to instant flight. It had quite the opposite effect.

“Is that it pretty kitty? Oi! Charlie and Mary, get him out of here. He’s getting on my wick.” One of the other dogs stopped feeding and joined George and Eddie in staring ominously at Nengwalamwe, then jumped forwards at him with its ears flat and head down. Another, with a heavily spotted coat, immediately joined it. Nengwalamwe neither knew nor cared which of them was Mary or Charlie, both adopted the typical head down, ears forward posture of dogs on the hunt. Nengwalamwe stood his ground for a moment before realising with some alarm that he was the ‘kitty’ and that he was their prey. He hastily backed away. George followed his two pack colleagues with his mouth hanging open and his tongue wagging in time to his panting breath. His ears were pricked and he held his head and tail high and alert.

The lead dog bared its teeth and let out a rasping ‘Grrrrr’. Nengwalamwe watched its teeth shine in the sun. It was only at the last moment, from the corner of his eye, he saw George leap for his neck. His teeth were in full view in his wide-open jaws. Nengwalamwe just managed to tear his neck away from between the dog’s jaws before it had had a chance to bite deep. Manes, he had now found, were not just for show, they had other functions, such hiding the true extent of a lion’s neck. As the lion drew away he turned and lashed at the dogs with his forepaw. He felt no contact. As soon as he touched firm ground he pushed away and leapt forwards fearing that the dogs would try to grab at his hindquarters and pull him back. The dogs seemed surprised that he was trying to run away and for a moment they faltered, unsure of what to do next.

“Gerr’outo’it! You ain’t nothin’. Do’yer hear?” shouted George. “This is our turf!” the dog growled before twisting to his paws and jumping up from the ground.

Nengwalamwe ran back up the kopje rock as fast as he could. As he reached the top he heard Eddie’s gruff voice followed by a yelp of pain.

“Sod you! Shift it you lot. Go on! Get off yer arses and get after ‘im!”

Nengwalamwe dare not stop running. As he ran he clearly heard the clicking of the dogs’ claws on the rock as they scrambled after him. He had got away with barely a scratch, certainly not enough to put off any of the more friendly lionesses he hoped he would soon encounter. He wanted his coat to stay as unblemished, clean and unsullied by battle scars as his father’s had been.

He ran on back to his rock without stopping, knowing that he could hide in one of the many caves for as long as it took for the dogs to give him up. That could well be most of the rest of the day. He ran fast, easily stretching the gap between him and the closest dog to twenty or more lengths before he reached the shadow of the rock. He expected them to follow him up the boulders snapping at his heels: the inedible in pursuit of the impeccable. He half-expected to use all his strength in leaping up to one of its highest points to escape them, or worse, to turn and strike them down. However as he reached the flat of the rock he risked a glance to the plain below back, only to see the dogs sitting, gasping and panting for breath, well away from the base of the rock. They had not followed him up the boulder path; indeed they appeared fearful of even approaching the rock. The lion slunk away but returned a few moments later to watch them as they rested after the chase. They were now sitting down; waiting in the heat with their tongues hanging from their gaping mouths. He slipped away again. Later still, the three were lying down, looking up at him with mournful eyes.

So it went on through the rest of the day. Nengwalamwe began to fear that he would be trapped up on the rock, until his hunger forced him to brave the dogs once more. He felt quite secure on the rock, he even tried to get some sleep, but he could not sleep for long on such an empty stomach. The morning turned into afternoon and in turn into evening. He looked around for something to occupy his mind and his claws. He went once more to the pile of rocks, wondering where they had come from. It was obvious that they were the same rock as the tower itself, hard and smooth, but he could determine very little else about it. Powerful thoughts grew in him of getting through them and into the cave beyond. If he had thought about it further he would have realised that it was impossible for a lion to move such heavy stones, yet he felt that he must try, and try, and try again.

As, at last, the sun fell he heard distant calls of a wild dog pack, possibly his captors. He left the unyielding rocks for a while and slipped back to see if the dogs were still below. He was surprised to see that they had left, there was no sign of them; he was once more alone. Within minutes he was once more fast asleep on the flat of the rock. It had been an unusual and exhausting day.

