[image]http://

[/image]

THE BRAVEST OF THE BRAVE

We are sitting together fishing from the rocks down at the dam, the Old Man and I. The fish are not biting but we are content, as we always are when down at the dam. At one point we witness a fish eagle lock on, strike and miss, not far from where we sit – a most spectacular sighting indeed. It seems the fish are not cooperating with anyone today, neither man nor bird. Across the dam the fish eagle ruffles its feathers at the top of a dead tree, consolidating for the next effort.

“Revenge shall destroy a man as surely as a bullet in the heart,” the Old Man says.
The comment arrives from nowhere and, surprised, I look up from the stick-whittling task I have been occupying myself with. Once I have taken the bait and he has hooked my easily arrested attention with his first cast, the Old Man characteristically delays hauling me in, taking a drawn out, snuff filled pause. I wait patiently for I sense a promising story in the offing. After several snorts and sneezes that cause his droopy old eyes to efficiently hose down his corrugated countenance, the Old Man continues.
“Yes, revenge shall destroy a man.” He nods his head wisely as he reaffirms within himself the authenticity of this assertion. “It shall destroy a man and I once saw it happen. To a man who was not easily destroyed – a revered warrior who was a respected and loyal member of our community.”
The Old Man’s mind is travelling back in time and soon the story begins in earnest.

“Many years ago, shortly after the war of Hitler, when I was a man in my prime, a lion hunter in your sekuru’s (grandfather’s) employ, there lived a man who went by the name Matutu. This man lived in the north, not far from the place we knew, and still know, as Ngwane. Matutu and his family lived as we have always lived, an isolated existence distantly removed from society and, indeed, from even their closest neighbours. One day, Matutu embarked upon a short journey that took him away from his home and family for two nights. Whilst he was away a terrible tragedy occurred. Although no one witnessed the actual event, we later managed to piece the evidence together and I believe it happened something like this.
“The evening before Matutu was due to return, his wife went down to the river to collect water, as she did twice a day on every day of her life. Matutu would most often accompany his wife on these daily sojourns, though obviously, on the occasion in question, he did not. On that fateful occasion she went alone, fortunately opting to leave their two young children at home. As she filled her calabash at the water’s edge, Mrs Matutu was attacked and killed by a lion. The lion dragged her body a considerable distance before devouring much of the hapless woman and secreting the remnants within dense scrub at the base of a large mahogany tree, stashed in readiness for another meal. Matutu’s eldest son, Simbarashe, became fraught with anxiety as nightfall approached and his mother did not return from the river. He left his younger brother safely barricaded in a hut and, showing extreme maturity for such a young child, made his way down the dusty footpath that leads to the river. In the grey, dusky gloom of twilight, Simbarashe discovered, much to his horror, confirmation of his mother’s demise. Though young, Simbarashe was already a proficient tracker and the pug-marks in the sand, shattered calabash and scuffling signs of what must have been a very brief struggle, all confirmed the reality of his worst nightmare coming true. Simbarashe understood immediately that his mother had been killed.
“Simbarashe was torn between running through the night for help or staying with his three year old brother. Once again displaying maturity way beyond his age, he chose the latter option. Understanding that little could be done for his mother that night or ever again, the lad realized that his immediate duty was to safeguard his brother until the return of their father. And so, through the long, lonely hours of that terrible night, Simbarashe, the eldest son of Matutu, passed the time watching over his sleeping brother as, somewhere in the darkness, his mother was systematically ripped to shreds and eaten by the lion.

