penetrated the white wall of water, chasing fleeting patterns down the dry walls and floor.

A length ahead Mtundu sat precariously on the sharply sloping yet remarkably dry rock half a length from the water. He was smiling, pleased perhaps that he had persuaded the wary lion to go behind the falls. He tipped his head, drawing his lips back to show his teeth in the way with which Nengwalamwe had grown so familiar. “Come on Fuzzbutt!” they said. “Cain’t hang around yappin’ here all day!” He raised a forearm and beckoned again. Nengwalamwe held back, standing in awe and wonder of the sights around him. Mtundu drew his lips back further, normally they would have been accompanied by some kind of excruciating screech, but here there was none. Instead, his arms grew more expressive, more furious, and more mobile.

Nengwalamwe’s eyes, already wide taking in the incredible half-lit, flickered sights that surrounded him, flared in terror as Mtundu’s flailing hand was engulfed by the water, flipping the monkey over instantly down from the cavern into the falls. One moment Mtundu had been sitting there before the lion, the next he was gone far faster than any crocodile could have struck.

Nengwalamwe didn’t stop to think. Baboons could not swim; lions could. Mtundu probably would not survive the fall, Nengwalamwe might. The next moment Nengwalamwe sprang forward, leaving only a pair of wet paw prints on the dry floor. He launched himself into the flow; it instantly slammed into him and pummelled him down. It drew him below the frothing water to where there was little light and no air, and then took him further still. The pressure of the flow, even deep into the ground, carried Nengwalamwe down and held him tight so that he could not struggle. Yet he knew he must if he was to save Mtundu.

Whereas the crocodile’s grip had been deathly firm, the water’s weakened as the light dimmed. Above, or what Nengwalamwe assumed must have been above, the water swarmed and swirled. The sky, a brown stain in the darkness, was even and unbroken. He kicked his legs, only succeeding in turning himself over in the water. He saw the sky turn to darkness, and then grow lighter again. This time there was a shadow on it, a black monkey-like silhouette. The fall’s hold was gone; the light grew as Nengwalamwe kicked repeatedly. Changing from brown to dull silver, the surface came down to greet the lion.

He broke surface nose first, expelling a huge lungful of spent air in bubbles and foam. The instant his mouth cleared the water he drew in life and air. The rest of him, hanging and flowing in hopelessly waterlogged tresses, stayed beneath the surface. All around the water flowed languorously, almost relaxing after its exertions in the rapids and falls.

Nengwalamwe could not relax. He could see little but the silver water’s surface just below his eyes. A bank, sandy and gently shelving, swung into view, but Mtundu did not. The lion swum about in circles, lurching forward with each kick of his legs. Everywhere there was deep water, slow and even, but no baboon. The falls must have taken him, Nengwalamwe thought. Now he was alone once again.

He swum about for as long as his legs would keep on kicking; looking, searching, hoping desperately for Mtundu to show a wrinkled hand yet there was none. Nengwalamwe saw the falls, some way off now, and the spot where he’d hesitated before going behind them. He imagined Mtundu’s arm beckoning once more, then he knew it would never do so again. The lion knew that few lesser animals could have survived the plunging forces of the falls. ‘Not that Mtundu was less than me,’ he thought, ‘just smaller, that’s all. Why didn’t I listen to him when he said we should cross before? What’s the point of being a lion now if I can’t even save a damn baboon?’

His father called to chastise him. “Nengwalamwe! Don’t save him boy, eat him!”

“No, Nengwe dear. Are you hungry?”

‘No mother,’ he thought.

“Then you don’t need to eat him, do you?”

“No mother,” he replied sadly.

“What sort of a lesson is that for a lion?” his father blustered. “If it’s edible eat it! Every lion knows that!”

“And if it’s mountable mount it I suppose!” Melakwe’s voice lowered, “Nengwe?”

Nengwalamwe opened his eyes. His body lay exhausted around him on the sands.

“Yes Mother,” he said weakly.

“Nengwe? Come on, there’s things to do, it’s time we went home.”

“No mother. I’ve got to find Mtundu. I’ve got to find him.”

