“Go!” he cried urgently. “Go away from this place, as far as you
can — high into the hills where the flood cannot reach you. This
is my message from Fura-Uswa!”
But he did not think the ram heard his words, and he dared
not pause to repeat them but went on, loath to interrupt the easy,
rhythmic pace he had set himself.
He kept this up for a long time, and looking back as he halted
under a flat-topped acacia tree he was pleased to see the distance
he had covered. But now he had to rest, for the air was heavy
with heat and he must have relief from the burning afternoon sun
which seemed to scorch the tender flesh beneath his skin.
He remained in the scanty shade of the tree long enough to
chew some of its velvety pods and to nibble at the grass; then
he lay for a while, ruminating. Soon he was off again, in a wide
sweep round the little kopje he had seen earlier, skirting the

72
upper reaches of a small stream that had swelled to a river, almost
cutting him off from his objective. He rested again twice, before
he started to climb the gradient which would bring him to the low
promontory above the turn of the river.
His pace began to flag, then. Although the slope was smooth,
he stumbled a lot because his legs were weakening and he was
losing control of them. But he persevered, and when his shadow
moving beside him thinned to a drawn-out parody of himself, he
felt he had come far enough. Turning towards the river, he raced
in one last frantic effort down through thick, tangled jesse to the
water’s edge, collapsing in a heap among the debris of dead sticks,
leaves and branches, at the bottom of a deep donga.
For a long time he lay there, his breath coming in short gasps,
his head resting uncomfortably on a pillow of dry sticks, but he
could not raise it up. His overworked legs twitched and no longer
seemed to be attached to his body. Mind dulled by his exertions,
he had no clear thoughts and did not know what he was doing
here, or how he had come. His power of thought ebbed away, and
he gave himself up to the situation completely; his eyes closed and
he lost consciousness.
***
For the first time ever in early summer, the Pambuka herd had
moved up into the low foothills above their home range. But they
did not go far enough; Yandika had been mistaken when he had
assured the two does that the flood would not reach there by
morning. It had, and inundated the area so deeply that the impalas
had to move away before the sun had risen, and long before there
could be any chance of Kali-Anuka attempting his return crossing.
So the herd trekked a little further, a little higher this time.
Yandika could not be persuaded to go far, to leave the territory that
had been Pambuka stamping ground for as long as even Mwami
could remember, when he still lived. It was wrong, Yandika said
firmly, and without Kali-Anuka’s agreement, he could not do it.
“We must wait for him, however long it may be.”

73
 Silulimi shook her head.
“No, Yandika — we cannot.” She glanced quickly round to
satisfy herself neither Swilila nor Kusomona were near. “Kali-
Anuka will not come back, of that I’m sure,” she said quietly, and
pretended to nuzzle Yandika’s face so that her mouth was close to
his ear. “How could he swim the river now? It’s twice as wide as
before, and no impala that has ever lived could have swum so far,”
“Mwami could have!” Yandika snorted. “And so can Kali-
Anuka!”
“Don’t fool yourself,” she retorted, still whispering. “We cannot
be sure, even, that Kali-Anuka succeeded in reaching the other
side. But if he did, there’s no way he can get back now, unless he
grows wings.”
“We shall see.” That was all Yandika said.
Impatiently, Silulimi moved away. “I respect your loyalty — if
that is what it is,” she said over her shoulder, “but it may be the
death of us all, Yandika.”
She left him feeling confused and alone, more than a trifle
disappointed with himself. A leader should lead, he asserted, and
all he was doing was to put off an important decision, hoping
against all odds that Kali-Anuka would soon return to relieve him
of the burden of responsibility. If Silulimi was right, and he did not
come back, the river might suddenly rise so quickly that escape
would be impossible; the Pambuka — all of them — would be no
more than food for the crocodiles. He trembled at the thought,
lowered his mouth to the grass and began to graze, putting out of
his mind such dreadful ideas, and the problems facing him.
Away from their home range, in strange and unfamiliar
surroundings, every member of the herd, except the very young,
felt uncomfortable with nerves stretched more tautly than ever
before. A flurry of dead leaves in a breath of wind sent them
scattering as though a leopard or a lion had suddenly leapt among
them. Even the friendly tick birds, feasting off their body parasites,
annoyed them so much that now and then both rams and does
shook them off angrily, the little birds twittering huffily as they

74
flew away; but they came back, persistently.
The impalas were continually disturbed by other animals
who trespassed on their temporary territory, fleeing from their
own waterlogged haunts; they were not aggressive, but they
were unwelcome. Not belligerent by nature, the impalas could
do little to drive the intruders away, but untypically some of the
younger rams chased or charged at smaller antelopes — grysbok
or, frequently, duikers — and docile does, especially with young,
harassed them with mock charges, harmless enough but indicative
of the high state of tension which had electrified the herd. There
was only one casualty, when a yearling ram encountered a lone,
scaly pangolin, who rolled himself into a tight ball when the ram
shoved him rudely with his blunt horns. The pangolin then lashed
out with his tail, scything the impala across his muzzle and tearing
the flesh painfully.
The day wore on, and by mid-afternoon the herd had received
no signal from Yandika to move further up into the hills. Silulimi
spoke to him again, and even Swilila approached him to voice her
own soft-spoken opinion. But the leader would not listen, and
stood his ground.
“We will go when Kali-Anuka is here to tell us,” he said, “or, if
it comes sooner, when the water forces us to go.” They were near
enough to the river to hear a sound which froze them into alert
immobility. It was a familiar sound to all of them, and it spelt
danger. It was the noise of a Zimikile carrier-creature, travelling on
the water, coming from the west a long way upstream. But because it
was a heavier, louder throbbing than any heard before, it suggested
a greater threat to them. One of the older rams, remembering the
sharp explosion when the lamb fell at its mother’s hooves onto the
sand, and again when Mwami had died, associated these incidents
with the noise he now heard, and his tight nerves snapped. In
panic he forgot his lowly status, snorted a warning, and hurtled
away into the bush. Nerves broke behind him and, unthinking,
the rest of the herd wheeled round in confusion, before bounding
away after him in long, springing leaps.

75
 Only Swilila, Silulimi, Kusomona and her lamb remained, with
a bewildered Yandika.
“Why did he do that, the old fool?” he protested. “The carrier
can’t harm us, so far away.”
Swilila, trembling with the fear transmitted by those who had
fled, came close to Yandika.
“Now we shall have to go,” she said, her voice faltering, “or we
shall die alone.”
***
He was a big fellow, the python watching the unconscious Kali-
Anuka, big enough to swallow a small impala whole. He was coiled
high on the forked branches of a dead tree overhanging the donga,
not with any intention of ambushing prey but simply because he
was tired after a long swim from his favourite hunting-ground
upstream, a reedbed close to the shore, teeming with waterbirds
which he often fancied as a change of diet from rodents, hares
or small antelope. But with the rising water the birds had flown
and, quite at home as a powerful swimmer, he had decided to
seek another, similar source of food downriver. Not up-to-date
with the news of impending disaster in the valley, nor gifted with
great intelligence, it did not occur to him that his search would
be fruitless, for nowhere along the river were there reedbeds any
more; all had vanished and the waterbirds’ nests and un-hatched
chicks with them. So, by the time he reached the steep bank at
the river bend, he was not only very tired, but very hungry. He
swam through the floating crust of debris which nudged against
the bank, and then came up where the open end of the donga
entered the water. Snaking up over the decaying vegetation piled
on its bed, he enjoyed himself for a time seizing several large rats
as they burrowed desperately into the mould, seeking escape from
his lightning strikes. Then, his immediate hunger satisfied, he
curled his great length round the forked branches, and composed
himself for sleep.
It was the noise of Kali-Anuka’s fall, the snapping of twigs and

76
branches, that awakened him. He was too tired to care very much
what had caused the sudden, disturbing sounds; but to ensure
there was no danger at hand, he uncoiled the head end of his
body and lowered it downwards, hissing menacingly. The small
eyes in his spear-shaped head stared at the awkwardly recumbent
impala for a long time, weighing up the desirability of foregoing
his interrupted sleep to make a meal of it. Easy meat, he thought;
there would be a struggle, and he would have preferred a doe — a
ram’s horns could be troublesome to his digestion. This ram was
a bit big anyway. Oh yes, he decided as he stretched for a closer
look with his short-sighted eyes — much too big, though there’s
not much flesh on him.
The branch he lay on cracked suddenly under his unevenly
balanced weight. The sharp report echoed across the river, and
he fell with a crash into the mess of compost below. Kali-Anuka
snapped out of his sleep, scrambled clumsily to his hooves, and
blundered through the tangle of brushwood up on to firm ground.
He leapt away, far enough from the donga to feel safe from what
he thought to be a Zimikile armed with a banging stick. He stood
trembling with reaction from the shock he had suffered. He sniffed
for man-scent, and listened; but he could hear nothing unusual,
and could smell only the python.
When he was calmer, he looked down through the trees at the
river. It appeared broader than he had judged earlier. Even had
he felt in peak condition he doubted his chances of getting across,
crocodiles or no crocodiles.
An afternoon storm was gathering, bleak and menacing over
the hills behind him, and with the sun low in the sky there was no
time to lose. He must attempt the impossible now, or there would
never be another chance, for overnight the river would widen even
more; by morning he would be cut off from his Pambuka for ever,
which would be worse than the death he was now facing.
He walked up and down a few times, breaking into short runs,
or bucking like a zebra, loosening his stiff, aching limbs. He eased
himself down the steep bank and into the heaving layer of rubbish

77
which floated on the water; its cool, wet touch instantly refreshed
him. He struck out, swimming easily with only his head and the
top of his back above the surface. Beyond a few scattered, partly
submerged trees on the opposite shore was a long, grassy mound,
and he aimed for this, encouraged to find the river calm, gently
swelling; there was no strong current to sweep him off his course.
Less than a third of the way across, he had to admit to himself that
it was hopeless. He had tired so quickly that all the strength had
gone out of his legs; he could barely hold up his head, under the
weight of his horns, to keep his eyes and nose exposed to the air.
It meant nothing to him when he heard a heavy, mechanical
throbbing sound which grew louder and louder until it drummed
into his head, and he could feel the vibrations feathering against
his body under the water. What it was, had he bothered to wonder,
was of no consequence now that he was near the point of inevitable
death. But a last determined effort to survive was stimulated when
he remembered a lesson Mwami had taught him during their early
swimming lessons. He tried it, and filled his lungs with air. With
the extra buoyancy, he struck out with his front legs until he was
forced to exhale, before taking another great breath. He worked
his legs again, briefly; then exhaled, breathed in again to regain
buoyancy, and paddled for another short distance. He repeated
these actions, over and over, but it was no use; he was too far
gone. Each time he let out his breath he sank lower in the water,
his mouth filling with it, spluttering, choking, sometimes with
only his nose, and the tips of his horns above the surface, inhaling
a mixture of air and water.
The drumming sound overwhelmed him now, and seemed
to press him down. For what he was sure was the last time, his
head bobbed up, his front legs pawed at the water, and in those
few seconds he glimpsed a dark, shadowy shape close to him.
Something flashed over his head; there was a splash, and then
another. A firm support came under his chest, just below his neck,
and his horns were gripped so that his head remained above water
and he could take gulping breaths again. Too weak to struggle,

78
he resigned himself, for the second time, to meet his end, and he
waited for the silence; but it did not come.
On either side of him were pale Zimikile creatures, one with
his hand against his chest, the other holding on to his horns. He
could feel himself being steered by these men towards the dark
shape which throbbed, quietly now, riding the water nearby. They
spoke, and voices answered from the floating carrier, all harsh-
sounding to Kali-Anuka, so much uglier than the soft voices of
animals; and, of course, he did not understand anything they said.
Two black Zimikile reached down and lifted his limp body
into the boat, lowering him gently on to the metal floor; he was
surprised that he was not flung down carelessly. The men in the
water, both stripped to the waist, climbed after him. One knelt
beside him while the other opened a box and rummaged inside.
Breathing in short, sharp gasps, Kali-Anuka looked at the
man’s face bent close over his, and thought he saw kindness and
compassion in his eyes. The thin mouth in the rugged features
widened, and the eyelids contracted, the skin around them
wrinkling in small folds. He felt the touch of the man’s rough hand
on his cheek, softly caressing, and the voice lost its harshness,
becoming low and soothing. He could not believe, even then, that
the Zimikile meant no harm; and at the instant the hypodermic
needle stabbed into his rump he had no time for his disbelief to be
confirmed, for he immediately lost consciousness.
The man who had administered the mild tranquillising drug
grinned at his companion, and they talked together for a while as
the boat slowly gathered speed from its aging motor, heading for
the shore, to the very place Kali-Anuka had been aiming to reach.
It steered in among the half-drowned trees, blunt bow thrusting
aside the floating debris in shallow water and, the engine cutting
back, gently drifted broadside to where the grass of the mound
grew below the water which lapped the new-formed shoreline.
Then another of the men stood up and grasped an overhanging
branch, steadying the boat, and for a while it remained lightly
rocking in the calm water as the crew talked among themselves.

79
They discussed the lateness of the afternoon, pointing at the sun
as it turned to deep orange over the western hills, and then at the
darkly bruised sky to the north. It was a long way downriver to
the base camp, and they must reach there before the hazards of a
stormy night overtook them. They kept glancing at Kali-Anuka,
lying motionless in the well of the boat, breathing more easily and
regularly as the effects of the drug began to work. He should come
out of it soon, they said, enough to put him ashore. And let it be
quickly, one added, because now the mosquitoes were coming
at them in great whirling clouds, their high-pitched humming
surrounding the men whose flesh was already punctured and
swollen.
Kali-Anuka moved his head slightly, and his glazed eyes opened.
His legs kicked out as he tried to raise himself to his hooves, but
he bungled the attempt as the men came to him, tipping the boat
over to one side. The tall man who had smiled at him dropped
into the knee-deep water as the two others gripped the impala’s
legs, lifting him carefully over the side of the boat. There was a
feeble struggle, but Kali-Anuka was still befuddled with the drug,
and his resistance was instinctive and quite ineffectual. The man
in the water turned the animal to face dry land, and with a light,
affectionate slap on the rump and an encouraging shout, set Kali-
Anuka on his way to safety, at last, splashing through the water
and staggering up on to the grass.
He looked back and met, fleetingly, the man’s eyes, dark
under the brim of a tall bush hat, before he turned away. The
men climbed back in the boat, and with a burst of power it swung
round and headed out into midstream, zigzagging between the
waterlogged trees, to continue its journey to the base camp, several
miles downriver towards the dam.

