Francesca Franklyn

Sisterhood

Lying with her arms folded behind her head, staring up at the faded glow stars, Hannah wondered what would become of her.  She hadn’t slept in her old room since she was married.  Whenever she had stayed at the ranch with her husband, Pap had given them the musty guestroom with the baby blue drapes and the brass-ended bed, which was covered in the quilt made by Grandma’s sewing circle.  Hannah loved her own west-facing room whose maple floorboards, softened by a Navaho rug, shone even at night.  This was where she had dreamt of the city; she remembered closing her eyes and imagining the bright lights of Chicago.  Now, as she breathed in the familiar scent of wooden furniture and cold night air, she felt comforted by her own things, which seemed to suck her into a pubescent time warp. 
     The moon was casting shadows on her bookshelves, illuminating the titles, Pride and Prejudice, People Like Us, Bonfire of The Vanities – just as it had done a decade before.  She heard the plaintive cry of the coyote, and the neighing of the mountain mustangs carried on the wind, whose blowy gusts rattled the window frames just as they always did. 
     Life wasn’t supposed to take you backwards, only forwards.  She would be wealthy when the divorce came through, but what would she do in that big house on Lakeshore Drive?  The kids still filled the space, with their exuberant laughter and bodies as boisterous as puppies, but what about when they left?  Would she rattle around inside, talking to her African Gray parrot, becoming increasingly eccentric, with hairs on her chin and fat around her middle?  Or would she go back to work, and find what semblance of herself remained?  She had to think on the upside.  She wasn’t Marie Lou, with her weird, lonely life.  Approaching her mid thirties, what did she have to show for it?  An aviary of birds, some published articles, and a broken heart.  Hannah didn’t like to admit that a part of her, the part that nobody could reach, envied Marie Lou’s freedom.  It’s not as if she could wipe the slate clean.  She would have to see her husband every week when he picked up the kids, and Josh, her eldest, was a constant reminder of the man she married.  Even at ten, with dark curls and inscrutable eyes, he looked like his father. 
     Hannah couldn’t sleep.  She wanted a cigarette.  She got out of bed, wary of the creaky floorboards.  She went to sit at her desk without turning the lamp on, the moonlight illuminating the grainy surface.  She opened the desk draw almost involuntarily.  Fumbling around, her petite fingers recognised the thick square shape that was her diary.  The metal lock felt cold and hard against her skin.  She moved her hand upwards, and found the key stuck to the top of the drawer, but decided not to use it.  Instead she lit a cigarette, opened the window and blew smoke at the moon.
     Her night with Dave at the hilltop camp of Hluluwe Imfolozi had been a brief, booze-addled fumble.  When she left the Englishman’s room as the sun was filtering through the curtains, holding her shoes in one hand and her purse in the other, she noticed that his friend Mark’s bedroom door was closed.  She presumed he had gone to bed soon after Marie Lou had refused him.  Hannah had walked back to their lodge, hearing the nascent sounds of the African day: the crickets, the hadedahs, and the guinea fowl.  She presumed she would find her sister showered, dressed and looking at her watch.  Instead their bedroom was empty, and Marie Lou’s case was packed and locked.  She looked out onto the veranda and found a note kept in place by bottle of water.
You were too late.  I’ve gone on the drive.  Hope last night was worth it.
     ML.
     Marie Lou usually ended her notes with a kiss.  What would she have to face on her return?  Her silent treatment could be harsh and long-lasting. 
     Hannah felt rough.  Her hangover made her feel paranoid, slightly detached from her surroundings.  She had stubble burn on her chin.  No Sis, no.  It wasn’t worth it.  She wished she’d come back for the last African sunrise; to see shadows cast by predators; to hear a rustle in the bushes; to smell the damp ground drying out with the rising warmth. 
     Perhaps if Weisman had returned her advances on that Freestate mountain top, a soft kiss on horseback amongst the gentle umming of the wildebeest and neighing of the zebra, breathing in the tangy scent of the tagetes plant that kept flies at bay, her need for male approval may have felt sated.  Instead last night made her feel corrupted, spoilt like meat left out in the sun.  The alcohol had more to do with what happened than anything, she knew that.  Dave didn’t acknowledge her when she crept out of the four-poster bed, getting caught up in the soft muslin folds of the mosquito net, and groped around for her things.  He was probably awake, feigning sleep.  You meet as strangers, you leave as strangers.  What happens in between isn’t intimacy, it’s fear.  She was just about to get married.  What could make her fearful?  Marrying a man she didn’t love.