Nengwalamwe woke suddenly in the chill of the night. For a few moments he felt lost and disorientated as deep shadows crept toward him, oozing and slipping over the confused surfaces of the loose rocks that had so fascinated him a few hours before. It was almost as if the darkness that lay beyond the impenetrable boulder barrier was leaking out to claim him and draw him back into its icy heart. He felt the cold licking his back while from below the heat of the day poured from the mass of the rock slope to challenge the chill of the darkness. He felt torn between the heat of the day and the cool of the night.

His nocturnal instincts were slowly but steadily taking him back. He did not fear the dark; it was something that he embraced as an old friend. He was so familiar with the night that it held less uncertainty than the brightness of day. He had spent most of his waking hours in darkness. He welcomed its anonymity, its cloaking cover under which he could move more freely than in the harsh glare of savannah daylight. He knew his curiosity would never be satisfied until he had ventured and explored beyond the sharply jagged rock wall. He also felt that he might never be courageous enough to enter and explore its deepest recesses. He wanted to go in so much that he feared to do so, as it might engulf him. The rocks that lay between him and the cave just taunted him. They challenged his authority, his intellect and all that his mane stood for. They dared him to go further while barring his way - he knew he had to find a way past, even if it meant clawing the stone away grain by grain.

Through the thick of night came a sound Nengwalamwe had not heard for some moons, a sound that filled him with a mixture of pleasure and pain and set his pulse racing. For a moment he was not certain if he had really heard it at all. When it came again, rolling over the plain he felt a gust of life flood over him. His ears strained forward to pick up any traces of the sound he thought he had heard, but there were no more; nothing except the grumbles of a distant herd of wildebeest, unsettled by something unseen.

Nengwalamwe half dropped his ears and let his hind paws relax as he lay still on the warm slope of the rock. A few moments later he reassured himself that he had heard nothing but the call of a distant leopard for its cub.

He turned his ears back but dared not drop them to lie flat on his head. He took two deep breaths, filling his chest with the cool, fresh night air. He wished the tense pounding of his heart would subside as it filled him with surging energy and ripped away any hope of sleep. His back grew cold and clammy as his tension; similar to that he experienced as he prepared for the final leap at his prey; began at last to ebb away. Then, from the most distant edge of the darkness it came again, faint but unmistakable. This time he was sure that it was not a leopard. It was the call of a lioness guarding her kill. Nengwalamwe’s pulse rose instantly and pounded in his mind, forcing him fully awake. He had to leave the rock and search for the source of the call. No matter how much Nengwalamwe tried to deny it, he was a social animal; he could not live cut off from his own kind for long. Now Nengwalamwe knew was no longer alone.

***

  The sun began its daily climb into the sky. The herbivorous inhabitants of the dry grasslands that were the plains of the Pridelands allowed themselves some relaxation from the tension of night. With the coming of day came the realisation that they had survived the dangers of the darkness and the unseen predators that lay hidden within its depths.

Not all had survived; to the east, close to the gorge that rent the Pridelands in two, a wild dog pack clustered noisily around what was left of an adolescent hartebeest. They ate urgently, gulping down great hunks of still warm flesh ripped off the bone by a flick of the head. They remained alert to the nearby pacing of a pair of hyena who waited impatiently, watching. Suddenly one of the dogs, frustrated at being shut out of the feast, decided that the hyenas had watched for too long. She rushed at them yelping madly, her tail high and ears pointed. A couple of her more sated relatives looked up from their meal. They shared her feelings and rose to join the chase. They did not have to go far; the hyenas turned and loped off without any signs of resistance. Within seconds the dogs returned to their kill.

Elsewhere an adult gemsbok had shared the fate of the hartebeest. It had not died exhausted at the end of the dog’s relentless pursuit. Its end had been quick and clean, but lung-burstingly painful. It had died fighting for breath as a lioness crushed its throat in her jaws. However these were isolated islands of