Guarding the Princess - By Loreth Anne White Page 0,2
almost an hour, stress easing from her neck and mind, until a crocodile broke the muddy surface and latched onto the baby elephant. The ensuing fight, the raw violence of it, had grabbed her by the throat.
As she’d been held fixated by the death struggle, this same Czech had approached her from behind, his footfalls rustling through the tough grass. He’d stood over her shoulder and made some inane comment about the spectacle unfolding in front of them as he offered her a sweating glass of gin and tonic, ice chinking in the oppressive heat.
He’d stood beside her, watching, sipping his own cocktail, cheeks flushed and eyes bright with the thrill of his own personal reality show.
And something cold and disturbing had settled into Dalilah’s chest on that riverbank this afternoon, something she couldn’t define. A sense of change coming. Something dark.
Whatever it was, her mood altered the color of the afternoon. The shadows in the trees across the bank had grown a little darker, the shapes of the leaves more prickly, The sun too harsh. The insistent, sad Qwa-waaaaee call of a gray lorie seemed even sadder. Go-a-waaaay. Go-a-waaaay.
The locals called it the go-away bird. It was one of several Botswana birds that issued an alarm call when a large predator came near, although it was difficult to tell whether the lorie was warning of a human in the area or a lion stalking out of sight in the long grasses.
“The danger is everywhere out here,” the Czech said at her shoulder. “Always a predator in the shadows, lurking, waiting to kill. You go about your business, then suddenly, it strikes.” She heard him sip his drink, ice knocking against crystal, and she couldn’t help flicking a glance over to where her two bodyguards stood, watching her discreetly from the shadows of nearby lucky bean trees.
“We’re put on this earth to eat or be eaten,” he intoned. “To kill or be killed, except with us humans, it’s not always about food or water. Sometimes it’s just for fun, or revenge. Sometimes an attack comes indirectly through commerce, greed...” He trailed off, his words slurring, his philosophical idea blurring around the edges.
Dalilah fingered the mammoth pink Argyle diamond on her ring finger as she thought of the elephant kill that afternoon, of the Czech’s ominous words. The diamond was a symbol of her call to duty, her looming future. Was she going to be confined to a life of polite talk and diplomatic function, feigning civility with the likes of this Czech boozer for the rest of her life?
As the sun slid below the escarpment the cloak of darkness was sudden and thick. Small bats flitted out from under the lodge’s thatched eaves and a fish eagle cried somewhere along the river. She could hear the rising whoops of hyenas—the sounds of the bush night shift, and violence, beginning.
The dinner gong boomed suddenly and lodge staff politely began to usher guests across the lawn toward the lapa, a fenced-off circular dining area where a huge fire crackled inside a stone circle at the center. Pulsing embers had been raked to one side. Upon them rested several three-legged African cast-iron pots, simmering with traditional game stews, one with a vegetarian selection for Dalilah.
Delegates took their seats at long tables decked with white linen, candles, polished silverware. Wine flowed, and the entertainment began—xylophones and softly throbbing skin drums, voices that sounded like the land itself. Dancers shuffled out from behind the branch fencing, stomping bare feet, nutshells and bottle caps clicking in bracelets around their ankles as they swayed and hummed to the beat. A lone voice rose above it all, a cry, in song.
Goose bumps chased over Dalilah’s skin, and she had to resist the urge to close her eyes and just drink in the sounds. Instead, she nodded politely at a representative from Bangkok who’d taken a seat at her side, instantly feeling crowded, which, she suspected, had little to do with this occasion and more to do with her future.
By the time the first song ended and the guests applauded, the night was thick as velvet, stars spattered across the vault of African sky. Nature seemed to be encroaching on the periphery of the camp, closing in with mysterious night sounds. Fatigue slammed down on Dalilah, and her mind turned to her guest suite, the cotton sheets, the hot tub. Sleep. A warm wind gusted, rustling the nyala leaves above, and Dalilah suddenly felt as if she was being