down with an almost insultingly easy flick of a forepaw.  “Easy prey,” his father’s voice rumbled in his head, “feeds only cubs.”

Nengwalamwe couldn’t quite place the taste. It was strong and dry, quite unlike zebra; almost, but not quite, like gazelle. Unfamiliar as it may be, it was certainly not unpleasant. Replete, Nengwalamwe was at last able to forget the forest and turned his concentration to cleaning every last scrap of flesh from the bones.

 

***

 

It was almost dawn before Nengwalamwe finally reached the far edge of the forest. The ground opened out onto a wide treeless area of low hills. Exhausted, he walked to a tiny knoll and lay down. He didn’t bother to check for signs of danger. After the forest, anywhere seemed as safe as his Kolata homeland. In a few minutes he was asleep for the first time since the high mountainside. This time he was not at all cold, and he knew he was alive.

2. A Land of Plenty

 

Nengwalamwe, who had been dreaming uneasily of a lioness, Llasani, blearily opened his eyes.

“Hey, are you a lion?”

He was not afraid of the small, warm voice. About the only thing he had ever really been afraid of was his father. He looked to where the voice had come, expecting to see some strange and curious creature like the forest antelope he had brought down during the night. He was surprised and disturbed by what he actually saw. He was even more surprised when it bent down and licked his cheek.

“Yeah, I thought you were. Sorry, I just had to check. You don’t mind, do you?”

The lion lay still for a moment then lifted his head and yawned with a gape that left no doubt that he was a predator. Had he been more awake he would have lashed out at the strange cub who had just licked his… ‘Cub?’ he thought. His thoughts overflowed into words: “A CUB? What are you doing here? Who are you?” Then his mind cleared a little, “Where are the rest of you?”

“What rest of me? Oh.… you mean my pride don’t you?”

“Yeah, like I said: the rest of you.” He considered rising and walking around the cub, showing off his size and power. He decided not to bother; the cub wasn’t worth the effort. “Who’s your father?”  If the cub lived close by, as was almost certain, then he was more than likely violating her father’s territory. That lion was Nengwalamwe’s main concern. If he was alone then Nengwalamwe might do worse than to challenge him and take control of his pride. He needed to milk the cub for information; to find out as much as possible about the pride’s male, or males, before deciding whether to challenge them or move on.

“My father...” The cub looked sad and alone, “He’s not here right now.”

Nengwalamwe saw the opportunity clearly, “So who looks after you?”

“Oh, I get by pretty well. You know I’m really older than I look.”

He looked at her carefully. She looked like a ten-month-old cub. She was still not adult, yet not totally dependent; she could not be living alone.

“Come on, you’ve got to have a mother, surely?”

“Oh yeah, ‘course!”

“And aunts?”

“Yeah...,” she sounded evasive, “well sorta.”

“So, where do you live? Where’s your pride now?” She sounded too trusting for her own good; he half expected her to lead him to them. She gave Nengwalamwe a clear picture of a small pride with no males, just right for a young lion like Nengwalamwe - provided the lionesses weren’t too old of course. If they were then maybe he wouldn’t stay around too long.

“Over there stupid!” She flicked her head round in the direction of the far off rock pinnacle. Between lay the river, plains, wetlands, kopjes, ridges, knolls and thickets. On those plains, herds peacefully grazed on the browning grass. Some places were darkened with prey; prey of every species Nengwalamwe had ever encountered. The terrain offered rich cover: shoulder high grasses, brush, trees, boulders, rises and gullies. A land so rich that lions should have been falling over each other, yet this cub seemed to be saying that her pride was so weak as to be hardly be worth taking.

“What are you doing all the way out here? You must’ve come a long way from home. Don’t you know it’s dangerous for cubs to stray onto other pride’s land? Come on, I’ll take you home.”

“Dangerous? For me?” She laughed; a giggle as if Nengwalamwe had said something really stupid, “What other prides? Why should I worry about any other prides? You’re the first Lion I’ve seen for… well, ages and ages and ages and ages… and ages. And I’ve been looking hard.”