80
 8

D arkness came quickly that evening. As the sun fell from

sight, the great blanket of storm-clouds, heavy with rain and
streaked with unceasing, hissing shafts of lightning, engulfed the
sky to the limits of the horizon. The ground trembled under the
angry peals of thunder, and the tall mahogany trees, not so high
now above the flood, flung their heavily-branched heads about in
the tearing wind, wrenching at their age-old roots which clung
fast to the subsoil, softening quickly as the water seeped far down
below.
The valley — the land and the hills, the trees and the river,
the heavy clouds above — wept in a great flood of tears as it
began to die its slow and lingering death. No living thing escaped
the saturation coming from every side, except the few who had
heard of Fura-Uswa’s warning, had acted upon it and had fled
to high ground. Despite the humid heat of the stormy night, all
shivered with a terrible cold fear that life, whether the gift of a
day or a century, would soon come to an end. As though they
were obedient to some mute command, but in reality bewildered
beyond understanding, there was no hunting or killing that night.
The night-birds huddled deep in their nests in the swaying trees;
brave or cunning hunting creatures cowered in the penetrating
dampness of their lairs; prey usually anticipating attack stood
miserably alert, waiting only for this overwhelming wetness to
cease when, with the warmth of a sunrise, if it ever came, all would
be dry again.
For half the night the storm rampaged over the whole length

81
and breadth of the valley, and beyond. Then, as its intensity
waned, the tempestuous wind blew itself into quiescence, and the
streaking rain thinned to a dismal drizzle. All was quiet, and the
silence was immense.
Under a wild fig-tree, growing out of a cluster of small rocks
in open ground, four impalas stood, their hooves sunk deep in
the mud which oozed about them. They were close together,
touching, and each could feel the other’s body shivering against
his own, in fear and dampness. Another, Kusomona’s lamb
Mupati, stood under his mother’s belly, less frightened now that
the storm had spent itself but not liking what he had, so far, seen
and heard of life in the world. There was only one thing that had
given him pleasure and, as if reminded of it, he reached up to
suck at his mother’s generous udders again. Kusomona, at the
touch of his hungry mouth, shifted her position and her hooves
squelched in the mud. Her companions lifted their hooves, too,
and were stimulated into a discussion of their plight.
“How much longer must we stay here?” Silulimi asked,
directing her question at Yandika, shivering beside her.
He did not answer immediately, but gazed fixedly into the
gloom of the rain-washed night, seeing nothing except the
curtain of fine rain falling close to his eyes. He was certain that
he had been mistaken in his earlier decision, to stay so close to
the river. But he would not admit it, except to himself.
“We will go when it’s light,” he said flatly. “The others won’t
have gone far — we should find them soon.”
“If we do,” said Silulimi dubiously, “you won’t be welcome,
Yandika. You’ll have to fight for your leadership.”
“Perhaps I will. But remember, Kali-Anuka is still our leader.”
“Kali-Anuka is dead,” Swilila said with certainty in her voice,
though it trembled a little. “We will never see him again.”
A long silence followed this dismal pronouncement, but
they could hear Mupati pulling noisily at his mother’s teats. The
thin drizzle eased, but large drops of moisture dripped from the
fig-tree, showering heavily as the laden branches stirred with

82
each gust of trailing wind.
As though a dim light had been turned on over the eastern
hills, the dark sky brightened. Stars appeared momentarily in
breaks in the clouds, only to flicker and vanish into the yellowing
dawn sky. The sun heaved upwards, gilded and fresh, seeming
to push the sharply defined edge of cloud canopy across the sky
and over the far horizon, dispelling something of the profound
sense of doom which had fallen over the valley during the night.
But it cannot be said that life returned to normal for all
creatures, trees and growing things of the Great Valley. Many
had died, or were dying, and it was far removed from normal
for crocodiles to find whole carcases floating about the flooded
river, to be picked up for the taking. It was anything but
normal for brushwood islands to drift about, carrying baboons
and snakes, monkeys and bushbabies, all puzzled at such
strange events, and too terrified to pick deadly quarrels among
themselves, which would have been expected of them had they
followed natural instinct. Nor was it normal that many animals
could not find the food of their usual diet and, in time, would
die of starvation.
The place where Yandika and the others had sought refuge
for the night was a smooth, almost treeless slope, small in area,
on fairly high ground. A few sapling figs grew weakly near the
parent tree sheltering them, but there was little other vegetation
growing in the impoverished soil. What there was had mostly
been cropped already by other animals. The stony ground was
scarred with shallow dongas, all deepening towards the lowest
edge of the slope, nearest to the river. Except for lizards and
insects and a few green pigeons in the fig-tree, no other life was
about. Over the topmost edge the ground fell away, gradually,
in natural terraces, strewn with boulders and a few stunted
bushes, whose roots clung tenuously to pockets of soil between
the rocks.
It was far from an ideal habitat in which impalas could
remain for long, and the four adults yearned for the luxurious

83
offerings of their own home territory.
“Let’s feed here on what we can, and then we’ll move on,”
Yandika said.
Moving out from the long shadow of the tree into the
brightening sunshine of the new day, they browsed on the young
fig-leaves which were within reach. Silulimi expressed her disgust
at the unpleasant taste, turning to nibble at a minute patch of grass
nearby.
“Even the grass tastes foul,” she said, tearing it out by the roots.
They fed for a long time, and their coats, soaked from the rain,
soon dried under the mounting warmth of the sun. Although there
was plenty of water in pools and puddles along the dongas, they
did not need to drink, taking enough moisture with the leaves to
satisfy their thirst.
Yandika turned to the others as they began to ruminate. “Stay
here,” he said, “while I scout around and find the best way to go.”
He did not bother to go back the way they had come, for he
knew that by now the flood was there to block their escape. He
walked up to the highest edge, where he could look down and
assess what route they could take, to bring them to even higher
ground and acceptable pasture.
It was hot now, with steam rising from the wet earth under
his hooves, and already the mud was crusting as he climbed. He
looked back several times at the others, still in the open, close to
the fig-trees. They seemed safe enough, and he felt grateful for the
absence of other animals. A short distance from his starting point
he reached the highest limit of the hills, and hidden among low
bushes he peered down at the vista lying before him.
Below the terraces, where the day before there had been a
broad, heavily wooded valley, there was now an expanse of water,
patterned with the crowns of trees, and everything was so still
it could always have been like that. Here and there between the
trees, patches of clear water rippled, stroked by touches of the
wind, glinting silver under the sun.
Yandika looked over to his left, and there was water. He looked

84
to his right — and there was water. He guessed correctly that he
and his female charges now occupied an island, and unless they
attempted to swim away from it they could not escape. He knew,
without doubt, they could not survive for long; it would be just
a few days at most before they would consume the little available
pasture which grew around them. Perhaps, before then, the
ground they stood on would be swamped, too; they would swim
a little and, soon exhausted, quickly drown.
He tossed his head, trying to free his mind from such thoughts
but could not. His front hoof stamped down, but the more he
stamped the more perplexed he became. He braced himself to tell
the others of the fate that awaited them, turned from the vantage-
point, and walked slowly and dejectedly down towards the fig-
trees.
“Look at him,” said Silulimi contemptuously. “His nose almost
touches the ground as he walks. It must be bad news he’s bringing.”
Kusomona, who never spoke much, rose to her hooves as
Yandika approached.
“He’s worried, Silulimi. You can see that.”
“Don’t be too hard on him,” added Swilila. “He’s done his best,
after all.”
“But his best isn’t good enough for us,” Silulimi snapped back,
and as the ram rejoined the group, raising his head to confront
them with his news, she said: “What now, O Leader?"
The deliberate mockery was lost on him. “We’re trapped,” he
said positively. “There’s water all around us, as broad as the river,
and we must stay here until we die.”
Silulimi’s soft eyes hardened as she looked full at him.
“That’s the quickest decision you’ve made so far,” she said
bitterly. “You’re our leader, Yandika, and you must think of
something better than that!”
He looked back at her.
“Can you swim, Silulimi?” he asked. “Can any of us swim more
than a few impala lengths? Can Mwami-Mupati?”
The others were hushed by his questions. They all knew the

85
answers, and even Silulimi found nothing to say.
Swilila sighed, and it was echoed by Kusomona.
“If only Kali-Anuka were here,” said the one.
“He can swim,” said the other proudly.
“But he’s not here,” Silulimi said testily, “and even if he were,
the fact that he can swim wouldn’t be much help to us, not if
there’s as much water as you say.”
Suddenly Yandika raised his head, and his nostrils quivered.
The others straightened up, sniffing the air. Four impala necks
stretched up to their limits, and four pairs of nostrils all pointed
in the same direction, down towards where the river had flowed.
Yandika was the first to identify the scent, and he took a deep
breath to shout louder than he had ever done before, startling
himself with the power of his voice.
“Tantalika!” he called.
“Tantalika!” called the others, joyously.
This was too much for little Mupati, who ran under his mother’s
belly in fright.
They called again and again. The name tumbled like a birdcall
through the air, hovering long enough above the tops of the
drowning trees at the foot of the slope for the otter to hear it.
Swimming slowly through the tangle of sodden vegetation,
brushing floating sticks and branches aside with his whiskered
muzzle, Tantalika cleared a watery path for his mate Vutuka, who
paddled close behind him. He headed towards the undefined
shoreline, where the water lapped the flat mound where the impalas
were prisoners. Busy with his navigational difficulties he could not
call back, but his senses told him exactly where they were. Soon
both otters splashed out of the water and in a few moments were
hurrying over the ground on their short legs, backs arched and
tails up-tilted. The impalas’ eyes shone a welcome, and Tantalika,
in his joy at finding them, ran round in circles, in and out between
their legs, playing the game he had often played before. Then he
saw Mupati backing against his mother’s forelegs, apprehensive
of this strange creature he had never seen before. The otter stood

86
before him, and looked him up and down appraisingly.
“This must be Kali-Anuka’s son,” he said. “Am I right?” He
glanced up at Kusomona for confirmation.
“Yes,” she said, “and he is called Mwami-Mupati. But — but
where is Kali-Anuka? Why is he not with you?”
Tantalika showed surprise. He turned his head, but the only
ram he saw was Yandika.
“He’s not here? Then I don’t know where he is.”
All the impalas spoke at once, asking questions, angrily
accusing: why did you separate, where did you leave him? You
should have stayed together, you’re irresponsible — just as Mwami
always said. Why did you let him go with you in the first place?
Oh, Tantalika — how could you lose him?
The otter listened to them in silence, and when they had
finished he sat up in his three-pointed way, put the fingers of his
paws together, and as Vutuka nestled against him as though giving
him support, he spoke.
He told them in his fast little voice how Vutuka bitten his ear
as he slept by the waterfall, and how, in their joy of reunion, they
had run off together and played, savouring their togetherness after
so many days of separation.
“We didn’t leave Kali-Anuka for long,” he said, “only until
morning, but when we came back he had gone — and must have
left very early because we found it difficult to find his spoor under
the dew. Then we lost it where a herd of zebra had trampled
about, and although we tried very hard we couldn’t pick it up
again. I thought he would have followed the same trail we had
come by, but he must have strayed off somewhere, enough for us
to lose him. I still didn’t worry — Kali-Anuka, as we all know, is
no fool — and I felt sure he would have no problem finding his
way back to you.”
“Was he well when you last saw him?” asked Kusomomona.
Tantalika hesitated.
“As well as could be expected after his experiences, I would
say,” he answered, guardedly.

87
 He did not want to tell Kusomona, or any of them, of Kali-
Anuka’s true condition — weakened and wasted to a shadow of
his former self, near complete physical collapse, and that it was
only his remarkable courage and determination that had kept him
going. He knew nothing of the rest of his journey, of course, and
secretly held out little hope that he could have completed it. But
he mentioned nothing of these things.
“I think the time has come when those of us who do not know
should be told what is happening, and how it has all come about,”
said Silulimi, firmly. “Kali-Anuka confided in Yandika and Swilila
before he went away, I understand, and it was quite correct for
him to do so. But now there are few of us, with only Kusomona
and I the ignorant ones. We’re all in the same predicament and
we, too, have a right to know everything. What is this flooding
all about, so early in the season? Why did Kali-Anuka go away
with you, Tantalika, and where did you go? We know some of the
answers, but we should know all of them.”
“You should indeed know of these things, Silulimi,” agreed
Tantalika. “All animals, all birds, should know of them but
everything has happened so quickly that it has not been possible.
I was charged to inform every leader of every impala herd in the
Great Valley. But I have failed in my task because there hasn’t
been time to accomplish it.” He drew a deep breath, and shook
his head. “Bear with me, Silulimi, Kusomona, and I will tell you as
soon as I can. But now is not the time, for there are many things
to be done if you are to be saved, and the Pambuka herd made
whole again. There is nothing more important than that. Now,
Yandika,” — he turned to the acting leader — “now, where are all
the others?”
Yandika told him how they had all run off on the previous
day, at the sound of the floating carrier-creature coming down the
river. He told him how he and the three does, with Mupati, had
waited for Kali-Anuka before following the others’ example, and
had spent the last terrible night on this small refuge, now isolated
by the floodwaters.

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 Tantalika listened to his tale patiently. He did not criticise
Yandika’s wisdom, although he thought it foolish of him, as had
Silulimi, not to have moved even further away before being cut off.
“All right,” he said. “We must make a plan.”
But before he could speak of his proposal, Swilila and
Kusomona, almost in unison, interrupted him with the question
uppermost in their minds.
“Is Kali-Anuka alive? Will he come back?”
Tantalika dropped on all fours, sniffing at the bare ground as
though seeking an answer. Vutuka slipped away to explore under
some of the stones nearby, hoping to find some small thing to eat.
“We must hope so,” said Tantalika, quietly. “Perhaps he
managed to swim the river before it climbed over the banks.
Perhaps he is still over on the other side. I do not know, but
tomorrow I will search for him.”
“Tomorrow?” chorused four impala voices, astonished. “Not
until tomorrow?”
“Why not today?” Silulimi stamped a hoof. “By tomorrow we
may all be dead! Drowned!”
“There’s not enough food for us here,” added Yandika.
Tantalika looked up at them quizzically.
“So even if I found Kali-Anuka today,” he said, “he couldn’t
help you in your plight, could he? And if he is now, he may join
you in death tomorrow, from what you say. Listen,” he went on,
“I’m going to look around this place, which I know quite well
already. Maybe I’ll find a way to get you to higher ground; then,
tomorrow at sunrise I can go off to search for Kali-Anuka, and if I
find him, can bring him to you. Across the river, if necessary,” he
added with confidence.
So the matter rested. A plan had been made and although
Silulimi grumbled she was thankful that there was a decision at
last, however slim its chances of success. Swilila and Kusomona,
their hopes for Kali-Anuka’s survival a little higher now, put
their trust in Tantalika, and began grazing on the scant tufts of
grass, while Mupati once more moved in hungrily to his own