     Marie Lou drove towards the river where the lions had been spotted the night before.  She knew they could stay at the same location for several days.  Poking out from behind some thorny acacias, she saw a male Kudu, with its impressive long, curvy antlers and vertically-striped back; several impala and, blink and she nearly missed it, a hyena stalking a young leopard.  Focusing on a goal distracted her mind.  When she had returned to the lodge, getting into the shower had made her feel like a parody of women in those erotic thrillers: Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction; Mimi Rogers in Someone To Watch Over Me.  Washing away the sins of the flesh, she had stayed there, under the water that was so hot it made her skin sting, watching the steam rise and obscure everything in the room, even herself.  She remembered closing her eyes and feeling clean and safe.  She would never see that face again, hard and livid.  She pitied the animals who had been, or were yet to be, at the end of Mark’s rifle.
     She would be blessed if she saw a lion as well as a leopardthat morning.  But she made herself a promise.   If she did see one, what happened to her the night before would only make her stronger.  She decided that day was as good as any to believe in something bigger than herself.  Whether or not it was God, she had no idea.
     As she drove through the dense bush with the windows open, everything seemed still but the air felt thick with scents from the undergrowth.  The sun began to bleed pink into the bruised sky.  Birds began their song.  It was the time when predators had killed, fed and were on their way to bed, in dens, up trees and in clearings.  Marie Lou’s eyes and ears were as alert as the animals in hiding around her. 
     Perhaps the lions had already bedded down for the day?  Linear shadows turned into dead trees; grey shapes morphed into green bushes.  Marie Lou reached a river, where she felt like stripping and immersing herself in the cool morning waters.  If not for the threat of crocodiles, she may have taken her chances.  She could have tiptoed across the river and growled with each step like the lions did, ordering the crocs to get out of her way.  If on an unusual suicide mission, it wasn’t as easy to be killed by a predator as you might think.  She knew this from lessons given on confronting a cougar back home.  As long as you stood tall, and didn’t run away like prey, you would be all right.  But here, there was the leopard to contend with.  One might spot you from high up a tree, before pouncing with one sharp tug at the neck.  Marie Lou felt as if she had already experienced a kind of death.  She recalled Hannah’s coercive words couched in flippant asides, ‘Lighten up Sis, we’re on holiday….go with the flow!’ Was it her own fault that the night had turned so dark?
      Intermittently, images and sensations blazed themselves across the screen of her mind.  The feeling of a hard grasp against a door; the acrid smell of cigar smoke, and the brutal texture of calloused skin between thumb and forefinger. 
     Her external world was in acute contradiction.  As she inhaled the dewy smells, she felt fiercely alive.  At first that morning, she had thought about drinking Amarula and smoking Hannah’s duty-free cigarettes, even though she didn’t smoke.  Obliteration had seemed like the easy option, but she now knew that facing the day, not cowling from it, would make her feel better. 
     She drove to an observance point, and getting out of the Land Rover, she noticed a midden.  The contents looked liked squashed pork pies.  Rhino dung.  She also saw a rhino scratching post, a shiny, wooden stump polished by the animal’s hefty backside, whose smooth surface was reflected in the rising sun.  If the Rhinos were near, chances were the lions were not. 
     Driving further downstream, she saw birds circling overhead and recognised the white and brown feathers of the Cape Vulture.  A kill was near and maybe so were the lions.  If the birds were staying in the air, someone on the ground must already be occupying the ‘dinner table.’

