The Hunter
Marvin put his binoculars up to his face and looked through them again. “I can’t see anything, Kotze. Are you sure it’s there?”
“Without a doubt,” replied Kotze. “You can just see it leaning down for a drink at the water hole.”
“Nothing,” declared Marvin.
“You see that big baobab tree?” asked Kotze.
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s right under there.”
Marvin stared hard through his binoculars. He desperately wanted to find this buffalo. He had already shot three of the big five and he only had four more days left on his safari.
“Oh, Kotze!” Marvin exclaimed. “I see it!”
“Well done, Jagter,” said Kotze, lowering his binoculars and patting Marvin on the back. “But let’s keep our voices down. We don’t want to scare the fellow.”
Marvin smiled and stroked his rifle as he and Kotze slowly walked towards the water hole. Along with Kotze, his rifle had been his constant companion these last six days. Marvin had decided to come to South Africa to heal his broken heart after his last encounter with Flora (see The Pelican). For the first time, in a long time, Marvin felt like a man, living off the land and his wits. He was no longer Marvin Cranford. He was Jagter, The Hunter.
Marvin and Kotze treaded cautiously towards the water hole. With each step he took, Marvin closed his eyes and winced, fearing that the slightest noise underfoot would startle the buffalo and their four-hour stalk would have been for naught. As they reached the water hole, Kotze halted. Marvin looked anxiously at his guide, awaiting instruction. Kotze made various hand signals, and from what Marvin could decipher, they were to crawl from here on.
“We’ll go around the water hole and catch him unawares, Jagter,” whispered Kotze. Marvin nodded and dropped to the ground.
Marvin and Kotze crawled around the water hole, inch by inch. It was long and painstaking work, but Marvin did not falter. “You can do this,” he said to himself as he elbowed along through the scrub. “You need this.” Finally, Kotze held up his hand and Marvin stopped.
“There he is, Jagter” said Kotze. “Ready and waiting.”
Marvin wiped the sweat from his eyes and looked up at his prize. The buffalo had drunken its fill and was crouched on the ground, casually looking about and occasionally swatting the air with its tail.
“Take aim, Jagter,” said Kotze, pointing to Marvin’s rifle. “You couldn’t ask for a better shot.”
Marvin raised his rifle and looked through the scope, his finger poised on the trigger. The buffalo had laid down, its head resting on its shoulder, its eyes closed. Suddenly, Marvin felt a sense of pity, for the buffalo, and shame. Shame that he was planning to kill it.
“What are you waiting for, Jagter?” Kotze impatiently hissed. “Shoot it.”
Marvin placed his finger on the trigger again, his hand was shaking. He lowered his rifle.
“No,” he said, and he placed his rifle on the ground.
“No?” echoed Kotze. “You listen to me,” he continued. “If you don’t do this you will not go back home as Jagter, you will be a lafhartig, and so you will remain for the rest of your days. Now, be a man. Take that rifle and shoot!”
“Ok,” said Marvin quietly, and he picked up the rifle. His knowledge of Afrikaans was limited, but he understood lafhartig. Coward.
Bang! The buffalo leapt up and run away into the scrub and disappeared. Kotze screeched and clutched at his leg.
“You shot me! Bliksem!” he shouted, rolling on the ground in agony, his trousers already stained with blood.
“I guess I am Jagter after all,” said Marvin, coldly. “When you make it back to camp, I won’t be there.” Marvin stood up and slung the rifle over his shoulder. He took one last look at Kotze then, turning to the east, he began walking through the savannah, alone.