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source of sustenance.
Yandika, without a word of protest but with secret relief, had
therefore abandoned his authority over the depleted herd to an otter.
***
Moving with his accustomed swiftness, it did not take Tantalika
long to reconnoitre the boundary of the island. He dropped into
the water along the irregular shoreline, testing the depth where
no trees or bushes grew to guide him. He swam out, his belly
sometimes brushing the bed, or diving where it was deep; then
he backtracked, seeking a shallower path which the impalas could
tread without having to swim more than a few, easy lengths.
At last he fixed the route they could take, but to make sure
it was safe he traversed it several times, learning it off by heart
until he knew every obstacle that might cause trouble. Of his arch-
enemy, the crocodile, there was no sign. He worried more about
the rapidly rising water; there was no time to lose if the impalas
were to wade across before being engulfed.
On the far side the bank lifted clear, up into a broad hill which
folded back into another, even higher, where he could see green
grass and scattered mopane thickets. For a time, at least, this
would be an ideal habitat for the impalas. And if the floodwaters
lifted quickly, there were more hills rolling back beyond.
Pleased with his success, certain that when the time came
any difficulties could easily be overcome, he hurried back to the
five impalas. He wasted no time with explanations, but called to
Vutuka, and led the company to the southerly point of the island
he had selected for their entry into the water.
“We can never swim that distance!” Silulimi exclaimed in
horror, when she saw the great expanse of water laid before them.
“Silulimi,” said Tantalika patiently, “you won’t have to swim. If
you all follow me, without wandering either to right or left, even
your white bellies won’t get wet.”
“But ... Mupati,” ventured Kusomona. “What about him?”
“I’ve thought of that,” Tantalika said, “and noticed how strongly

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he sucks for his milk.” His teeth snapped together rapidly as he
laughed. “Let him suck at your tail for a change, Kusomona. With
Vutuka behind him, to warn us if he falls, he’ll be all right.”
It was a strange procession that threaded its way through the
water. Tantalika led, half-swimming most of the way, lowering
himself now and then so that his paws touched the bottom,
checking the depth. He was followed by Silulimi, grumbling
all the time, treading warily and screaming in panic whenever
she slipped into a small depression. Behind her was Swilila, and
then Kusomona towing Mupati with her tail; young as he was, he
soon entered into the spirit of the game, relinquishing his hold,
splashing happily through the water on his own. Vutuka kept
her fingered paws ready to steady him had he strayed off the trail
of his mother’s steps. Last in the line came Yandika, feeling a
little foolish that he had not considered the depth of the flooding
earlier.
There were no crocodiles, and only small pieces of floating
debris to hinder them. The bed they walked on undulated slightly,
but they trod on soft, short grass and there were no hidden hazards;
Tantalika had seen to that. It was difficult climbing the steep bank
on the other side, for it was thickly strewn with loose rocks; twice
Swilila and Silulimi, ahead and above Yandika, dislodged small
boulders which tumbled down, hitting him glancing blows on his
chest and head. But he suffered no injuries.
It was after sundown when they came to the grassed and wooded
summit of the hill Tantalika had seen. The impalas revelled in
their return to a normal diet, stuffing their mouths with grass.
When they were satisfied, they relaxed, and heedless of potential
danger they ruminated in deep contentment under the mopanes.
Tantalika, who with Vutuka had gone off on a brief but
rewarding hunting trip, returned to tell them his plan of action.
“Much as I would like to,” he began, “I’m not going to search
for Kali-Anuka tonight. It’s too dangerous, for even if none of you
have noticed — being so busy filling your bellies — there are many
of your enemies about. I can scent leopards and lions on the wind;

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I can hear wild dogs and hyenas not far away. When Vutuka and
I were catching rats, we saw a pair of caracals prowling through
the bush. Perhaps, just as we have found refuge from the flood, so
have they — they’re all about us, and probably hungry. Hungry
enough to eat otters, I dare say.
“Your senses may be dulled a little, after all your suffering these
past few days. But we must all remain on our guard, more than
ever, during the night. I will try for as long as I can to keep you
entertained, by telling you all you wish to know,” — he looked
pointedly at Silulimi — “and then I will tell you of some strange
happenings which Vutuka and I saw after we lost Kali-Anuka’s
trail.”
Swilila was reminded of that night, so very long ago, when
Tantalika had sat before the group of impalas under the buffalo-
thorn tree in their home range, now gone for ever beneath the
flood-waters. The moon of Kanini shone down on them then, but
now it was the moon of Nalupale, and it shone weakly through
thin, scurrying clouds. She thought of the four impalas who had
listened to the otter, but only two were here this time — herself
and Yandika. Mwami, dear Mwami, had gone — and only Fura-
Uswa knew where; Kali-Anuka, her brave and wise son, was gone,
too, but although in her mind she was sure he would never return,
she heard a whispering voice in her heart telling her he still lived.
She did not listen to Tantalika’s story of his journey to the Big
Rock, his discussion with Fura-Uswa, or the reasons for it all; she
had heard it once before. But when he told of his trek with Kali-
Anuka to the place of Ma-buyu, of what had happened there, her
ears came forward with renewed interest.
After he and Vutuka had lost Kali-Anuka’s trail, they went on
to the swollen river and swam between the trees to a little island.
From another, larger one came the shouting voices of Zimikile,
and three zebras — a male and two females — galloped out of the
bushes, snorting and whistling in fear. Then four Zimikile ran out,
waving sticks and branches as they shouted at the animals. One of
the mares went into water first.

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 “I had never seen a zebra swim before, and now I know why,”
said Tantalika. “She didn’t swim very far, only the length of six
otters, from nose to tail. Her head sank lower and lower, until only
her tail and the top of her backside were above water. She sank,
but came up again thrashing about … and then she rolled over
and died, and her body floated away.” He paused, then added: “I
think she must have been with foal.”
He hastened on with his story. The stallion and the other mare
were driven into the water by two Zimikile, who ollowed them in.
A floating carrier, which had been hiden among the trees, nosed
out and encircled the swimmers. Tantalika could not explain how
it was done but eventually both zebras were lifted, in turn, out of
the water and on to carrier.
“It swam away,” he went on, “and passed close Vutuka and me.
We followed it, staying underwater so that the Zimikile wouldn’t
see us. Soon the carrier slowed, and swam into the water’s edge
under a long hill. Two Zimikile jumped into the shallows, helped
those on the carrier to lift out the zebras, who both ran off up the
hill as fast as their legs could carry them. One of the Zimikile —
whose face was quite dark but not black — took off his head-cover
and threw it up into the air.” Tantalika stroked his chin, and shook
his head. “I don’t know why he did that. But, then,” he added, “I
cannot understand any of the things that were done.”
There was silence from Tantalika’s audience.
“Perhaps,” Yandika said at last, “they were just playing some
game.”
“Or they wanted to find out if zebras can swim,” suggested
Swilila. “I’ve often heard that the Zimikile are always wanting to
find out about everything.”
“Perhaps they knew zebras cannot swim very well, and were
trying to save them from starving on the island, when the food was
all gone,” ventured Kusomona, charitably.
“Or from drowning when the water came higher,” Swilila
added.
Silulimi snorted with contempt.

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 “That doesn’t sound like the way of Zimikile!” she said. “I
expect Yandika was nearer the mark — it was just a horrible game,
and if they’d had sticks with them, they would have gone off bang
at them in the end.”
“But they had sticks!” Tantalika said quickly. “They hung over
the shoulders of two of them, when they were on the island.”
There was another long silence after this. But it was Tantalika
who closed the discussion.
“I think Swilila — and Kusomona — may be right,” he said
thoughtfully. “There must be some good Zimikile in the world,
and I must say that once they started getting hold of the zebras
they were very gentle with them.” He sighed. “But perhaps we will
never know for certain.”
The little group of impalas had become so engrossed in the
otter’s story they had forgotten his earlier warning to keep all
their senses alert for dangerous intruders. But they need not have
worried, for Vutuka, not understanding impala language, had
soon become bored, and occupied herself moving around among
the trees, acting as a self-appointed guard.
All through the night they were left undisturbed, and soon after
the sun had risen, Tantalika left them to search for Kali-Anuka.

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 9

N EVER before in his life had Kali-Anuka wished so much for

sleep. After his instinctive burst of running leaps away from
the Zimikile and their floating carrier, across the grass and into the
sheltering trees further over the mound, he halted, and swayed on
his weakening legs. His breath came in long, laboured gasps, his
head ached and throbbed as though dung-beetles battered solid
balls of dung against his skull. His sight was blurred, and even
the trunks of the small trees surrounding him merged into a grey,
shapeless mist. When a hamerkop flew down from its massive
domed nest in the fork of a tall tree in front of him, snatching
a frog from the ground, Kali-Anuka backed away in fright, not
recognising the crested bird for what it was.
With the pain racking his body, the agony in his head, he
wanted nothing more than to sleep. He fought against the fierce
urge, his confused mind sufficiently aware that the water lapping
close behind could soon engulf him if he lay down and surrendered
to sleep, as he knew he would, sooner or later. It was, of course,
the drug that had made him feel like this, though he did not know
it.
There had been too much water for him these past few days; he
hated and feared it as a rabid animal would, and the mad desire to
get as far away from it as possible was very strong. He must try, he
decided, and with a great effort he put a front hoof forward, then
a back one … and got no further as he collapsed onto the ground
with a thump. Above, the hamerkop cried its reedy alarm call and
disappeared through the narrow entrance to its nest.

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 Kali-Anuka slept dangerously, with all his senses inactive. Only
his breathing indicated that he was alive; only the sharpest eye of
any passing fellow-creature — bird, mammal, snake or reptile —
could have perceived the movement in his chest as he breathed.
Swarms of insects settled on his recumbent body, gathering on
the cuts and grazes scarring his legs and belly; but he did not
stir. Concealed under the tree cover, no reconnoitring vulture saw
him, and, perhaps because so many predators had already moved
to other areas, away from the flooding, none came near.
He dreamed an animal dream, a fantasy beyond his own
experience. He grew wings, and flew like an eagle over a land
covered with water, but looking down he could see that other
animals walked on the water, calling up to him to help them
escape, to help them become winged, too, and fly away with
him. He flew through dark clouds, but they were made of thick,
viscous mud which stuck to his wing feathers, bringing him
down. Heavier and heavier they became, but he fought against
falling, down and down towards the solid water below. Then the
wings severed from his body, and before he followed them down
he saw all the animals fighting among themselves to claim them,
but they all sank in the water, still calling to him. Then he, too, fell
through the air, but into a soft white cloud, and there was lush,
green pasture on which many impalas grazed. He heard a voice
say, “I have been waiting for you, Kali-Anuka … but you have
come sooner than I expected.” It was the voice of Mwami, and the
dream ended.
The storm had broken as night fell, and when Kali-Anuka
awoke after his dream, he thought he dreamed still, drowning
with the animals he had seen in his flight. He imagined he was
lying at the foot of a great waterfall, the rain so pounded him. In
reality, his reclining body was half covered in water which swirled
about him; but this was not the river, only the accumulation of
rain from the blackness above, streaked with lightning flashes.
He pulled himself upright, forcing his body against the lashing
rain, relieved at finding himself still living, relieved that his legs

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supported him now without much pain. His head was clearer,
too, though it continued to ache. He began walking, avoiding the
broken mound of the hamerkop’s nest which had been torn down
out of the fork in the tree by the wind. That’s half a year’s work gone
to waste, he thought, bravely whimsical despite his own troubles.
The sharp points of rain stung his skin, almost to the bone, but
it did not worry him any more, and he pressed on, moving slowly
further and further inland, seeing no familiar features, seeing
nothing much at all through the rain. He heard nothing except
the cacophonous sounds of the storm — the hissing rain, the
wild soughing of the trees, the rushing streams which crossed and
recrossed his path following the uneven lie of the land. It seemed
to him he walked for half the night, until the intensity of the storm
began to wane, and the thunder rolled away on the wind.
Through the lightening gloom, he could see a rising hillock
here, a grove of shrubby bloodwood trees there; a cluster of
tumbled rocks, a great, partially eroded anthill. But still he did not
know where he was.
Suddenly he was conscious of his hunger and paused to crop
some mopane leaves. Later, he lay down on a bed of short, spongy
grass, ruminating himself into a brief half-sleep.
He stirred at the first, tentative light of dawn, filled his mouth
with more leaves and resumed his walking, munching as he went,
his nose, eyes and ears alert to any danger, now that something
like normal life had returned to the battered valley. A bright
orange tiger-snake, black-blotched, slid slenderly across his
path, a small lizard held in its fangs; then, with a swift whoosh of
powerful wings, a bateleur eagle swooped on the snake, snatched
it in its talons and carried it away, all in one smooth, continuous
movement. The lizard, released from the fangs of the writhing
snake, fell through the air, somersaulting into the mud below,
surprised at its survival.
The cycle of life and death had returned to the valley; all was as
it should be, on the face of it. But still the Great Valley continued
to shrink.

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 Twice Kali-Anuka caught the unmistakable scent of a pack of
wild dogs, but he did not feel threatened as they were hunting
upwind from him, and would not pick up his own scent. The
presence of traditional enemies of impalas, though far away,
reminded him of his recent contact with the Zimikile, and he
found it puzzling to compare that experience with the other,
when Mwami had died from the wound inflicted by the banging
stick, so long ago. But there was another, wider experience, he
thought; and it was happening now. For what was all this turmoil
going on in the valley, but the evil work of the Zimikile? Perhaps
they made the storms too, for all he knew. Yet he could not
doubt, looking back on it in all the detail he could remember,
that the men on their floating carrier had saved his life, had
lifted him from certain drowning in the floods they had created
themselves. It made no sense. Or had they known who he was?
Had they known of Mwami and the Pambuka, and that he, Kali-
Anuka, was Mwami’s son and successor? No, he decided, they
could not have known of that — and of what importance would
it be to them if they had?
He swallowed the wad of cud he had been chewing. Immersed
in his thoughts, he had not noticed that the ground had begun to
rise sharply; that, perhaps by some mysterious force, he was being
guided towards the high ground where Yandika had taken the rest
of the herd. He walked on, surprised at such a return of strength
to his heavily taxed limbs and body.
If he needed proof of the evil ways of the Zimikile, he told
himself, he only had to think of Fura-Uswa, who when he was
alive saw with his own eyes the destruction of every one of his
kin by both kinds of Zimikile, whether by spear, trap or banging
stick. There seemed no reason for it, and perhaps there was none.
Then he began to compare the ways of the Zimikile to those of
other enemies, if they could be called that. The predators — lions,
cheetahs and wild dogs; leopards, hyenas and caracals; the eagles
who sometimes preyed on impala lambs — they killed, but only
to fill their bellies, to survive and propagate their own kind. This

