It had to be an evil omen.
The first glow of the sun eased out the night and pinked the peaks of the majestic Water Berg Range. Towering mountains, like a series of huge waves about to crash onto the land below and a crumbling old stone house guarded by flat-topped acacia trees.
Piet’s day began with the stirring of the dog at the foot of his riempie (rawhide) bed. The old man sat up, his frail body warmed by long-johns. Fumbling for a match, he lit the kerosene lamp on the wooden packing-case table. A feather of flame bathed his bearded face, nut-brown from the African sun. Slack, moist lips soundlessly followed his thoughts. His cook-boy knocked and crossed the floor silently on bare feet to place a mug of steaming coffee on the crate next to a magazine, date 1938.
Piet shuffled onto his stoep with the aid of his gnarled old stick. Here, over months in the pre-dawn light, he had witnessed how a brazen leopard had established his reign of terror, always killing a sleeping dog, then carrying it off into the gloom. He sat down on the only chair, his battered old Mauser cradled in his lap, loaded and ready. He would avenge their deaths. Piet was of Dutch descent and spoke Afrikaans. The rifle had been his grandfather’s — a veteran of the Anglo Boer War of1885. He slurped his coffee noisily while he waited. It warmed his belly, but did not comfort him.
The sudden alarm bark of a sentinel baboon high in the ravine made him spill. He cursed, then smiled as he heard a chorus reply from the rest of the troop. He looked down at his beloved dog sprawled on an old zebra skin.
Brakjan was a Rhodesian ridgeback, a large, powerfully built dog the color of ripe wheat. For years the dogs had been bred to hunt lions. Absolutely loyal, easily turning the toughest geezer into a sentimental fool. Brakjan was the only survivor of a pack of mongrels killed by the leopard that was terrorizing the valley.
Piet looked up over the shallow river veiled in mist. The spring waters of the Umgazei were his life-blood. They nourished his vegetables and the game that roamed the river valley. His was a lonely existence now. One dog and three servants was all he had. And he was old — 75 years woven into all the textures that formed the farm.
His crammed memories scrolled back as he remembered being young and married to Marie, the love of his life. They had high hopes of raising livestock in this virgin country. There had been good times and bad times.
With a nostalgic sweep of his arm he claimed his land. He could see the magnificent, hump-backed Brahman cattle feeding on sweet grasses, together with reedbuck, hartebeest and impala. He smiled. But this faded as he thought of how, after years of toil and a failed gold mine venture, Marie had died. The beginning of dark days -only loss and gloom. Joy and hope now strangers.
Time weighed on his bony old shoulders. Blasting reverberated in the mountains. His mining staff, greedy for meat, had almost depleted the local wildlife. Three years of drought had each bush and tree just hanging on. The precious grass and pampered livestock dying, starved of rain.
It finally broke him and he gave up trying. But the farm, left to its own devices, had reverted back to nature and was now home to a multitude of wild animals.
Suddenly, Brakjan stood up. Staring out over the river, ears cocked, totally alert — the natural reaction for any hunting dog after an alarm. Piet readied the rifle — nothing. He lowered it back across his lap. Brakjan walked over, tail wagging, adoration in his eyes. He licked the hand, then lay down again.
Showing great depth of emotion, Piet smiled. A little dawn flirted with the sky as the hum and hustle of night insects faded. All seemed well.
Then, from a tapestry of grey shadows the leopard stepped out, taking solid shape. Its jaw was slack, eyes riveted on Brakjan! The dog gave an explosive growl and scrambled up to attack. But his leash pulled him up suddenly that he seemed to have hit an invisible wall. He reared up, deep chest straining forward. Mounting fury surged through the powerful body.
With trembling hands, Piet slowly brought his rifle to bear, squinting down the iron sights. The leopard was just a blur, but he squeezed the trigger anyway — no report! He tried again, only to realize he had left the safety on. As he fumbled to thumb it off and move to fire, Brakjan broke free and launched himself off the stoep.
Piet’s wild shot hit the leopard just as both animals clashed in mid-air. The struggle was violent and intense, both animals fighting for their lives. Deep-throated growls, howls of pain, snapping jaws and clouds of dust, and then it was over. In one powerful, arching leap, the leopard plunged into the river.