     The first time she saw a kettle of vultures was when Pap took her elk hunting; she was twelve going on twenty.  Hannah and Mom had baked cakes and were hosting a coffee morning, helping Grandma and her sewing circle finish a quilt for Thanksgiving.  Marie Lou was about as interested in sewing as she was cooking.  Sugar and spice, and all things nice, that’s what Hannah was made of.  It was amazing that the sisters found common ground, riding together out on the plains, competing with quarter turns and crazy one-handed gallops, their hair swinging wildly in the cold north wind. 
      The first frost was on the ground, making the ranch shimmer like a fairytale castle.  Marie Lou was riding Pepper, who was about five years old and not long broken.  Pap was on Cayenne, a bay mare with a stubborn streak.  Marie Lou had pleaded with Pap to let her go with him, even though he thought she was too young, and way too interested in men’s pursuits.
     ‘Don’t you go forgettin’ now, you’re my daughter, honeychild, not my son.  I aint got one of those, unless I’m blind.’
     ‘Please Pap, I don’t wanna stay inside!  You know I’m more interested in lickin’ the cake bowl clean than I am bakin.’  I guess with you not having a son n’all, I can be the next best thing?’
     ‘Well you can watch, and look down the sights, but you aint shootin’ nothin’.  It’s ruttin’ season so we gotta be careful.  Them males can get real angry.  We want a nice clean shot, don’t we?’
     ‘Whatever you say Pap.  As long as I’m with you and Peps, I’m happy as anything.’
     She remembered that her father wasn’t feeling well. When she pointed out the dewy scent of pine and juniper, he couldn’t smell it.
     ‘My nose is blocked up n all.  Mighty early for a goddamn cold.  I’ll be the eyes and ears and you can be the nose!’ 
     She could detect the horsy odour that always clung to Pap’s clothes, however much they were washed.  It was comforting, the scent of safety.  They trotted through the stubble of wild grass and alfalfa, careful that the Canadian thistles didn’t catch on their jeans.  Then they walked their horses through the cottonwoods, down towards the valley and over the creek.
     ‘Look!!’ said Marie Lou, turning back up towards the mountains.  ‘There’s some vultures!  Do you think they’ve found somethin’ to eat?’
     ‘Might well have.  But could be too fresh for’em - they like their meat to marinate a little.   Or maybe somethin’ else, like a goddamn coyote, got there first honeybean?’
     She was close enough to see the birds’ red heads, the signature of the Turkey Vulture.  They were circling; waiting their turn at the carcass, wherever it was. 
     ‘Look down, over there!’ whispered Pap.  Think I’ve got us an old’un.  See his antlers?  Like goddamn antiques, he’s way past his prime.  I guess it’s time to put him out of his misery.’
     Pap had spotted the elk through the trees and while ‘shooshing’ his daughter, he took aim.  But what with his blocked sinuses and streamy eyes, he didn’t get that clean shot.  The animal ran a few yards before collapsing in a leggy heap.  Father and daughter moved in closer.  He’d been taken on the rump and was lashing his head against the dusty ground, limbs flaying.  The moment seemed to last for ever, and Marie Lou could see the elk’s desperate eyes, the blood seeping from his mouth.  Then Pap took aim again, and the animal became still.
     ‘Why do you shoot elk, Pap?  Marie Lou asked innocently.
     ‘We kill’em coz there’s too damn many.  They’re eatin’ up the forest, which means there aint enough greenery to go round.  We’re doing God a favour.’
     His daughter wasn’t convinced, and she felt bad about what she’d just witnessed.  But more than anything, she didn’t want to be back home, listening to Mom and Hannah clucking like a pair of hens.  She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, telling herself she was being a sissy.  If she wanted to be with Pap, riding Pepper and looking at vultures and elks and maybe even mountain lions, she had to accept things.  But she didn’t.  She just pretended.