98
was fair, and when they hunted they used their teeth and claws
and strength to kill quickly and decisively. Not like the others,
who with their deadly sticks and traps killed quickly only when
they were lucky; more often, they inflicted cruel wounds and left
the victim to die slowly in his own agonising loneliness. He had
never seen an elephant man-trapped, but Mwami told him of one
who fought for five days and nights to free himself. When he did,
a foreleg was severed below the knee and it was another ten days
of screaming pain before the creature was driven mad with torture
and drowned himself in the river.
There was another story Mwami told, of one of the Pambuka
does who, many years ago, was struck by a spear which pierced
deep into her shoulder. She was with lamb, and although she
lived many days in almost unbearable pain, weakened with loss
of blood, the wound festering and the spear tearing it open with
every movement, she survived to see her lamb born, and suckled
it while she lay dying, long enough to give it nourishment for its
criticial first few days of life.
Yes, Kali-Anuka had learnt much of the ways of men during
his short span of life. He nursed no hate for them, for he did not
understand their motives. Perhaps there were some good reasons
for their evil practices, or perhaps they were not all the same, like
those who had pulled him up out of the drowning water — to
help him live. The image of the man-face close to his came to him,
just before he had felt the sharp stab, as from a thorn, in his rump;
he understood even less as he considered the reality of the dam
and the flood.
That was enough thinking for one tired impala, he decided. He
shook his head, and to help clear his over-burdened mind he gave
a muffled snort.
Abruptly, he stopped, his body tensed and his nose tilted
up, nostrils working to identify a scent which came and went so
quickly he could not establish its source. He knew it was close,
but first it came from one direction, then from another. It was
distinctly fishy, and he stood rigidly still, waiting for another waft

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of it, to be sure. But the voice came first, from a flat ledge high
above his head.
“So there you are, my friend! Looking like you shouldn’t be
here at all!”
Tantalika, who had been darting to and fro, circling his old
friend, making certain it was indeed he, suddenly confronted Kali-
Anuka in characteristic style, not two otter-lengths away from his
front hooves.
“I’m here through no thanks to you,” Kali-Anuka said rather
peevishly. “Why didn’t you come back to the waterfall? I waited
until morning.”
“Well, as you know, I was — er, my attention was directed
elsewhere.” Tantalika’s eyes shone at the memory. “But truly,” he
went on, “Vutuka and I didn’t notice the night passing so quickly,
and of course by first light when we came back, you’d gone. Now,
my friend, you look about ready for the vultures — and what’s
that thing on your left ear?”
Kali-Anuka did not know what he meant, so he ignored the
question, and the otter did not ask it again.
They moved close under the ledge, Tantalika keeping one eye
on an old antbear hole nearby, ready to use it instantly for refuge in
case of danger. Then Kali-Anuka told him of all that had happened
to him since they had parted, and when he came to describe what
he called his ‘rescue’ by the Zimikile he was surprised that his
companion did not react incredulously.
“Ah,” he said, knowingly, “I saw them, probably the same ones,
with the zebras. And a very curious thing it was, too.”
“Zebras? What zebras?”
Then Tantalika related the story, and when he had finished,
they both remained silent, deep in their own thoughts.
“It’s quite clear,” the otter said at last, “that these Zimikile don’t
want us animals to die …”
“… to drown in the floods they’ve created,” said Kali-Anuka,
completing the sentence for him.
“But it must be others who have made the dam, and those we

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saw are different, and good.”
“I shall never forget,” mused Kali-Anuka, “the look on that pale
one’s face — although it wasn’t really so pale — as I lay, half-dead
and ready for death, on the floating carrier. He had such a strange
face, as they all have, but a look came over it and showed in his
eyes, that I couldn’t mistake. It was like … like the softness in
Kusomona’s eyes when we’re together, and I’ve done something
to please her.”
***
There was another quiet moment, and Tantalika remembered
Vutuka and the look that sometimes came into her eyes.
Then Kali-Anuka shook himself, with a feeling of guilt.
“May the good Fura-Uswa forgive me, but I haven’t yet asked
you of Kusomona, and Swilila … where are all the Pambuka now?
And has Kusomona dropped her lamb — is she well?”
“Ah yes!” said Tantalika, and to Kali-Anuka’s delight he told
of the birth of the young Mwami-Mupati. “But I fear for him
more than for the others. They’re in a place high above the water
now, but soon it may become another island, and then there’ll be
swimming to be done — and none that I know of are able to swim
for more than the width of a small stream.”
“Then we must go to them at once!”
“No, Kali-Anuka. You’re in no condition to attempt a long
swim, for the flood has already deepened since they walked across.
You must remain here until you’ve got back your strength, and
then we’ll go to them. If you reached them today, you couldn’t do
much, whatever happened.”
A smile came into Kali-Anuka’s eyes.
“Oh yes,” he said softly. “I could die with them.”
“Tsss!” hissed Tantalika, “a fat lot of good that would do!”
“It would make things easier for them. Don’t forget, I’ve nearly
drowned two or three times already, and I know how it feels.
It must be the worst kind of death … if one is alone. Oh, you
wouldn’t know about that,” he added impatiently, “when so much

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of your life is spent in the water.”
Tantalika flicked his tail angrily.
“I think you’re mad — and I’m not surprised after what you’ve
been through. But if you could see yourself, you’d know that
unless you rest, and feed — get some flesh back to cover your
bones — you couldn’t even walk to the water, let alone get across
it. Please,” he begged, “wait for a day or two. You’ll be more use to
them alive than dead.”
“And if they all die, meanwhile?”
“One survivor — and the leader of the Pambuka, at that — will
be better than none at all. If the rest of the herd all go, you could
still start up a new one.”
“Not without Kusomona and Mupati; not without Swilila.”
Perhaps the thought of them brought a new resolve to him,
a new strength and purpose, for a shudder travelled through his
body from head to tail, and he stepped forward in short, bucking
leaps, almost knocking Tantalika over, spattering him with mud.
“I’m going, Tantalika, and you must show me the way,” he
called over his shoulder, and the otter came up and trotted along
beside him, muttering protests through his whiskers.
They went on through the mud, ever climbing, and then the
trees grew thicker, and Kali-Anuka had to slow his pace as he
followed the otter through dense bush along the rocky hillside. It
was well into the afternoon when they broke through to clearer
ground, which sloped down until their path ran out, where the
encroaching waters had circled inland from the river. It was near
where Tantalika had taken the others across before, but he knew
the water would be deep, and now selected a deeper, but narrower
expanse for them to cross.
“Well, here we are,” he announced. “Do you think you can
swim across to that mound, between those two trees over there?”
Kali-Anuka, his front hooves already in the water, looked. It
was not very far, but he could see the hazards. Many trees grew
out of the water, the shorter ones with their branches under the
surface to snare him if he were not careful. It was unlikely that

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crocodiles would have moved into the area yet, and even if they
had, Tantalika would be beside him to act as a distraction. Not far
distant he could see, in among the foliage of a mopane, a gathering
of vervet monkeys clinging desperately by their hands and tails
to the branches, plainly panic-stricken, and unable to decide
whether to remain where they were or to drop into the water and
swim to safety. They must have been debating this problem for a
long time, for the trunk of the tree was already half-submerged. As
Kali-Anuka and Tantalika watched, a big male, clearly the leader,
suddenly made the long awaited choice, and leapt out of the tree,
falling feet first into the water. He was followed by many more
as all but the most timid dropped in after him. Babies clung with
their arms around their mothers’ stomachs; some held fast, but
many relaxed their grip on impact with the water and were lost.
The adults swam on, dog-paddling, moving at a fair speed, but
all in different directions, few with any chance of reaching shore
before exhaustion overtook them.
“Just look at the fools!” said Tantalika. “They’re good swimmers,
but they’re so full of panic they’re throwing away their chances.
Idiots!”
“I wish we could do something to help them, poor things,”
Kali-Anuka said, with compassion. “Come on, Tantalika — let’s
get in among them, quickly, and perhaps they’ll follow us across.”
He started forward, but as the water slapped against his white
belly, Tantalika, in a rapid movement, swam out in front of him.
“Wait!” he said, treading water. “Don’t be as stupid as those
monkeys, Kali-Anuka — wait a while and rest. You’re already just
about done — on your last legs, may I say — so for Fura-Uswa’s
sake rest, and get your strength back. Rest, just long enough for
that cloud to pass across the sun. Then we’ll go.
Kali-Anuka raised his eyes to the sky. A great white cloud had
just obscured the sun, moving across slowly; it would be a long
time before it passed.
“No, we must go now,” he said, “because later I may falter, and
not go at all.”

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 So ignoring the otter’s advice, he settled in the water and
paddled away towards the mound on the other side, which would
bring him to the foot of the hills on which Tantalika had told
him the others were. Unable to stop him, jabbering protests at his
foolishness, the otter turned and swam ahead, slipping underwater
now and then to check that the way was clear of entanglements,
keeping his eyes open for crocodiles, whether he was above or
below the surface.
By now the monkeys — those who still had the strength to
swim — had scattered far and wide; the rest had disappeared, or
floated lifeless on the surface.
A sudden tug at his short tail startled Kali-Anuka when he was
halfway across. He dared not turn his head, and swam on, paying
as little attention to the slight drag on his progress as he could. He
tried to attract Tantalika’s eye, but the otter was far ahead, weaving
through the many obstacles. Something had attached itself to his
tail, there was no doubt about that, but the pull remained constant,
so he ceased to worry about it, thinking it was perhaps a small
piece of debris. What concerned him more was when, as he passed
under a bough of a tree, so close that he was afraid his horns might
catch in it, a writhing skein of spitting cobras fell, sliding over his
muzzle as they did so. There must have been six, or more; one
of them had time to spit its twin jets of venom at him before it
twisted away through the water, but fortunately the poison missed
his eyes. Had it not, blindness might have followed rapidly.
Soon he was near the two trees Tantalika had pointed out
earlier, and his hind hooves touched solid ground. Still he could
feel the pull on his tail, and as he saw Tantalika glide out of the
water ahead of him, climb ashore to sit awaiting his arrival, he
heard him laugh through his chattering teeth.
“You’ve put one over on the Zimikile this time!” he called across
the intervening stretch of water. “The great Kali-Anuka, saver of
lives! I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d like to have you as one of
their carriers!”
When Kali-Anuka, once again so near utter exhaustion,

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managed to climb ashore, he felt the pull on his tail relax. He
turned his head, wearily, to catch a glimpse of a young vervet
monkey scrambling away into the bush, as fast as he could. “And
he didn’t even say thank you!” laughed Tantalika.
Although he wanted to, Kali-Anuka could not join in the otter’s
laughter. Out of the water, he swayed on his legs, then with a great
effort put one before the other, lifting his limp, dripping body up
the steep bank, almost crawling. He collapsed and rolled over on
his side amid a tangle of bracken. His eyes closed, but before he
drifted away into unconsciousness Tantalika ran over to him and
spoke in his ear.
“Listen, Kali-Anuka,” he said. “Do not try to move. I’m going
now to bring the others to you. Vutuka will come first to watch
over you. Do you understand me, my dear friend?”
There was no laughter in his voice now, only deep concern.
Tantalika pressed his ear close to the other’s mouth, the voice
was so quiet.
“Yes …. I hear you. But it’s all over, Tantalika … all over …
for me …”
His voice trailed away in a long, breathing sigh, and he lay
perfectly still.
Without a backward glance, but with a heavy heart, the otter
ran off and up the wooded hillside, moving fast. And as he hurried
towards the hill beyond, where Vutuka and the five impalas waited,
he called upon Fura-Uswa to protect Kali-Anuka, to let him live
the life he deserved, this bravest of all impalas, whose bravery had
nevertheless clouded his wisdom.
***
When Kali-Anuka opened his eyes it was night and the stars shone
from a black, velvety sky. There was no moon, but a light breeze
stirred the leaves of the two mopane trees near him; he could hear
familiar, nocturnal animal noises, but they seemed far away, as
though they belonged to another world. At the moment of waking
he did not feel refreshed; the aches all over his body and in his

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head and legs were so great that when he tried to move, only to lift
his head, a flood of pain overwhelmed him and he lay still again.
He did not think the others would come until morning if, indeed,
they came at all, for he knew there would be a high concentration
of animals in the area now that the floods had reached so far,
and many would be seeking easy prey. But Vutuka came. He was
unaware of her coming until, in his half-sleep, he felt a tickling
sensation under an ear, and then a quiet little squeak. At first he
thought some small rodent, a mouse or a shrew, was curiously
investigating this new, living feature which had encroached on
its territory. But when he heard another squeak, some tiny grunts
which came astonishingly close to pronouncing his name, he
moved his eyes and saw the dark shape of the she-otter sitting
beside him in the curve of his neck. He could not acknowledge her
presence by word or movement, but she must have understood,
because she stroked his mouth with her fingers and nipped his ear
tenderly, as if telling him she knew he could not speak.
Several times during the remainder of the night she scuttled
away, silently, to check on stealthy sounds in the bush around
them. She could have done little to protect either herself or Kali-
Anuka, had any intruder intended harm, except to lead whoever it
was away from the powerless impala. But on no occasion was this
necessary. Once, just before dawn, she slipped down the slope
into the dark water to search for food but found nothing to satisfy
her hunger.
It was not until the sun had lifted clear into the pale morning
sky, and a warm breeze strengthened, rustling the leaves about
him, that Kali-Anuka became fully conscious. He could feel,
through the dancing leaves, the warmth of sunlight on his body,
but still he felt no physical sensations within it; he could not move
a muscle, though his ears flicked against the flies, his nostrils
twitched, and his eyes could see all around him.
Vutuka, nearby, reached up to a low-hanging mopane branch,
snapped off a leafy twig with her fingers, and offered it to him,
holding the leaves close to his mouth. Although he tried hard,

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he had no strength to take them. She persevered, and after a long
time he opened his mouth wide enough to nibble at a leaf or two.
This was how they found him when they came, all five impalas
and Tantalika. There was no great show of emotion, although
first Swilila, then Kusomona, sniffed at him to make sure it was
indeed he. Reassured (despite the small thing attached to his
ear, which puzzled them), they licked and nuzzled him as he
painfully chomped at the cud in his mouth. He could show no
joy when Kusomona pushed a reluctant Mupati close to his nose,
but inwardly a glow of pride spread from his faintly beating heart
through his veins, and for one brief, exquisite moment, all his pain
vanished.
Fortunately, there was plenty of good browse near where Kali-
Anuka lay; fortunately, too, Tantalika reckoned at least one more
day would pass before the flood reached his stricken friend. There
was nothing the otters or the depleted herd could do to hasten
Kali-Anuka’s recovery, except to feed him with moist leaves, and
let nature do the healing. This she did very well (perhaps with
Fura-Uswa’s help), and on the morning of the next day, as the first
streak of dawn extinguished the light from the stars, one by one,
he slowly sat up on his haunches, rested for a while, then levered
himself up to stand, shakily, and stagger a few paces towards
Kusomona who sat, half-reclining, with her lamb beside her. He
filled his mouth with leaves, and lay at her side.
Already he had filled out a little. His bones no longer ridged
his skin as they had done before. The old shine of his coat had not
yet returned, but most of the open sores from thorns, and the tears
on his belly, had scabbed over; the flies had left him to seek more
rewarding sources of food.
Through the day he continued to ache terribly, all over, but
after each period of rest, lying full length on the ground, with
Kusomona and Mupati nearby, there was less pain each time he
rose to fill his mouth with the nourishing mopane leaves or the
reedy grass which grew abundantly.
On the fourth day, when the sky became dull and overcast with