Brakjan was after it in a flash, barking furiously. The shallow water exploded as the big cat raced for the opposite bank and then disappeared into the bush.
Heart thumping, Piet staggered to his feet, gesticulating and shouting wildly as he shuffled to the edge of the stoep. The barking faded into the distance as two alarmed servants arrived.
“Baas! Baas! Het jy hom geskiet?” (Boss! Did you shoot him?) they asked excitedly.
Piet had not shot true and his ego was dented. Looking at them, dressed only in pajama bottoms, eyes sleep-glazed, he was angry. In his frustration, he fired barbed words at them.
“Kom Kom nou! Ek moet gaan! Die luiperd isgewond! Dit sal vir Brakjan doodmaak!” (Come, I must go! The leopard is wounded! It will kill Brakjan.)
The two men easily lifted Piet’s slender frame and gently placed him in a battered old wheelbarrow. He wriggled his bony bum down, rifle resting on his knees.
Tokkie and Mannie knew the routine, although the purpose was very different now! One of them hefted the handles. Rope tied to the frame, the other pulled from the front as they waded into the shallows. Urged on by through edge of the old man’s tongue, they crossed the stream.
In minutes Tokkie conjured up the tracks, and they set off at a good pace, negotiating soft sand, bramble sand tall acacia trees. Steering sometimes carelessly, they fouled the old man’s mood even more. He barked at Mannie. “Pas op ou idioot!” (Watch out you idiot! “) Tokkie just grinned, pointing to the blood-spattered leaves.
Soon the spoor was lost in a shaded hollow. They had arrived at a sacred place — the farm cemetery — the bush so quiet it seemed to be holding its breath.
Unaware of Piet’s memories, Mannie scouted for tracks while Tokkie knelt down to drink at a tiny spring flowing into a deep pool. Nearby lay a mound of earth with a broken headstone covered in moss. It was Marie’s grave.
A terrible ache gripped Piet’s heart. His eyes lost focus as memories of the sadness flooded back.
Tokkie pointed to fresh pugmarks pressed into the mound and a long length of transparent silver, covered in tiny scales. It was the skin shed by a black mamba, the most feared and venomous snake in Africa. This upset the superstitious men badly. It had to be an evil omen.
A nervous knot twisted in Piet’s stomach. Thankfully, the spell was broken by the distant sound of a dog barking. With a lash of his tongue, he spurred them on.Every tree, trail and rock was familiar to him.
Increasing the pace, the old man clung on, his beard dancing to Tokkie and Mannie’s pounding feet. The barking grew louder. It had to be Brakjan!
Their brief journey was perilous, with many obstacles! The loudest sounds, the complaining creak of the old wheelbarrow, the thumping of bare feet and heavy breathing. The barking finally led them to a giant, old baobab where Brakjan greeted them, his rear end squirming with delight, jowls and neck smeared with blood. He rushed to a dark opening at the base of the tree, indicating the leopard was trapped inside the hollow trunk.
The tension palpable, Piet ordered Mannie to move the wheelbarrow into close shooting range and for Tokkie to hold Brakjan. As he snuggled the loaded rifleto his shoulder, fear grew larger in the men’s eyes forthey all risked a severe mauling.
Tokkie threw rocks into the opening to flush out the cat and each missile was received with a deep-throated growl. Nerves strung, they teetered on the edge of retreat but held their ground, determined to see the hunt through.
Rubbing the frustration through his steel-grey hair, Piet paused, wetting his lips. Slowly he drew himself up in the barrow and then fired into the opening. As he attempted to reload, a vicious, low and threatening snarl came from inside the trunk. Suddenly, with blinding speed, seven feet of steely muscle sprang onto the terrified man who continued cursing, screaming a depth of profanity never heard before!
On impact, the wheelbarrow toppled and dumped Piet between the leopard and Brakjan, who instantly attacked. For a few terrifying moments there was a cauldron of barking, growling, snarls and torrents of abuse from the old man. Then, just as suddenly, the leopard fled with Brakjan once again in hot pursuit. They vanished into the tall, yellow grass, the noise of the chase fading into silence.