Nengwalamwe grew confused; how could this cub be telling the truth? She had to have been conceived somehow. What time was 'ages' to a cub? If she was right about there being no other prides then her father may have died in some accident or through sickness rather than in a border dispute or challenge. It didn’t occur to Nengwalamwe that he might have simply died of old age. Lions didn’t grow old, they never grew old, they died suddenly, and violently. The idea of an old lion was totally alien to Nengwalamwe. He never even thought of himself as ‘older’ than when he was a cub, he was simply a lion and that was all there was to it.

“But Cubbie, where are all the other prides? This place must be full of lion.”

She shook her head sadly, “Nope, no other prides, none, not one.”

“NONE? Come on now, don’t mess me about Cubbie, I ain’t come all this way for nothing.”

“Oh no, I’m not messing you about, honest.” She began to snivel sadly, “I only wanted to be friends. Can’t we be friends?”

Nengwalamwe looked at her, thinking back to the mountainside. He now knew what it was like to be alone. He raised a forepaw and rested his pads on her hunched shoulder. He moved his head over to hers. He rubbed his muzzle over her cheek gently. It didn’t matter that she was some other male’s cub; she had an instinct-disarming charm that cried out to be loved.

“I’m sorry; of course we can be friends. Just lay off calling me stupid. Err; do you think I can be friends with your mother too?”

She looked into his eyes blankly then wriggled out from under his paw. She gave him a piercing look and then dashed off down the rise. Before Nengwalamwe could get up to follow she had disappeared into the grasses.

“What did I say wrong?” he called as the rustling of the grass died down. “Aaah, I’ll find her again, I’ll soon pick up her scent.” He lifted his head and sniffed the air - nothing. He sniffed at the ground - nothing. He sniffed his paw that had lain on her shoulder - nothing - nothing except the warm, full richness of the savannah. The intricate blend of scents was just as it had been at the top of the mountain pass - no lion scent at all save his own. The dense sounds of a savannah morning rose up all around him; none were those of lion.

He looked up, turning his head to the distant rock. He stretched out his forelegs, shaking them gently, his paws splayed out on the ground ahead. He lifted his hindquarters and pulled his spine straight in an all-encompassing stretch. When he had drawn out the last of the stiffness from his limbs he padded his forepaws back toward his body, lifting himself so that he stood upright. He looked to the rock again. “That’s where she went, that’s where I’ve got to go. That’s what I came here for - that’s why I’m here!” He lifted his head, opening his mouth wide and straightening his neck. He roared - a long, loud full roar, “Nengwalamwe’s coming to save you all!”

At first Nengwalamwe’s days and nights in this new land held many excitements and diversions: places to explore; animals to chase, roar at, and hunt; trees and rocks to mark. He chose a new ‘favourite’ place to sleep each fresh, bright new day from as many lay-ups as he had claws. He didn’t think of having a territory, he wandered wildly. He always expected to eventually come across another male’s scent border but found. Life seemed idyllic for a while, but the feeling did not last. Soon he had explored all the places he could find; had chased, roared at, and hunted all the different animals; had marked every tree and every crevice of every rock.

Nengwalamwe had never lived alone. He had had a few thoughts, as most young adolescents do, of running away and leaving his family far behind. He would be able to live how he liked, do whatever he wanted. Now he was able to live that dream, it was not at all as he had imagined. He could go where he liked, but he had no particular reason to go anywhere. He could do what he liked, but there was nothing he wanted to do. He could hunt when he liked and ate rather less often than he hunted. As an adolescent back in Kolata, his mother had insisted that he learn to hunt by joining his sisters, aunts and cousins. On other evenings he accompanied his father on his boundary patrols. He could wash when he liked - his mother and, to his credit, his father, had always impressed upon their growing son that no lioness would ever be interested in a lion who covered her back in savannah dust. He could sleep for as long as he liked - he liked that best of all. His mother could no longer nose him

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