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rainclouds flying low, he pronounced himself ready to move from
this place to the haven the others had reached before, on higher
ground.
“And about time, too,” Tantalika said lightly.
He and Vutuka had just come out of the water, now quite close
to where the impalas were grouped.
“By tomorrow the flood will be here, where you stand,” stated
the otter. “Already it’s washing away the mess you left where you
were lying for so long, keeping us all worrying and waiting.”
Kali-Anuka’s eyes smiled at him.
“All right,” he said, “we can go now. But one point I must make
first,” he added sternly, looking straight at Yandika. “Until I say
otherwise, you must remain the leader. I am still weak in body,
and my senses are dulled — we must all rely on you Yandika, to
lead us until I am myself again.”
Tantalika remained silent, and Silulimi gave a little snort which
Kali-Anuka did not hear.
But Yandika heard it.
“No,” he said, “I don’t think I … I can’t …”
“You must do as I say,” Kali-Anuka interrupted, “and that’s the
last order I give you, or any of you, until we’ve reached the place
you have told me about, and I am well again.”
The trek over the hill was uneventful; they went down into
the valley which was little more than a fold between the two
hills. Until mid-morning Kali-Anuka could not take more than
a few faltering steps at a time before he was forced to rest, while
the others waited for him patiently. Later, each resting period
became shorter, and every walk became longer, until by noon
they were halfway across the shallow valley, and a refreshing,
cooling drizzle of rain descended on them from the low, misty
clouds. Progress slowed in the afternoon as they climbed the
side of the next hill towards the summit and their destination.
Yandika wisely led them at an angle across the hillside, for
although this increased the distance covered, it put less of a
strain on Kali-Anuka. It was not, in fact, Yandika’s own idea,

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but whispered advice from Tantalika, which the other gladly
accepted.
By late afternoon they were all on the broad, flat top of the
hill, and although Kali-Anuka could not have taken another
step, for all his aches and pains had returned, he was pleased
with what he saw. He lay on short, palatable turf, while the
others once again luxuriated among all the good things they
found in what was to be their home range for a long time.
Seeing him alone, Tantalika came and sat before him, as he
had often done.
“Well, old friend, you are indeed the son of Mwami,” he
said. “And to tell you the truth, I can’t tell you how greatly I
admire you.”
“I owe you my life, a hundred times over … we all do,”
countered Kali-Anuka, “and there’s nothing you can say will
better that! But,” he went on, “I have the feeling, by the tone of
your voice, that you are not staying with us?”
The otter laughed, baring his chattering teeth.
“You’ve regained your wisdom, Kali-Anuka, and it equals
your bravery! Yes — I must take Vutuka away, and return to
our normal lives. The time is close for us to start a family, and
we must find a suitable place, where there is plenty of river
food.”
“But now the river has gone, where will you find it ?”
“That may be a problem,” Tantalika conceded, “though there
are other rivers — and even a good stream will do. It may take
us a long time, and far away. That is why we must go now,
without delay.”
Kali-Anuka bowed his head.
“We’ll miss you — both of you,” he said, thinking of Vutuka’s
care when he had been unable to help himself.
“This place,” said Tantalika, “should be safe from the Zimikile
flood, unless they are planning to drown the whole world. But
for a while it may not be safe from your other enemies — when
we were here before I found many of them, and there will be

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much hunting. You must be careful, extra careful, especially at
the drinking-pool, which is known to the others — Yandika
will show you where it is.”
Tantalika dropped down from his standing position, and
did something he had never done before, even with Mwami. He
nuzzled Kali-Anuka’s nose, and gently bit his ear.
“I’m going now with Vutuka,” he said, struggling with his
words, “and if we can find the rest of the herd we will guide them
here — if they’re not too far away — so that the Pambuka is whole
again. If we cannot find them, then this must be our farewell.”
“We may never meet again — is that what you mean?” Kali-
Anuka was deeply moved.
Tantalika edged away from his friend and, poised on all fours to
hurry off to join Vutuka, he left Kali-Anuka with his last message.
“We shall meet again, I think. But only Fura-Uswa will give the
answer to that!”
And he was gone.

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 10

I n man’s measurements of length and time, the closing of the

last gaps in the Kariba dam wall caused the Zambezi river to
rise nearly twenty feet in twenty-four hours; by the end of the first
week it had risen another thirty feet, and after two weeks more, all
along the valley, it had gone up sixty-five feet. Within two months,
by the beginning of February 1959, the river had swelled into an
irregular shaped lake, five or six miles wide in places. Some rivers
which formerly had flowed into it ceased to exist.
Some of the islands which formed as the water rose, disappeared
quickly, together with every living thing on them which was unable
to swim, or fly to the temporary safety of even higher ground. Other
islands shrank only so far, and then eventually became permanent
features in the lake. But there were those which were to shrink
slowly, inch by inch, before they were completely submerged.
It was on one of these last that the remaining six impalas of the
Pambuka herd had sought refuge, and made themselves at home,
although it was not an island as yet. This new home range was rich
in browse, although good grazing was patchy. There was a wide
variety of trees, but few of the leaves were palatable to them; they
liked the thin, leathery leaves of the bushwillows, and the pale
green leaves of the coca tree best, though both were unfamiliar
to them. The mopanes were in scattered thickets, but they were
plentiful.
Had the herd not split up on that day when the Zimikile carrier
had been heard from the river, it would have numbered forty-
two, an increase of only one since Kali-Anuka’s birth over three

111
years before. But when, one day, after the last heavy rains were
over, the breakaway contingent came through a fringe thicket
of red bushwillows, nonchalantly as though it had never left, it
comprised only three rams and nine does. There were no young.
Their leader, a two-year-old with one horn which twisted
oddly over his left ear (hence he had been named Teketa), told a
strange story.
After they had panicked and stupidly followed the terror-
stricken ram, they had not gone far before they splashed across
a shallow stream which coursed along a wide, sandy bed. The
ground rose sharply on the other side, and when they were
in among the trees at the top of the slope they were no longer
frightened and in a few moments were quietly browsing as if
nothing at all had happened. But when the storm broke that
evening, and they huddled together under the trees, their fear
returned and stayed with them all through the thundering fury of
the rain-soaked night. In the morning, without discussion, they
moved out from under the trees and started down the steep slope,
all calmer now and wanting to return to those they had left the day
before. When they came to the stream it was no longer only hoof-
deep and gently flowing; it was a surging torrent which no impala
living would ever venture to cross.
At first none was seriously concerned, until, after two days,
although the force of the stream diminished, the level rose
even higher; they realised that unless they found another route
they could not hope to get back. It did not take them long to
discover that the area they were occupying was a narrow strip,
and surrounded by water too deep for them to cross at any point.
Leaderless, and although they did not know it, with only
enough food to last a short time, they were frightened and very
confused. It was Teketa who rallied them, brushing aside feeble
protests from the ram who had led them away; it was Teketa who
appointed himself their leader, and urged them to make the best
of circumstances until they could escape when the waters fell. But,
of course, the waters continued to rise.

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 In one way they were lucky. The island was small — no more
than ten impala leaps wide, and thirty long — but no other
animals shared it with them except for a large number of rodents,
a few nightapes, and a single, bad-tempered honey-badger, none
of whom would offer serious competition for the limited food
available. There was not much of anything left when, several days
later, they heard again the sound which had brought them there
in the first place. From this point, Teketa’s memory was confused,
a mixture of impressions, of things heard, smelled and seen, and
it was difficult for Kali-Anuka and the others to piece the story
together. Teketa’s companions were not of much help, for they,
too, could only recall disconnected sensations of what had taken
place.
The words came in short bursts from Teketa, and three or four
of the others.
“We ran, with the Zimikile running behind us, shouting and
beating branches . . .” said one.
“. . . we leapt and ran, some fell dead with shock. We were so
scared,” said another. “Some leapt into the water and drowned,”
a third said.
“Suddenly we were all tangled up among hanging vines, or
something like that, and the Zimikile came at us.”
“A doe — couldn’t see who it was — broke her leg … I heard
a Zimikile stick go bang, and she was dead.”
“We kicked at them with our hooves . . .”
“, . . and ripped at them with our horns,” added a ram.
“There was a lot of blood . . .” “. . . and then our legs were tied,
tightly.”
“A tall Zimikile threw water over us … he wore a strange, high
head-covering.” Teketa had noticed this.
“They carried us to the water … “
“and put us on the carrier-creatures … “
“.… the smells, the noise, were horrible.”
And then, through the hubbub of voices, Teketa’s memory
came clearer, and he took up the tale.

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 “All of us here,” he said, “were carried over the water, then
lifted on to land. We couldn’t move, because of the vines on our
legs. Then, one by one, our legs were freed and we were pushed
away by the Zimikile — who when you are close to them give off
a most peculiar scent — and we were all together again. But many
were left on the island to starve to death, or drown as the flood
rose higher. Those who died when the Zimikile chased us were
lucky, perhaps, to go so quickly.”
Kali-Anuka interrupted.
“So how did you find us? Did you come from far away?”
“We were, indeed, far away, but I cannot tell you where.
Tantalika came one night, with his she-otter, and told us you were
at this place. His directions were very clear — very clear indeed
— but we were lost many times, and it has taken us through three
full moons to come. I told him there were others left behind on the
island; he was very sad about that.”
“Why didn’t he bring you himself? He said he would.”
“I don’t know,” answered Teketa. “He was in a great hurry, and
said something about Vutuka. I couldn’t understand.”
Kali-Anuka smiled.
”Nothing else?” he asked. There was a long pause while Teketa
searched his memory.
“Ah. yes!” he said. “I remember now. He gave me a message for
you. ‘Tell Kali-Anuka that we were right about the Zimikile.’ You
would understand that, he told me.”
When Teketa and the others had moved off, Kali-Anuka
pondered the otter’s words. What had he meant? He thought
about some of their last conversations … when was it they had
talked about the Zimikile? Then he remembered. It was when they
had met soon after his experience with them in the water, and
on the carrier-creature; they had agreed on the possibility that,
perhaps, not all Zimikile are evil. Was that it? Judging by what he
had heard from Teketa and his party, it did not seem so.
But then he thought to himself: had those Zimikile not come to
the little island, would Teketa and his companions be here now?

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Would they not have drowned, or soon starved to death, when
all the food had gone? Would he, Kali-Anuka, still be alive if his
Zimikile had not lifted him, so close to death, from the deepening
river, and brought him safely to dry land? So, he reasoned, there
are those who wish to destroy, and another kind who wish to
preserve. But, as he had done before, he gave up trying to work
out what the motives of either could be.
“And how, in Fura-Uswa’s name, can one tell the difference?”
he asked himself aloud.
There was another event a few days later which gladdened the
heart of Kali-Anuka (and the other four rams, too), when seven
does rejoined the herd. They told an equally garbled story, all
talking at once, just as Teketa’s party had. The same group of
Zimikile had returned to the island, driven them into the water,
hoisted them on to the carrier, and taken them to the main shore.
Soon after their legs had been untied, and they had run off into
the bush, they had found Tantalika and Vutuka waiting, impatient
to be off on their own pleasures. Assured that no more impalas
remained alive on the island, Tantalika directed them to the main
herd, and both otters ran off with hardly a word of farewell.
So, Kali-Anuka thought once again, he was right about the
meaning of the otter’s message. Convinced of the good intentions
of the Zimikile, Tantalika had waited for more survivors to be
brought from the island, despite his haste to be away; and his
belief had been proved correct.
Again Kali-Anuka was faced with the same difficulty, and
returned to his earlier self-questioning: how can one tell the
difference between good and bad? Do the good ones smell different?
Look different? Should he tell his impalas not to be frightened of
any Zimikile who come near — or only some? But which? He
remembered Mwami’s death, the scent and the look of the killers;
the only way to tell them apart then was that one was pale, the
other dark. Both were bad, no doubt about that, unless they had
been on the hunt for food. But that could not be, for they had gone
away and not returned to take Mwami’s body. Therefore, looks

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had nothing to do with it. It was too much for him. Perhaps, one
day, he would have the answers; meanwhile he would continue to
work at re-establishing the unity of his decimated Pambuka clan,
adapting its members to their new habitat which, come to think of
it, had been well chosen by Tantalika — unless, of course, it too
became an island.
There were also the pleasures of the rutting season to anticipate;
he had fully recovered from his earlier trials, and was back in full
health.
They all missed the daily trails down to the river which they
had had when in their old home range. It had never been far away,
making a pleasant change to amble down to the little strip of beach
to drink, or relish their own special grass. Now there was no river,
no sweet grass to go to; only a great expanse of water as far as
their weak eyes could reach, broken in places with the crowns of
trees which had not yet been totally submerged. It was a long way
to travel for a drink, when all they had to do was walk through
the small forest of bushwillows and acacias, across a shadowy
glade of coca trees intermingled with mopanes, down into a steep
fold which formed a narrow valley. There, a thin stream trickled
into a pool, and out on the other side. As the rainless days set
in, the stream ceased to flow, its sandy bed drying quickly under
the warm sun; but the pool remained, although the level dropped
with evaporation, and from the thirsts of the many creatures who
shared it.
Tantalika had been right, as usual. There were many animals in
the area who preyed on impalas, but perhaps because of the high
population of other, smaller antelope — duikers, grysbok and the
klipspringers up in the many rocky kopjes — who were easier
meat, the predators waxed fat and lazy, seldom bothering with the
Pambuka impalas. One female was taken by a leopard early in the
season, another by a pack of ten wild dogs, but that was all; by
impala standards, loss of life this winter was minimal.
The annual rut came and went as usual, without serious
casualties, and Yandika, for the first time, challenged another male

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for mating rights, choosing the dangle-horned Teketa. He chose
deliberately, for his eyes had been on a pale, slim doe who had
paid much attention to Teketa since she had reached maturity a
short time before. With only one effective horn, Teketa would be
easy to vanquish, he decided. They battled out of sight of all the
others — though not out of earshot, for their roars could be heard
for miles around — and Yandika was glad they did, in the end.
After brief, preliminary skirmishes, advancing towards each other
in turn, their hooves raising little clouds of dust as they twisted
and turned, awaiting an opportunity for a lightning thrust with
lowered horns, Teketa suddenly side-swiped with the tip of his
malformed horn. It struck Yandika sharply above and between the
eyes, drawing blood which trickled down into each eye, blinding
him. It was all over for Yandika, who withdrew to hide himself
in the dark depths of the jesse, and Teketa leapt happily away,
roaring and snorting triumphantly, to claim his mate.
Up until the moon of Wasinkula, in July, when the leaves of
many trees began to fall, the survivors of the Pambuka, now only
sixteen, had lived well off the grasses and woody browse, the fruit
of the trees of their new territory. But Kali-Anuka was becoming
increasingly aware that soon they would have to be on the move
again. Hopefully, it would not have to be far away, but with the
approach of the driest part of the season, in the spring, together
with the high concentration of vegetarian animals in the area close
to the pool, there would be little left to eat.
One day, with Kusomona and Mwami-Mupati, Kali-Anuka
set out to reconnoitre the perimeter of his new domain, to find,
perhaps, a better place outside it. They probed beyond the
border, but found nowhere more attractive. They encountered
many animals — small groups of buffalo, eland, zebra, kudu
and waterbuck. Troops of baboons watched them pass, pausing
in their search for lizards, scorpions and beetles on the ground;
vervet monkeys screamed at them for no reason at all. Solitary, or
in pairs, they saw bushbuck and warthogs; there were others they
did not see — duikers and grysbok, who mostly lay up in daylight