Quaking in every fiber of his tormented body, Piet managed to stand. On trembling legs he dusted himself off, frustration fiery in his eyes. His shirt was stained and torn; his skin ripped. Bony ribs were plainly visible as blood seeped from jagged wounds — long and short. His face contorted in a terrible smile, he swore again, releasing some tension, then wise-cracked with his men as they struggled to right the barrow.
Piet rested the rifle across his legs as they set off, Tokkie and Mannie pounding the ground with loose-limbed ease.
The men followed the cat’s spoor easily along an old cattle trail through soft sand, which soon disappeared on sunbaked clay. As the sun arched to the west, beads of sweat formed on their brows.
After parking briefly in a pool of shade, they resumed their search and managed to pick up subtle clues in the dust. It was agonizingly slow going across the rocky ground below stands of tall thorn trees. The men pushed and pulled in stony silence. The old man sat like a Buddha, expressionless now, rifle cradled less tightly.
Soon they found themselves at Piet’s abandoned mine. Giant boulders had tumbled down the mountain to form a massive arch over the gaping entrance that was cluttered with abandoned machinery. To one side, rusted, corrugated-iron huts baked in the sun. The leopard’s tracks could be seen amid the scrap metal, weaving toward the black hole. There was an air of menace about the place.
Piet whistled for Brakjan. Only a sinister silence. Tokkie and Mannie fretted at going into the dark depths. The old man leveled angry, uncalled-for criticism at the natives, then pointed to a battered old drum hidden in long tufts of grass. He ordered Mannie to fetch a stick with a dirt-covered cloth tied around the end — a primitive torch used by miners.
Mannie reluctantly lit the torch and the men slowly headed for the entrance. Piet double-checked his rifle and they entered the tunnel. He knew these tomb-like passages. They edged past crippled machinery while acrid smoke from the burning torch filled the dark air. Gloom filled the tunnel, but the flame was enough, casting weird shadows on the walls. Visibility was perhaps 40 feet. They made steady progress as the barrow’s steel wheel crunched across the stony ground.
Seeing something ahead, Mannie stopped and lifted the torch high to penetrate farther. It illuminated two green eyes that pierced deep into their souls. Terrified, he jumped aside and urged the old man to shoot, his voice echoing off the walls.
A feather of blue flame licked out of the barrel as the shot echoed through the mine, spooking hundreds of bats to flight with the dry-leaf rustle of flapping wings. Piet reloaded, the click-clack of his bolt loud in the confined space. They stood dead-still. What now?
The glowing eyes were fixed and still staring. Ears straining for any sound, the men shuffled forward, followed eerily by their own constantly changing shadows. They could hear the cat breathing — labored and shallow — but as they edged closer the sound stopped. Their eyes played tricks with their minds as the grey mound materialized into the leopard, bellied down on all fours, its head rested on a rock. Even in death its eyes glowed with fire.
Gently they helped Piet out of the wheelbarrow and eased him onto a rock. Hauling out his trusty pipe, he peered at the cat’s heavy body as Tokkie examined it for the fatal shot.
Then, out of the gloom behind Piet, the silhouette of a snake reared and struck. A black mamba! Piet emitted a strangled shriek of surprise and pain, his pipe clattering to the ground as he clutched his arm.
Gripped by fear, Tokkie and Mannie stood in helpless bewilderment as the mine filled with a tangle of terrified voices.
Piet cursed as he stumbled, then bellowed for help as he struggled to get back into the wheelbarrow. Throwing caution to the wind, Mannie and Tokkie rushed to help, but the poison had already started to take hold.
With the old man slumped on his back in the wheelbarrow, they broke out into the bright sunshine. Piet’s gaze never left Tokkie’s face as they ran at a loping pace toward the farmhouse. His eyes were losing focus as they stopped at the spring. Piet couldn’t drink, but a smile crept over his tortured face when he thought he heard Brakjan barking somewhere in the distance.
Resting near Marie now, a strange breeze lifted the snakeskin off Marie’s grave. It hovered like a silver ribbon, then floated to land gently across the old man’s chest.
Truly a first in the world of outdoor publishing, Monsters, Mayhem and Miracles is a one-of-a-kind collection of unforgettable tales from the sporting world. Its 44 stories range from harrowing encounters with deadly predators to astonishing tales involving spirits, ghosts and even the devil himself. Buy Now