“Who? Is he a new friend of yours? He’s not from the Upper Kolata is he? You know how your father is about them.”

“No, he’s not from the Upper Kolata. He’s from….” He thought for a moment. “You know I don’t really know where he’s from, but he’s my friend and I’ve got to know if he’s still alive.”

“What about your other friends? Are they still alive too? What about that lioness… you like her don’t you?”

‘’Lioness…’ Nengwalamwe thought; half smiling. ‘Which lioness?’ His words disappeared into the sand. The sun slipped down to touch the forest canopy on the far side of the river. Melakwe was gone. He stood alone, his mane dripping and full of silt. “What have I done?” he said sighing to himself. “Where do I go now?”

“Back I guess, fuzzy guy.”

The lion turned his head round to his left. He stared hard at the dripping form huddled beside him, scrunching down his eyes tight. The olive grey head raised his eyebrows in a way the lion often wished he could. The lion leaned over and licked the baboon, licked him over and over. Drying, cleaning him, showing him why his tongue was so rough. Welcoming him back.

“You know we gotta go back doan’ya?” the baboon giggled as the lion licked somewhere sensitive.

“Why?”

“Because Nengwe, I think ya do give a damn.”

“Caring is… weakness.”

“What? You…” Mtundu shivered. “Hey, careful there with that thing!”  The lion rubbed his head against Mtundu reassuringly. “…you doan’ actually believe that do ya?”

“I don’t know. Maybe…” Then, shaking his head, “No.”

On this side of the river; sheltered by an escarpment, grey and hulking; the ground was a little more open. The day was pressing on, heating up towards noon, the sun pressing into every crack and fissure of the sandstone rock face. There was nowhere to rest, to recuperate: to groom and plan.

The pair walked slowly through the lush green undergrowth at the foot of the escarpment. Above them lay the very fringes of what had been the lion’s world. Ahead and on their nearside lay unknown terrain: strange vegetation filled with frightening noises. Such was becoming almost normal to the lion, yet that couldn’t completely allay his fear. Nor indeed could the baboon, for whom this too was a strange, unsettling land. They had no choice but to follow the cliffs southwest: there was nowhere to climb up to the plateau above, with the great rock at its heart.

Once away from the roar and fresh spray of the falls, the pair’s thoughts turned to finding some shade to wait out the searing, cloyingly humid heat below the cliffs. It was Mtundu who found the ledge, just a lazy jump above the ground. Above it, the cliff hung over, formed by searing winds long before. He called to Nengwalamwe, who briskly loped up, then looked all around, craning to look above. The overhang unsettled him. Its shadow, casting deep into the rock, promised so much and reminded him of the great rock that he gladly settled alongside the baboon. He lay to the outside, sheltering Mtundu who, for the first time for some days, soon fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Nengwalamwe kept watch through the hottest part of the day, thinking of what the cave in his rock, the great rock, would be like once it was open. Would it be like this place? Nothing having approached since they arrived, he too finally fell into sleep. His mother did not disturb him.

When Nengwalamwe woke it was dusk. He had missed the dramatic slanting sunset that set the bush briefly aflame. He had missed the bats flitting forth from the cliff above. He had missed the taut heavily-set male leopard that had slunk past just a few lengths away on the ground below. The leopard paused as he passed, catching scent of an unfamiliar animal, possibly a monkey of some sort. Unable to locate its source, he shook his head and soon moved on.

As the lion stretched he felt the first pats of new rain. He was soon surrounded by dark spots on the rock. Nengwalamwe walked to the ledge, paused momentarily to spot his landing and stepped off heavily, slipping away into the bush. He soon returned. The rain was falling heavily now, but the overhang shed the worst of it. The monkey slept on, even as heavier drops began spit-spattering down on to him from the rock above. Nengwalamwe found the least wet patch and settled in as best he could. With each laden drop he grew to thinking: about Mtundu, the dogs and the rains. What had really happened at the water’s edge? How had Eddie found him? What, if any, was Mtundu’s part in all this? Especially now that he had shown, by his survival at the waterfall that, unlike the others of his kind the lion had encountered in Kolata, he was a more than competent swimmer.

The rain was long past. The midnight air was stickily