117
— but he knew there were many. There were no elephants, though
a large herd had visited the drinking-pool daily until a few days
before. Evidence of their recent presence abounded — a winding
path from the pool into the thick surrounding bush; tall trees lying
flat, uprooted for a mouthful of twigs beyond their normal reach;
small shrubs wrenched out of the ground with their trunks, the
dusty remains littering wide areas at intervals along the trail.
A sound behind them made Kali-Anuka and Kusomona turn
their heads, and there was Mupati mock-challenging another young
ram of his own age. They stood watching the two enjoying their
game, flinging up the dust under their little hooves, skirmishing
with their straight, uncurved horns, further and further away
towards an outcrop of rocks. Suddenly, from behind the rocks,
there was a flash of a white tail, and a wild dog ran swiftly from
its cover towards the playing impalas. It was clearly diseased, thin
and emaciated, desperate for food. Separated from its pack, its
solitary hunting had met with little success for a long time, and
now it had grown so weak it was no great threat to any healthy
prey. Kali-Anuka leapt forward, cutting across the dog’s intended
path, making it swerve sharply away from the youngsters. Unable
to control the movements of its legs, the dog tumbled among the
rocks and made off, whining pitifully in its frustration, leaving its
offensive odour hanging on the air.
The young rams, unaware of the danger, thinking Kali-Anuka
was ready to join their game, separated and ran to him, tiny horns
lowered. He stood his ground, and they prodded at his flank gently,
and then, as they walked together to the waiting Kusomona, other
impalas bounded across the littered ground from the jesse nearby.
There were three rams and a doe. They came, they said, from a
small herd with territory not far away, down by the water. There
were questions and answers from both sides, and then their leader
spoke to Kali-Anuka of his fears about the ever-rising level of the
flood. Did he think it would ever stop? Would it be wise to move
away from here, while they still could? But Kali-Anuka could not
help him, for he did not know the answers. They parted company

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in the hope of meeting again, and Mupati looked longingly back at
his friend as he trotted off at the side of the doe, his mother.
It was not until later that Kali-Anuka recalled having heard the
voice of the leader before. He tried to place it, and then remembered
Kwizima, whom he had talked with on the other side of the river,
by the waterfall. How, he wondered, had Kwizima managed to be
here — on the wrong side of the river? He shook his head, and
moved on with his charges; it was none of his business, so he
forgot about it.
Soon, from higher ground, the trio looked down on the shallow
valley they had travelled over with Tantalika. As Kali-Anuka
recognised it, he snorted, and tapped a front hoof on the ground.
“Do you see, Kusomona?” he said, concerned. “Do you see
what is happening … again?”
The valley between the hills had gone. It was under water now,
and they could see the long, low hill on the far side was an island.
Kusomona spoke softly.
“Is this never to end? Is all the world to drown?”
They gazed at the scene in silence.
“What do we do now, Kali? Where do we go?”
He did not answer. They turned away to follow the trail
back, Mupati bounding ahead, blissfully unaware of his father’s
problems, while Kusomona stayed close beside her mate, with
watchful eyes ever on her son.
Kali-Anuka walked slowly, his head bowed in deep thought,
and except for the wholeness of his horns, he could have been a
replica of the long-dead Mwami.
The first rains were still to come, and as the ground became
drier under the hot, penetrating sun, much of the remaining
vegetation on the trees and bushes withered and died. What was
left became less and less as it was cropped, and there was green
only on the highest branches of the trees.
For a time the great concentration of animals moved closer
around the vicinity of the drinking-pool, but soon, as the food
became scarcer and scarcer, most gave up in exasperation, and

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went off in search of better pastures — if they could find them.
Kali-Anuka would not listen to those who thought the
Pambuka should follow the example of the others. No, he said, we
have water, and will not be without food for long, for at the time
of Tundwa fresh leaves will start forming on the trees, and there
will be new grass sprouting from the soil. This is a good place,
he said; it is our home now, and there is no reason to leave it;
there is nowhere better, I know. He did not tell them that he and
Kusomona had seen the flood still rising, but he could not believe
it could come much higher; if it did, then Kusomona was right
and the whole world would drown, with nothing destined to live
on. So they would stay, and that was his last word on the subject.
Until, as he led them to the drinking-pool on a cool mid-morning,
he saw that the sand of the dry bed of the stream was scarred with
rivulets of clear, clean water. None commented on this to him;
perhaps they had not noticed. But on the next day the rivulets had
merged into a stream which flowed stronger and fuller than he
had ever seen it before. All saw it this time; they could not fail to.
Even Mupati ran to his mother to ask if, somewhere, the rains had
come again. Most of the others did not know what to make of it;
only Kali-Anuka could understand the true and exact significance
of a dry stream which suddenly burst into life — when for days no
clouds of any kind, let alone rainclouds, had marred the clean face
of the sky from horizon to horizon, day and night. But Yandika
and Teketa suspected the truth. Had Kali-Anuka’s wisdom been
affected by his earlier experiences, and his mind not recovered as
his body had? So asked Teketa of Yandika; they no longer bore
one another malice.
“That could be so,” Yandika answered, “but he is our leader,
and we must trust him. Remember what happened last time, when
you didn’t trust me!”
It took only ten days for the stream to be transformed into a
river, and the drinking-pool to widen into a lake. A great assortment
of animals crossed the water before it became too wide and deep,
while others headed off southwards to look for a safer habitat.

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But still Kali-Anuka waited, and the others —even Kusomona —
began to question further his obstinacy, and now to his face.
“Trust me as you trusted Mwami,” he said to them. “I have
good reason to keep you here, and when the time comes I will tell
you what it is.”
So they trusted him, although the grumbling and the words
of censure continued behind his back. He was not sure why he
had said this to them, but two or three times of late he had felt,
dimly at the back of his mind, the certainty of safe deliverance, a
strong premonition that by remaining here, he and the Pambuka
were taking the right course. There were no events to substantiate
this thought, until one day the steady, droning hum of a Zimikile
flying-creature was heard, from far away across the lake. As it came
closer, the hum became a roar as the creature flew in low over the
trees. Kali-Anuka and several others caught sight of it as it flashed
through clear sky, visible through the topmost branches of the
trees, and roared away with a deafening crescendo of sound which
scattered the herd, and all other animals, in panic. It returned to
pass over and over again.
So, although the creature was over their heads only briefly,
the impalas were badly frightened; all except Kali-Anuka. He was
able to accept the visitation as tangible hope, reasoning that if the
Zimikile were riding in the flying-creature, they must be looking
for something — and what else but for impalas and other animals?
That night he had a dream, and he dreamed of a Zimikile.
The moon of Bimbe was near its fullness, and there was magic
in the air. The moon hung yellow and low over the trees, pouring
a great flood of warm light into the glade where Kali-Anuka and
his small herd rested. He was partly hidden from the others by
the woven gossamer threads of spiders’ webs, layer upon layer
of them, stretched across the thorny branches of an acacia bush.
There was no breeze to stir the silken threads, but points of
moonlight danced back and forth, and he stared, fascinated, until
he was mesmerised into sleep, though his eyes remained open,
seeing nothing. A picture formed in his mind. It had come to him

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before, but it had been real then. The Zimikile eyes looked down
at him, and reflected even more kindness and love than before. He
spoke, but his mouth did not move. In a strange language, yet one
that Kali-Anuka understood, he said:
“You are a very special impala — to all impalas, and to me.
When I come with my friends to your island, do not be frightened,
for no harm will come to you, or any of your herd. Remember my
words — do not be frightened, and all will be well …”
That was all. The Zimikile face dissolved away, and in its place
Kali-Anuka’s seeing eyes looked upon the sparkling, webbed
curtains which hung on the acacia bush. He was more certain than
ever now that his decision to stay was the right one.
The dry August winds swept across the territory, day after
day, lifting the dust off the impoverished ground and snatching
away the few leaves remaining on some of the trees. There was
little left to eat now, and when Teketa and Yandika came to their
leader one day to tell him there was water all around, Kali-Anuka
began to have niggling doubts about his own wisdom, of his
dream-message. As he looked at them, and the rest of the herd
which stood motionless and dejected amid the clouds of billowing
dust and leaves, he felt saddened that all the trials they had gone
through, separately or together, should have come to this; that all
the brave attempts to survive should, perhaps, come to nothing
but slow, starving death. The condition of his Pambuka was pitiful
— they all, even his own Mupati, his Kusomona and his mother
Swilila, were thin, their faces pinched, their coats dull under the
grey dust. It could not be long before one, then another and more,
would fall for want of food, unable to summon the strength to rise
again. Then they would become meat for the scavengers, and their
bones would be picked clean by the vultures and the ants until
nothing else remained. He shuddered.
He went with the two young rams to see for himself what
they had seen, and they did not have to go far before his fears
were confirmed. They were, indeed, on an island, and it was a
very small one. They stood together on a rocky ledge, the highest

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point they could find, and all round them was water, studded
with the now familiar half-submerged trees — water reaching in
all directions as far as their eyes could see. It would not be long,
Kali-Anuka thought, before his faith in the Zimikile will be proved
one way or the other.
Teketa interrupted his reverie.
“If you changed your mind now,” he said, and his words
sounded almost insulting, “it would be too late. We are near the
end, Kali-Anuka. There can be no escape this time, for not even
you could swim so far.”
“And where could we go?” asked Yandika. “There’s nothing but
water.”
Under the whistling of the wind and the dry rustling of the
trees came another sound, so faint at first that none really noticed
it. They turned from the depressing scene, and began to walk
slowly down the trail, back to the rest of the herd. But Kali-Anuka
suddenly stopped, raising his head high, his ears twisting to catch
the sound which now rose above the wind.
“Listen,” he said, as the others caught up with him. “Listen
carefully … what sound other than the wind do you hear?”
They both paused to listen, turning their heads from side to
side, from back to front, seeking the direction from which it came.
“You think as I do, Kali-Anuka,” said Teketa. “We have both
heard it before, even if Yandika hasn’t.”
“Tell me what you think, then.”
“A Zimikile carrier-creature, on the water.”
“There is no doubt about it,” Kali-Anuka agreed, and a hint of
a smile came into his eyes. Then he added, musingly: “Perhaps we
shall live, after all.”

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 11

A TRIO of African skimmers flew over a shoal of small fish

which were just below the surface of the broadening lake,
dipping their flat bills into the water, snapping up a fish each
time with unerring accuracy. Suddenly distracted, they flew up in
alarm, their long wings carrying them, swiftly, high out of harm’s
way.
Below, the thirty-foot steel launch chugged steadily along the
old course of the river, its blunt bow thrusting through the dark
blue swell, which heaved on either side of it. Three small boats,
each with an outboard motor canted over the stern, pitched and
plunged behind, following without choice, towed by the parent
craft. On this were four game rangers, a veterinarian and sixteen
helpers; the smaller boats carried ten or eleven men on each.
It was hot out on the lake that morning; the rangers and the vet
sat stripped to their waists under the canopy which covered the
deck from the wheel-house to the stern. The others found patches
of shade where they could.
There was little space to spare. All over the deck was a collection
of gear and equipment: rolls of game nets, stout poles already
sharpened at the ends, sledge-hammers, balls of strong twine,
axes and shovels. Sacks contained wooden pegs, mallets and, of
all things, old nylon stockings. Forward of the stubby mast, the
deck was covered with several sizes of metal, or rough wooden
cages; on top of them was a neatly folded pile of mosquito nets.
Cases of food, boxes of cold drinks and medical supplies filled the
narrow cabin below.

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 Soon one of the rangers called to the helmsman to alter course
and the big launch headed towards the destination which he knew
lay beyond a curtain of waterlogged trees. The little boats behind
swung out in an arc, tossing against the swell; then, as the launch
settled on a straight course, came into line again. The helmsman
throttled down, and the boats threaded slowly through the trees.
A man leaned over the prow of the launch, warning of rocks, or
jagged stumps of trees ahead. The engine cut back more, barely
turning the screw which sometimes brushed over branches just
beneath the surface. The ropes were cast off the small boats, and
they separated, drifting apart and in to the floating weed bordering
the uncertain shoreline of the island.
At last they grounded on the soft mud lapped by the miniature
waves, and the larger craft, deeper of draught than the others,
rode moored to a tree, further away from the island’s edge. The
water was still only waist-high for the line of men who passed the
equipment from hand to hand, then on to the others who stood
only ankle-deep on the muddy shore.
The rolls of nets, the poles and the hammers, and all the gear
were stacked together on dry land; the food, drink and medical
supplies were set out neatly on a slab of rock under the thin
shade of an acacia tree. A man, like the four others, tanned by
the wind and sun to a deep bronze — waded ashore from the big
launch. He was so tall, the water reached only to his hips, and the
high-crowned bush hat he wore made him tower above all his
companions. Though he was sparsely built, with lean features, he
was immensely strong. The men in the team which had worked
with him since the beginning of the flood, had nicknamed him
Ijongojongo, which in Ndebele means ‘the man who grows to
the sky’, and their deep affection and respect for him were not
lessened when they addressed him thus to his face.
He was their leader, of course, the man in charge, and before
his sodden suede boots touched dry land he was issuing orders to
those of his men already on shore. Without pausing to speak, he
strode off into the thick bush, followed by two rangers and four

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scouts, two of them with rifles slung over their shoulders. There
had been no report of dangerous game on this island, except,
perhaps, a few buffalo, but it was better to take no chances.
Two small herds of impala, a handful of kudu and waterbuck,
the aeroplane pilot had said back at the base camp, and he thought
he might have spotted some buffalo under the tree cover. But no
lions, no rhinos nor other heavy stuff; of that he was pretty sure.
It was the same sort of message he’d had on one other memorable
occasion, thought Ijongojongo, when the report had failed to
mention a pair of cantankerous black rhinos that had taken four
days to shift to the mainland. From this experience, he knew how
important it was to check carefully for the presence of potentially
dangerous game, and remove them out of the way first. Elephants
were easily persuaded to swim away, as a rule. Lions and buffaloes
often left of their own accord as soon as they scented man; leopards
were seldom seen at all.
The reconnaissance of the island took up most of the
morning, although it was less than a couple of square miles in
area. Ijongojongo was satisfied that, this time, the pilot had been
reasonably correct in his assessment; there were no heavyweights,
not even a buffalo, and only four kudus which he knew would
take to the water without much persuasion.
The main task, then, was to trap and remove to the permanent
mainland the impalas, warthogs, baboons, monkeys, bushbuck
and any other small creatures they could find. But this would not
be immediately. They had come across one herd of impalas in a
glade, over on the other side of the island near its narrowest width,
but had not disturbed them. It was a small herd of about twenty
head, with four or five full-grown rams and a young one, barely
a year old. They all looked, from a distance, in fair condition,
though probably weakened enough with lack of food to make
capture easy. Ijongojongo’s eyes were drawn to the largest of the
males, an exceptionally fine specimen despite his undernourished
appearance, standing a little apart from the others. It is always
difficult to recognise individual wild animals, especially from a