“As it so happened, Matutu’s closest neighbour Pashela, accompanied by his younger brother Gideon, arrived in the early morning to check on the well being of his friend’s family. Upon hearing the grisly story from a totally shattered Simbarashe, Pashela dispatched Gideon to Headquarters for assistance. Gideon was exceptionally fleet-footed and, on that day in particular, he ran like the wind.
“I was at Maware’s house when Gideon came running up the gomo, blowing heavily. He gasped out the horrific tale between noisily gulping air into his deprived lungs. Maware immediately ordered me to prepare myself and soon we were speeding along the road towards Matutu’s home. Upon arrival, we left Gideon with the children, and Maware, Pashela and I made our way down to the river. The trail was not difficult to follow and we soon came across the predominantly consumed corpse of the unfortunate Mrs Matutu. As we milled about the gruesome scene uncertainly, trying to formulate a game-plan, Matutu returned.
“I noticed immediately that Matutu’s behaviour was unnatural. He showed no visible emotion and presented a calm demeanor, accepting our condolences quietly and graciously. It was indeed a strange reaction to the tragedy – I was a close friend of the Matutus and knew of the strong bond that existed between them. Yes, Matutu’s behaviour was certainly bizarre that day, nothing like the grief stricken wreck we had been expecting to console. I spoke with Matutu and asked him if we could bury his wife, so that we may begin building a blind in which to await the lion’s return, so that I may then shoot that lion. Politely, firmly and maddeningly, Matutu turned down all offers.
“Maware, Pashela and I spent many hours that day trying to reason with Matutu, all to no avail. He was adamant in his refusal of our help in either burying his wife or killing the lion, not attempting to rationalize or explain his motives, simply rejecting all assistance. Finally we gave up and returned to Headquarters, leaving Pashela to continue trying to influence the hard-headed Matutu. Later, Pashela would tell us how he had remained with Matutu throughout the afternoon, trying to persuade him to see sense, how his argument had fallen ineffectually on seemingly deaf ears.
“Eventually, late in the afternoon, Matutu spoke at length for the first time since he had learned of his wife’s death. He asked his friend Pashela to return home and to take with him his two grief-stricken sons, to care for them as long as necessary. He said he had a task to carry out, and that he was unsure what the outcome of that task would be.
“Naturally, when he realized that further debate was pointless, Pashela agreed to the request. After rounding up the boys and collecting some of their meagre possessions, Pashela bade his life-long friend farewell and walked away from the lonely little clearing in the wilderness. Once, as he reached the cover of the tree-line, Pashela turned back. What he saw made him doubt that he would ever see his friend alive again. Matutu sat crouched over a grindstone, purposefully sharpening the steel blade of his hunting spear.

“Nobody will ever know what really transpired that night, for Matutu never spoke of it to any man. When Maware and I arrived at his home the following morning, we found him dressing deep wounds that crisscrossed his torso, arms and legs – wounds that had obviously been inflicted by the lion’s terrible claws. As Matutu squatted outside his hut plugging the lacerations with a paste of ash and water, he was pointedly non-committal, refusing to entertain conversation or answer our questions. Soon he left us, saying that he wished to see his children and making off in the direction of Pashela’s kreb (trough). Maware and I walked to the river and followed its course a short distance downstream, to the place beneath the mahogany tree. There an amazing sight greeted our eyes. As dead as a rock and skewered like a barbel on a fishing spear, the body of a massive lion lay stretched out on its side in a large black puddle of its own congealing blood. I noticed that it was an old lion, well beyond its prime, and reasoned that advanced age and starvation were the factors that finally forced this lion to turn to humans as a food source – to become a maneater. A completely worn-out set of canines cemented my reasoning. After eliminating the mighty cat, Matutu had not even bothered to retrieve his spear from the carcase. His tracks indicated that he had simply wandered off into the bush, carrying the remains of his beloved wife. The shaft of the spear stuck out from between the lion’s shoulder-blades and, incredibly, the entire blade was exposed, protruding from the chest cavity on the other side. It was obvious that Matutu had ambushed and impaled the lion from the lower branches of the mahogany tree, and that he had driven the spear home with incredible force. I do not believe Matutu threw his spear that night. I suspect that he dropped from the tree onto the lion, guiding the honed blade straight through the beast, his entire body weight behind the killer blow. Yes, that blow was certainly delivered with phenomenal force.

“Matutu did not live long after that unbelievable happening. Some say he died of malaria, but others say it was the result of a broken soul. To this day rumours abound, but no one really knows what caused his death. Pashela adopted the two young boys and raised them as his own children. They matured into fine young men, fitting tributes to the memory of the worthy man that was their father.
“I often think of Matutu, waiting for the lion in the tree above his wife’s mutilated remains. He should never have attempted to avenge her death in that fashion. That was, in all probability, the action that totally destroyed him. Matutu should have allowed me to deal with the lion, although I understand why he could not. His love and his loss were both too great. This land has produced many brave men, and in my time I have come across the best of these. None, however, can be compared to the courageous Matutu. That man was the bravest of the brave.”

The story is finished but the Old Man is still totally removed, staring blankly across the dam, neglected fishing rod held limply in hand. Evening closes in and a fish eagle cries mournfully over the water.