Lions · Tuesday July 21, 2009 by Julie
Jelte, Camilla and I were drinking tea (or rather, I was waiting for mine to cool while they were d.t.). Peep-au-lait, the bellicose kitten (a.k.a. Mac Feegle) was helping me knit by puncturing holes in my knee, using either claws, teeth, or both.
“I was stalked by a lion once,” said Jelte, watching Peep-au-lait fix my green yarn with his hunter’s gaze.
“Tell us,” said Camilla.
“I was six, and it was at night. My family was camping under some acacias in the desert, and a Blacksmith Plover started to call.” Jelte tapped his chopsticks together several times.
“It was in a tree, at night, both of which are unusual for this kind of plover. So my dad took his flashlight and shone it around.
“You know how eyes reflect when you shine light at them?”
“Sheep eyes reflect pale turquoise,” said Camilla.
“And antelope eyes? First you see both, and then just one as it turns to run.”
“Because,” said Camilla, “it sees better from the side.”
“Well, these eyes were red. Red eyes could be a hyena, but hyenas have a really wide head. As my eyes adjusted, I could see a lioness, crouched to spring.”
We all drank a bit of tea.
“Here, my father’s story and mine differ. My father says it sprang at once, but I remember it waiting, its eyes fixed on mine. I will never forget it. I froze. I had never been looked at as meat before.
“Then my father yelled at my mother to get in the car, and he grabbed me and threw me into the door my mother had opened. The lioness barely missed him. And, from inside the car, we could see seven lionesses in the bush.
“That’s what they do. They send one out and the others wait in ambush.”
We all drained our tea.