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distance, and none of the men carried binoculars; but Ijongojongo
was sure in his own mind that he had seen this one before. That
the ram remembered him was unlikely; yet he had a strong feeling
this could be so, for the impala was staring in his direction, quite
motionless, and he would not have been surprised had he walked
towards him in animal greeting. He shrugged off the fantasy, and
turned with the others, retreating into the bush to resume the
survey of the island.
They found it to be shaped, roughly, as a figure of eight, and
down at the bottom end of it they encountered more impalas. Like
the first herd they had seen, all showed the unmistakable signs of
approaching poor condition; hindquarters angular, and the ribs
just visible under the skin. But they were quite a long way from
actual starvation. It was a larger herd, and Ijongojongo counted
over thirty before they leapt away to cover, startled by a sound
neither he nor his men could hear.
The team of men camped near the shore just below the narrow
waist of the island. It was a week before they began preparations to
capture the bulk of the island’s inhabitants. Meanwhile, two of the
kudus left, swimming easily away to the mainland, little more than
a mile distant, with one of the small boats escorting them in case
help were needed. Several antbears were flushed out of their holes,
trussed up with ropes, carried to the camp and temporarily caged.
Similarly dealt with was a fierce little honey-badger, though he
was not tied with rope, but wrapped in a net before being released
into his cage. Young vervet monkeys and baboons were caught, a
few mongooses and nightapes, a pair of porcupines, and a solitary
warthog which was dug out of a hole. These, and many others,
were taken away from the island in the small boats, and released
on the mainland shoreline.
Only then, when most of the remaining animals were warthogs,
impalas and smaller antelope, were nets, shovels, stakes, hammers
and nylon stockings carried from the camp to the narrowest width
of the island, where the trap was to be set.
The nine-foot-high net at the far end of the trap was secured

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to trees and poles, forming a broad half-circle across the island’s
waist, from shore to shore; it was pegged down at the base.
Another net, the ‘gate’ into the enclosure, was carefully rolled and
laid along a shallow ditch. At each end of the gate, ropes were
looped over sturdy branches so that it could be hoisted quickly to
close the trap. Every trace of the trench hiding the net was covered
with soil and leaves, so that the animals would not suspect the
earth had been disturbed.
At each extremity of the gate, two men crouched, up to their
knees in water. The vet sat with one pair, Ijongojongo with the
other. Hidden among bushes at strategic points at each end of the
raised trap net, two groups of eight men, with a game ranger to
each group, squatted down and waited for the drive to begin, from
the far end of the island.
Twenty-four men, with the remaining ranger, had meanwhile
taken the three small boats to the island’s extremity, disembarked,
and after cutting off long, twiggy sticks from the trees, spread
out and started advancing through the bush, thick and woody in
places, but sometimes open, though rocky and rough underfoot.
They began the drive quietly, getting used to the terrain, slowly
working up their excitement as a few animals were disturbed,
running or leaping before them towards the trap, zigzagging in
panic, particularly the warthogs, whose bulky bodies crashed
through the dry thickets, snapping off branches, sounding like
staccato bursts of rifle fire. One huge hog suddenly turned in a
flurry of flying dust and stones; he charged, his coarse hair bristling,
warty head lowered with the curved, vicious tusks weaving from
side to side, ready to slice into manflesh. At this challenge, the
men’s silence was broken — the hunt was on, and with cries of
“Ahoia — oola, waiee, waiee!” those threatened by the warthog
ran, and flayed the ground with their sticks. All along the line
the shouts were taken up, everyone running as fast as he could,
stumbling over rocks, twisting and turning between the trees. The
brave warthog’s courage failed; he dug in his hooves, turned and
ran off towards the trap.

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 The shouts and the sound of the beating lifted a frightened
flock of marabou storks out of the trees; they croaked their guttural
calls, annoyed at losing a feast of carrion as the animals starved to
death, and they flew off to a more peaceful hunting-ground.
A herd of impalas suddenly broke from cover near the water’s
edge, running, closely packed at first, across and in front of the
beaters. Then, as they leapt in panic towards the opposite shore,
seeing water again, they doubled back, but turned away from the
running men, spreading out, heading in the direction of the trap.
It was a stampede now — impalas, warthogs, bushbuck,
duikers and grysbok, baboons and monkeys running with them
— all fleeing towards the net hidden under the soil, quite close
now. The remaining kudus, and a small group of waterbuck had
already slipped away and taken to the water, swimming away,
escorted by one of the small boats which circled around them on
the look-out for stragglers, the crew ready, if necessary, to rope
and tow them to safety.
Most of the panic-stricken animals had crossed the unseen
gate-net when Ijongojongo, who still crouched with the two men
at one end of it, saw another herd of impalas calmly walking out
of a thicket just ahead of the line beaters. Two or three of them
made as if to run from the shouting men, but after a few tentative,
forward lopes, they resumed their walking. As they approached,
close to where he was, not crouching now, but half-standing in
astonishment, he counted them. There were seventeen does, a
young ram with six-inch horns, and five full-grown rams; they
were the ones he had seen several days ago, in the glade.
He was certain there had been another time, in another place,
when he had seen the leading ram before; he was sure the impala
looked at him as he passed by and crossed the buried net, as
though in unmistakable recognition. He thought he saw, shining
dully in the dappled sunlight filtering through the tree cover, a
metal tag on one of the ram’s ears, but could not be sure if any
others were also tagged.
Then it was all pandemonium once more, and he turned his

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mind to other matters. Some of the impalas who had entered the
enclosure first had tried to leap the main net, but failed, becoming
entangled. Men rushed in to extricate them, braving the slashing
hooves and whipping horns. Those who were not caught up in the
net ran to either side, hoping to reach the water, but even there the
net still confronted them. More doubled back, some leaping over
the gate as it was being raised, escaping through the line of beaters
which had contracted to the narrow width of the island’s waist. A
few of the smaller antelope managed to charge straight through the
main net and got away; warthogs threw their great weight against
it and the rope was torn apart as they hurtled through.
The gate was up, and all the available men pitched into the
enclosure to deal with the milling crowd of terrified animals, who
could not understand that the men were there to help them; most,
if not all, soon to begin a new life in places where, the men knew,
the floodwaters would never reach. Everything was still confusion.
The animals continued to throw themselves about, impalas leaping
and plunging, pulling back from the imprisoning net wall, and the
warthogs who had not succeeded in breaking through charged at
anything that moved, man or beast. Adding to the noise, a shot
was fired now and then to put some badly injured animal out of
its pain, if it could not be saved by the vet. Shock acted quickly
with some, and they died before treatment could be given; shock
seemed to be communicated through the larger herd of impalas,
for nearly half of them died even before they had been rounded
up.
But with the smaller herd of twenty-three, it was a different
story. Before Ijongojongo entered the enclosure to take command,
he had watched the herd closely for a few moments. Never, during
all his many years in the bush, had he witnessed such extraordinary
behaviour from a bunch of impalas, or any wild animals, for that
matter. Certainly not in the last ten months since the Zambezi
river had flooded to unprecedented heights after the dam wall had
been closed. It was astounding, beyond comprehension, that a
herd, small as it was, which could not have had any more contact

130
with humans than thousands of others — probably unfavourable,
at that — had walked calmly into the traumatic situation of other,
terrorised animals, and shouting, running men, as though they
were as tame and domesticated as a herd of farm cattle. They came
up to the net which bulged and shook violently as other creatures
tore into it, or through it, and stood motionless except for heads
turning, seeming to watch the wild activity going on with interest,
almost, Ijongojongo would have said, with disdain.
With an effort, he took his eyes and mind off them, to cope
with more pressing problems. Gradually, things began to quieten
down. The smaller animals — monkeys, mongooses, young
baboons and bushbabies — were dropped into sacks. Larger ones,
and the survivors of the first impala herd, had their legs tied with
plaited nylon stockings, used in preference to rope as they were
elastic and did not chafe. It was no use tying warthogs or antbears
with nylon; they were bound securely with strong rope, warthog
snouts anchored to flat pieces of wood to prevent them wounding
the men or fellow-creatures.
All those trussed up were laid in heavy shade, and while they
awaited their turn to be carried to the boats, they were splashed
with water to keep body temperatures down, helping to restore
normal breathing and heartbeats.
As some men dismantled the nets, others carried the animals
the short distance to the boats at the shore. They moved in single
file except when four worked together to carry warthogs or
antbears, wrapped in netting and slung between poles. It was a
slow, lengthy process, for the men were tired and hot after their
efforts and the excitement of the drive and capture. The number
of animals seemed endless.
While these activities were going on, and the vet was kept busy
attending to the many slight injuries, both human and animal,
Ijongojongo with another game ranger walked over to the group of
impalas which remained standing, mostly, to one side of where the
net had been. As they approached, slowly and enticingly, careful
to make no sudden movement, none of the impalas took fright,

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except three or four who backed away a little nervously, defecating
as they did so. The dominant male actually came forward, head
up and horns held high, and as Ijongojongo and his companion
stopped, the ram stopped too, not three paces away. And there,
the men saw clearly, was a tag clipped to his left ear. It was one of
theirs, both men agreed. Then Ijongojongo remembered; but Kali-
Anuka had known before.

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 12

W hen, in the glade, the Pambuka herd had stiffened at the

presence of the Zimikile, Kali-Anuka stood very still,
sniffed at the air and caught every sound made by the intruders.
There was a faint familiarity regarding one in particular, when a
Zimikile spoke so low, not imagining the impala ram would hear.
But Kali-Anuka did hear, without understanding, and he was sure
it was the same voice he had heard after he had been lifted out of
the river and laid exhausted on the floating carrier. He strained
his eyes towards the group of men whose heads showed above
the barrier of bushes, but they were too far away for any to be
recognisable. But he was sure; he heard the voice and he saw,
though blurred, the wide, tall hat which no other had worn that
day on the river.
He felt the urge to approach this Zimikile, not to confirm
beyond doubt his identity, but to prove to himself, once and for
all, that the man meant no harm, only the kindness which had
shown in his face on the carrier, and again in the vision which
had come to him, when the man had spoken in a language he
had understood. He started forward, but caught a glimpse of what
looked like a Zimikile stick held by another, and he was filled with
the old, rooted animal distrust, and thought of Mwami.
The men backed away, and were gone, treading noisily on the
dry sticks and leaves as they walked away. They must be trusted,
thought Kali-Anuka, and argued with himself yet again. But this
time it was a one-sided argument, and positive. All the evidence
he had stored in his memory — almost all of it — pointed to trust.

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The zebras Tantalike had seen, saved from drowning or starvation;
his own experience, plucked from the moment of death in the
river; Teketa and most of his party taken off the other island, and
then the seven does. There was one t hing common to all these
events — a tall, thin Zimikile, wearing a strange covering for his
head; and he had come again. Kali-Anuka had not forgotten the
other things, the tales Mwami had told, Mwami’s own horrible
death, the great man-mountain across the river, and the flood. But
these were, surely, nothing to do with the tall Zimikile or any of
those in his herd. And there was something else. For the first time
since the incident with the wild dog, he recalled meeting Kwizima,
the impala from the north. How had he and his herd crossed the
river? Was this, too, the work of the Zimikile?
He called softly to his impalas, and they came to gather loosely
around their leader.
“Listen,” he said in a voice loud enough for all to hear, “listen
to what I have to tell you. It’s important that every one of you —
you too, Mwami-Mupati,” he added as his young son wandered
off to a little tuft of grass which no one else had seen, “do as I say,
without question.”
He paused for a moment, as they all closed in towards him.
“I’m sure the Zimikile have come to help us, and it will help
them if we show no fear. From what Teketa and the others have
told us, it seems as though we and all the animals here will be
driven to the floating carriers, and carried away to some other
place.”
“But it may be for something worse!” interrupted one of the
does, but this time it was not Silulimi.
“I don’t think that’s possible, do you? Nothing can be worse
than living here, and we cannot go on our own. Let these Zimikile
do what they will, and we cannot be in more of a fix than we are
now.”
“They have come to kill us, perhaps to put us out of our
misery!” wailed Silulimi.
“No, Silulimi, my dear,” Kali-Anuka said soothingly. “If that

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is their intention, it would have happened already. But they will
surely do that,” he went on, “if we panic, as some did before, and
break a leg or a neck, or leap into the water, unable to swim. Keep
calm, whatever you do, and follow my example all the time.”
“And what will that be, Kali-Anuka?” asked Teketa.
“I will do what I think the Zimikile will want me to do — not
what they will expect of me.”
There was a quiet, impala hubbub of conversation while Swilila
and Kusomona came closer to Kali-Anuka, to nuzzle and lick him
with affection.
“That was perfect, Kali, everything you said,” murmured
Swilila, “and if the others feel as I do, they are comforted, and will
do exactly what you have said.”
“I think I could even get to like the Zimikile,” Kusomona said,
her tongue licking close to his ear.
“Some are good — they must be,” he said firmly, but almost
to himself. Then: “Whatever happens, Kusomona, you must keep
Mupati near to you, for although he’s almost old enough to look
after himself, we mustn’t let anything happen to him. He, more
than any of us, mustn’t be allowed to panic.”
She licked him again. “Don’t worry — I’ll see to him,” she
whispered.
During the dry days that followed they knew the Zimikile were
active on the island, and sometimes, through a break in the trees,
they saw them moving about. Once, on the far side of the glade,
they watched as a group of men worked at widening the entrance
to an antbear’s hole, then digging deep into the hard ground to
bring out a female and her baby. There was a long, dusty struggle
with the mother, but eventually she was subdued with the aid of
a net, which to the impalas resembled a squarely woven, giant
spider’s web, the strands as thick as their own legs. Secured, the
bundle of antbear was carried away, slung between two poles, and
the furry baby was cradled in the tall Zimikile’s arms.
Every day the impalas heard them, the sounds coming from
different parts of the island, shouting and calling; on three occasions