     Marie Lou wondered if Mark had really got a clean shot, if he’d take the lion between the eyes or through the heart.  Trophy hunters paid thousands to kill one, and she still couldn’t work out the motivation.  Bloodlust?  Ego?  Anyway, the whole thing was fake.  She knew the hunt would have been set up by the trackers; they’d have located the animal using walkie-talkies.  Even worse, some lions were bred in captivity only to be released for the hunters.  Either way, the Englishman would have been spoon-fed his goddamn trophy.  His bravado was still ringing in her ears.
     ‘Well he was a bit of a bugger at first, but then I focused the sights and that was damn well it.  You should have seen Dave’s, poor creature!  He crawled bleeding along the road, only to be studded again with bullets.  He looked like a bloody pincushion.  You know, I would have been proud to be taken by the lion, but survival of the fittest and all that.’
     Yeah right, thought Marie Lou.  Like he fought him with his bare hands, the fucking coward.  She found herself wishing that the lion had mauled the Englishman on the Kalahari.  Then he wouldn’t have come to Hluluwe…and he wouldn’t have made her his target. 
     Marie Lou got out of the car, even though road signs prohibited her as there was no official clearing.  She smiled when she read the warning: ‘Dung beetles have right of way.’  Surely there was enough shit around to keep their numbers healthy?  She noticed the work of elephants: a couple of trees had been snapped almost in two, with their trunks bending over at right angles like mangled limbs.
     The vultures were still circling.  With her binoculars, she tried to follow their vantage point, and panned across to the left.  There on the ground was the half-eaten carcass of an adult giraffe.  She knew this was unusual; the babies could be taken by predators but an adult giraffe could kill with a kick from its powerful back legs.  This one must have been injured.  She took position behind a bush, where she could see both the carcass and the vultures. 
And then she saw them. 
     Lying stretched out under the shade of a tree, was a dozing pair of male lions.  They looked better than anything she had envisaged, leaner and longer.  Legs splayed like babies, their bellies facing the sky, inflated with the spoils of success.  The vultures suddenly descended.  Marie Lou took photos, as the lions were too sleepy to be interested in her.  Then the smaller of the two mustered the energy to chase the birds away, and she watched an ensuing game of ‘grandmother’s footsteps.’  Just as the lion would go back to ‘bed,’ the vultures, tottering comically, would creep forward.  This continued until the animal was too exhausted to care.  Marie Lou smiled, never expecting to get so close.  She went back to the Land Rover, pumped with adrenaline, the earlier hours of the morning almost a forgotten nightmare.

*

     Hannah was having breakfast in their lodge.  She didn’t want to bump into the Englishmen, even though Dave had said that they were leaving early.  Somehow being in public would make her feel exposed, as if she were an x-ray.  She felt queasy, whether from the hangover or from the anticipation of her sister’s return, she didn’t know.  When she heard the Land Rover pull up outside, her heart sank.

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This novel is about a Montana girl who adores her father but rejects her ‘hunting and fishing’ upbringing to discover a fine line between animal rights advocacy and misanthropy. 

Note on the extract The Hunter and The Hunted:
The Hunter and The Hunted takes the reader back to when Marie Lou, a budding animal behaviourist, fell out with Hannah, her old-fashioned sister whose ambition in life was to bewitch men and marry well.  The extract shows a present-day Hannah reflecting on the past and an African safari with her sister that ended in animosity.  The narrative baton is then handed to Marie Lou, the victim of a violent incident that she tries to forget on her last lone safari drive.

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Biography

Francesca has just finished working on a horror feature film as script consultant.  She has worked as script executive and film reviewer for the BBC and as script and book reader for Miramax, Working Title and The Irish Film Board.  Now concentrating on her own writing, the tables are turned!

francescafranklyn@hotmail.com