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there was the sharp bang from one of their sticks, and even Kali-
Anuka flinched as the others ran a short distance in alarm. He
began to wonder, as the days passed, if the Zimikile would ever
come near the herd again, and he listened all the time for the tell-
tale sound of the floating carrier-creatures to roar into noisy life
and go away from the island, leaving them to their inevitable fate.
Several times his heart sank when the sound came, but it lasted
only briefly, dying away with a spluttering burst, and he knew the
Zimikile had not left.
One morning, he had led the herd down to the edge of the
lake, where pools of shallow water had collected, easy to reach.
There was a lot of activity going on across the narrowest part of
the island, through the trees and bush not far away from where
they drank. Later, from the opposite direction, there were shouts
and the crashing of undergrowth. The impalas stopped drinking,
raised their heads and turned their ears to the sounds.
Teketa, close enough to Kali-Anuka to be heard, spoke quietly.
“It is the same as they did on the other island,” he said. “Look
— they cannot be far away.”
Through the gaps in the trees they saw other animals running in
terror. Streaks of brown and white — the other impalas — hurtled
by, disappearing quickly into the depths of the bush beyond.
Kali-Anuka moved among his herd.
“Come,” he said to them as he brushed by each one. “Come —
follow me, and remember that we do not run, or leap like those
others. Think that you are going to a place where there will be
plenty of fresh green leaves to eat, and tender roots and grasses;
where we will have no enemies, no sickness. Think only of those
things — and do as I do.”
Head held high, carrying his horns as proudly as a king carries
his crown, he marched off at a steady pace towards salvation, or to
the long silence of death — he knew not which, for certain. And
the others followed.
Kali-Anuka looked up at the tall Zimikile, and wished he could
make him understand what he wanted to say. Had there been any

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possibility of that, he would have begun with a question.
“Do you remember me, Zimikile?” he would have asked. “You
once saved my life, and seemed glad that you had.”
But there was no need for words, for there was the same look on
the Zimikile’s long, lean face he had seen before. The eyes crinkled
and the mouth widened; he was recognised, and the Zimikile was
grateful he still lived.
Ijongojongo bent his head, and slowly lifted an out-stretched
hand towards the impala. He said to himself, as so many men had
said before — as he had thought a hundred, a thousand times —
if only animals could talk, how much better the world would be,
how much more we would understand!
The impala came to him, lowering his muzzle to lick the palm of
his hand with his rough, curled tongue, and Ijongojongo carefully
stretched his other hand to stroke the soft neck. The ranger beside
him, astonished, dared not move, not wanting to break the spell,
this moment of magic. Nor could he believe the evidence of his
own eyes.
There was no doubt about it, they both decided in whispered
undertones — this thin, undernourished ram was the same one
they had, between them, pulled out of the water in the earliest
days of the flooding. It was, if they strained their credulity to its
limits, acceptable that this impala remembered, and understood
that he owed his life to them. But no matter how they tried, they
could not accept that the ram had been able to communicate to all
the twenty-two impalas of his herd, that men need not be feared,
that they had come to save and not to destroy.
Ijongojongo tried something else, moving in slow-motion to
reach up and break off two handfuls of leaves; then he offered
them to the ram and two does who had come closer. They grasped
at them eagerly, and he signalled to his companion to do the
same. For some time the two men were kept busy handing the
leaf clusters down, and none of the impalas showed the slightest
sign of nervousness. It was as though they had all been bred in
captivity, with no more fear of men than pampered domestic pets.

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It was nothing less than uncanny, thought Ijongojongo, and no
one else would ever believe such a thing except those of his team
who were actually witnessing all that was transpiring, standing
back open-mouthed, their work forgotten.
There was more to come. As Ijongojongo turned away to order
the men, good-naturedly, to get on with rolling up the dismantled
netting, the impala ram followed him with the others close behind.
So he went on walking, and there was no need to tie their legs and
have them carried to the shore — they were content to walk there
of their own accord.
There was a great gathering of animals near the shore, where
the small ones wriggled in sacks, and mounds of warthogs and
antbears, legs and snouts bound with rope, rolled and twisted
ineffectually. Impalas and other antelopes lay on the ground, front
and back legs tied securely together, for there is a special way
to carry ruminants to prevent internal damage. Kali-Anuka and
the Pambuka did not entirely escape having their legs tied after
they had reached the holding point near the anchored boats; they
did not understand why it was necessary, but submitted without
resistance.
The afternoon sun was far advanced when the last animal, a
porcupine, with quills sticking out of his sack, was brought down
from the netting zone, and dumped with all the others. A team
of men under a game ranger had meanwhile tagged ears, noted
details including sex, weight and estimated age, for recognition
and scientific study at a later stage.
The small boats were loaded first; then, because Ijongojongo
regarded them as deserving special treatment, all the impalas of
Kali-Anuka’s herd were carried the short distance through waist-
high water to the big launch, and laid tenderly on the aft deck
under the awning. The journey did not take long. They came
in under a range of yellow hills, following the course of a river
which had doubled its width in the last ten months, flowing south.
It was hardly recognisable as a river, for it was covered with a
green floating weed which had flourished in the calm waters of

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the growing lake, spreading rapidly. The boats advanced slowly,
hardly moving through the layer of weed, and several times the
engine of the big boat was stopped, while the propeller was freed
of its entanglements.
Before sunset, the flotilla drifted in to a treeless shoreline, and
the men hurried to discharge their cargoes before the mosquitoes
descended on them, hungry for blood. One by one, from each
boat, the animals were lifted out and carried to the wide stretch of
open ground which rose steeply up to the hills beyond. In groups
of a kind, or singly with those likely to turn on their rescuers —
as the warthogs did frequently —their bonds were cut, or untied.
Mostly, they raced off as fast as they could, eager to reach the cover
of the trees growing on the side of the hills; and the men called
words of good luck to them as they went.
The last to be freed were the impalas, those of the Pambuka
herd first. Ijongojongo, alone, untied the legs of Kali-Anuka, and
wondered if his behaviour would be any different after the ordeal.
He was not disappointed. The ram struggled to his hooves, and
stood calmly watching the activities going on around him. As his
own impalas were freed from the nylon bonds, he moved to each
in turn, nuzzling and licking them. If he had not known better,
Ijongojongo would have sworn he heard strange word-sounds
issuing from the ram’s mouth.
When the last was freed, they all stood in a group with their
leader, not running off, as though waiting for his instructions.
But Kali-Anuka gave none; he was too preoccupied observing the
other herd as they were brought to the shore and, like themselves,
untied. The dominant male was the first to scramble to his hooves,
but he did not run off; he walked over to Kali-Anuka and gave
a little bow of submission, and the other leader understood
the significance of it. Then Kwizima — for it was indeed he —
approached each member of his clan as they lay on the ground,
and lowered his mouth to their ears. When they all stood, some
shaking a little with an inward fear, he led them back to where
Kali-Anuka awaited them.

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 The men on the shore, those still standing in the water, and
the others on the boats, all watched this extraordinary display
in utter astonishment, some more incredulous than others.
Their wonderment became disbelief when the two leader rams
walked up to Ijongojongo, as though they had both known and
trusted him all their lives, and nuzzled against his bare chest. He
fondled them behind their tagged ears, and the watchers stared,
spellbound, as the combined impala herd turned at an unheard
order from Kali-Anuka, and leapt away across the open ground.
They moved easily, their hooves barely touching the ground as
they glided away in long leaps towards the edge of the woodland
slopes. A cloud of dust, golden from the setting sun, rose like
a transparent curtain over the line of trees, and the men on the
shore and on the boats stood motionless in a great and marvellous
silence.
Certainly, the events of this day were to be told and retold in
many a homestead throughout the land, and the tale is enshrined
in legend. And certainly, the one one they called Ijongojongo, held
this memory in his mind and heart for as long as he lived.

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 13

C oncealed among the tangled bushes on the edge of a little

creek which curved sharply off the southward course of the
tributary, a solitary black heron waited for the sun to rise high
enough to heat the surface of the water, bringing the fish within
reach of his beak, below the floating weed. When he judged the
time was right, he stepped daintily into the water, stirring the
weed to expose little pools, and stretched out his wings to make a
shady canopy so that he could see his prey more clearly.
Nearby, as the sun burnt the early morning mist away, a
chameleon, still as a fossil, gripped on to a small branch of
a waterlogged wild pear tree, heavy with fruit, although it was
slowly dying. The chameleon’s tongue, as long as its pale green
body, flicked invisibly to catch a bright-winged butterfly which
had settled on a dark fruit; then it was washed down with dew
lapped from a leaf.
A small flock of long-legged sandpipers thrust their thin,
pointed beaks at the weed, snapping up insect larvae. Suddenly
startled by the splash of a big fish, or an otter, across the water,
they took to the air, voicing their alarm with a chorus of whistled
‘tchicks’. They circled, still twittering, then quickly returned to
their feeding-ground,
It was peaceful here, and although the early rains had begun,
the level of the water had not risen since Kali-Anuka had chosen
this place, and the territory around it, as his new home range.
There was an abundant variety of vegetation, some new to
the herd, but mostly palatable. Many of the trees they had been

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familiar with in the past grew here, but there were fewer rnopanes
and acacias. They ate off the jesse bush, bushwillows and, when
in reach, browsed the leaves of shepherd’s trees. At this time the
waxy-white flowers of baobabs were falling, and soon there would
be the slender, yellow acorns from the crocodile-bark trees to
chew. They had found, to their delight, the sweet grass of their
old haunt growing close to the edge of the creek; they would be
assured of food, all year round.
Later that morning they came down to the creek, and stood
on the grassy edge, few of them drinking, for with the first rain
showers they had taken all the moisture they needed from the
grass and leaves.
The Pambuka herd numbered nearly forty head now, since the
others had joined them. After hearing Kwizima’s story of how he
had brought his herd, with great courage and wisdom, across the
river before it had flooded, Kali-Anuka welcomed him and the
survivors of his clan to integrate with the Pambuka, and Kwizima
was appointed second-in-command. He had submitted to Kali-
Anuka’s dominance without question; he was hardly in a position
to challenge the Pambuka leader’s authority, nor did he wish to.
Already there had been a number of casualties, mostly among
the old and the weak; but it was no more than could be expected
in such a vast area, teeming with animals, many brought in the
Zimikile boats, with many carnivorous predators among them.
Seventeen does were pregnant; Kusomona was with lamb again,
but neither her mother nor Swilila had conceived at the time of the
last breeding season.
So, as Kali-Anuka munched grass at the creek, with Kusomona
at his side, he felt well content. The flooding had ceased, and
even if it should come again there were the hills, and the high
escarpment behind them open for escape.
He was about to lift his mouth from the grass, when a dark
shape erupted from the thick layer of weed which lay over the
water nearby. The impalas jumped back in alarm; others behind
and to either side of them turned, poised ready to run. The

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sandpipers took off, ‘tchick-tchicking’ away in flight, and
the chameleon changed colour.
“Wa buka?” squeaked Tantalika, and stood with his
head above the weed, his dark eyes sparkling a greeting.
“I am well — and all the better for seeing you Tantalika!”
answered Kali-Anuka, all thought of an unpleasant death
by a crocodile dispelled.
“Oh, Tantalika — we’re so pleased you’ve come!”
Kusomona agreed. “How did you find us?”
“Fura-Uswa told me where you had been taken by the
Zimikile. As soon as we knew, we came, and settled in a
splendid holt under some rocks quite close by. There are
no crabs or mussels there, but the river’s full of fish.”
“And Vutuka?” asked Kusomona. “Is she … ? Has she
… ?”
The otter’s teeth chattered gaily, and he held up three
fingers.
“All males,” he said, “and all swimming fine.”
At once, there was another eruption of the weed, and four
heads popped above the surface. One of them belonged to
Vutuka, who shrieked with joy, and in a moment all were
rushing about in great excitement, nipping at the impalas’
legs with their sharp little teeth.
Later, in the heat of the day, while the three young cubs
slept curled together close to their mother, Kali-Anuka
told the parent otters of the events which had led to the
enlarged Pambuka herd coming to its new habitat, and
although he could not compete with the impala’s story,
Tantalika related his own.
They grouped themselves under the shade of two stocky
shepherd’s trees — the otters, Kali-Anuka and Kusomona,
Swilila, Silulimi and Yandika. It was just like the long-gone
days, all being together again.
“While Vutuka and I were seeking another new home,”
said Tantalika, “Fura-Uswa called me to him in a dark

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cave, high in the side of a mountain,” — he pointed to
the escarpment which rose sharply away to the west —
“and when I got there he told me many things. But the
most important was that this mountain, the land below
and around it would never be flooded, that this was the place
where many animals would be brought by the Zimikile; they
would live in normal animal peace for many, many moons.
He no longer seemed angry with the Zimikile — he seemed
almost pleased with what they were doing. ‘There will no
longer be need,’ he said, ‘for you to watch over impalas, for
they will be protected by the Zimikile.’
“He said he was tired, and wished to rest his spirit. This
would come, he said, when rhinoceros of his kind return
to the Great Valley, which would be quite soon. I could not
doubt him, for he knows everything!
“He sent greetings to you, Kali-Anuka, and when I told
him I might not be able to find you again, he laughed — I had
never heard him laugh before, and it was quite frightening!”
Silulimi tapped a hoof impatiently.
“Oh, do go on, Tantalika!”
“He laughed, as I said,” continued the otter, “and then in
that funny voice of his, he squeaked, ‘Go where I have told
you many animals will go, and you will find him!’”
“And why did it take you so long?” asked Kali-Anuka.
Tantalika looked down at the three cubs, still sleeping, and
there was no need for a reply.
The heat was oppressive, and a distant roll of thunder
came from the north. Vutuka had already joined her cubs in
sleep, and Tantalika’s head began to droop, his eyes fluttering
with fatigue. His head jerked up as he thought of something
else the impalas should know.
“Nyaminyami, the godkin known to the black Zimikile, is
still very angry, and his spirit is restless.” Tantalika yawned
widely. “He has vowed that one day …” his head lolled across
Vutuka’s neck, and his eyes closed completely for a moment,

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“… one day the valley will be freed of the waters covering it.
They will press down on the Zimikile’s dam until . . .” it was
all he could do to get the words out, “… until it breaks, and
is swept away …”
He close his eyes again, and with his chin resting on
Vutuka’s neck, he began to snore.

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 EPILOGUE

F rom the moment when the flow of the Zambezi river was
blocked by the sealing of the last gaps in the Kariba dam
wall, four and a half years passed before the lake reached its full
capacity, in May 1963. Since then, give or take a few feet, the
level has remained constant, and unless Nyaminyami carries
out his pledge to free the river from its bondage, it will remain
constant for as long as man can foresee the future.
The Great Valley is at peace now; the deep wound which
man inflicted is healing, for he has come to terms with Nature,
and Nature, perhaps, with him. Both are receiving the benefits
from the forming of the lake. For man there is the hydro-
electric power for his homes and industries in Zimbabwe and
in Zambia, with a vast playground for his leisure, where he can
gain new knowledge of Nature’s ways. For Nature there is a
sanctuary for all her children of the Great Valley in the areas
which border the lake, and there is the lake itself.
In one area, where the sweet grass, so beloved by the
Pambuka herd of impalas, grows again along a curving beach,
the descendants of Kali-Anuka are thriving.
You may, should you journey to Kariba, come across the
impalas in some Utopian glade, close to the lake shore; do not
expect them to approach you, trustingly, as Kali-Anuka and
the others approached Ijongojongo, long ago. For the words of
Kali-Anuka are remembered by the Pambuka herd, and all the
impalas in the Great Valley.
“There are good and bad Zimikile,” he had often said, “and I
am never able to tell the difference.”

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 Perhaps he knows now, and Tantalika, too, for neither of
them still roams through the wild Zambezi Valley.
Nor does Ijongojongo.

End

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