Under a Poacher's Moon

  Under a Poacher’s Moon, A Novel

  © 2022 W. Aaron Vandiver. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopying, or recording, except for the inclusion in a review, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Published in the United States by BQB Publishing

  (an imprint of Boutique of Quality Books Publishing Company, Inc.)

  www.bqbpublishing.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  978-1-952782-48-0 (p)

  978-1-952782-49-7 (e)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2021951090

  Book design by Robin Krauss, www.bookformatters.com

  Cover design by Rebecca Lown, www.rebeccalowndesign.com

  First editor: Allison Itterly

  Second editor: Andrea Vande Vorde

  PRAISE FOR UNDER A POACHER’S MOON and W. AARON VANDIVER

  “. . . Over the course of the tale, the author not only draws on his experience and knowledge of the story’s landscape—he’s an attorney and conservationist—but also shows a great ability to delve into a varied range of human experience. He treats all his characters with notable empathy, effectively showing how one’s perspective is shaped by one’s choices and circumstances. This is not a straightforward good-versus-evil story, but it is a complex and engaging one. An exciting and thought-provoking work that will stay with readers.”

  — Kirkus Reviews

  “. . . The phrase ‘This place will devour you’ is repeated several times in the book, each time with slightly different meanings. Anna finds herself devoured by the maternal nature that she previously denied in herself, recognizing how ‘all the mothers of Africa were everywhere protecting and defending their young.’ She finds herself devoured by her desire for Chris: she mentions wanting to drop her ‘newly purchased cargo pants’ for him. She finds herself devoured by the beautiful scenery and the eternal rhythms of the world running on a scale that dwarfs humanity, too. But the novel only truly takes off when Anna and Chris plunge into the bush, chasing after a band of poachers who committed a heartbreaking atrocity. Their pursuit is suspenseful and unpredictable.

  “The setting is established in a layered manner, as a place where ‘God and the Devil are one.’ The landscape is captured in beautiful prose, and is juxtaposed with details about the brutality of poaching, and of how a rhinoceros’s horn is worth ‘more than gold’ on the black market. Outrage is generated over the cruelty of slaughtering animals just to steal a small piece of their anatomy. Yet the book also addresses the human poverty that drives poachers to exploit animals: ‘I’ll let you in on a secret Africans have known for a long time: sometimes there is no answer.’ The book’s conclusion, though unexpected, is fitting and satisfying. . .”

  — Matt Benzing, Foreword Reviews

  “A stunning, heartrending adventure story. . . Vandiver delivers a gut-wrenching story about the scourge of poaching. Message novels can be heavy handed, polemic. This is not. It is a nuanced, even compassionate tale about evil and heartbreak. Highly recommended.”

  — Len Joy, author of American Past Time, Everyone Dies Famous, and Dry Heat

  “. . . Under a Poacher’s Moon is a compelling, character-driven thriller that digs into Africa’s beauty and poverty. The novel is less than 200 pages, and Vandiver’s intense, compressed plot takes place over one night, but it’s alive with vivid descriptions of the African landscape and animals (‘this terribly gorgeous specimen of muscle, sinew, teeth, claw, mane’) plus memorable characters. Vandiver, an attorney and conservationist, allows his cast a full range of humanity: Anna is complicated, touched by deep grief, and not always likable. Her relationship with Chris—a charmer who calls her a ‘rhino gal’—is believable and warm, growing naturally as they face life-threatening obstacles together. . . .”

  — BookLife Reviews

  “. . . The exotic wildlife and lush landscape evoke a sense of primal passion, which Vandiver captures perfectly in prose.”

  — Rob Errera for IndieReader

  For Rebecca

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  THREE DAYS BEFORE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  QUESTIONS FOR BOOK CLUBS AND READING GROUPS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Africa is mystic; it is wild . . . It is what you will and it withstands all interpretations.

  It is the last vestige of a dead world or the cradle of a shiny new one.

  — Beryl Markham, West with the Night

  Africa, amongst the continents, will teach it to you: that God and the Devil are One . . .

  — Karen Blixen, Out of Africa

  PROLOGUE

  Satan stared at me, his giant amber eyes burning into mine with unblinking predatory intelligence. A hot wind blew through the trees. Insects buzzed all around my face. My heart pounded a wild rhythm in my ears. I was miles from safety, in the middle of the wilderness, face to face with one of the most vicious lions in the South African bush.

  The infamous Satan was stalking me.

  A bright orange sun was still rising over the plains as Satan poked his enormous head from the nearby shroud of trees where he had been crouching. He stepped into the red dirt clearing and came to a stop midstride next to the still-smoldering campfire. His nostrils flared as he sniffed the woodsmoke. We were standing not twenty feet apart on the crest of a koppie, a small rocky hill jutting up from the grasslands.

  I stood motionless as a statue, doing my best to return Satan’s intense gaze. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead and cheeks. I was straining every fiber of my being to suppress my urge to run. He was so close I could smell his rotten breath. A blackish crust of dried blood lined the edges of his mouth. His dark red mane was almost the exact color of my own. From his snarling lips a series of terrifying sounds emerged: low grunts and huffs that grew into loud, agitated growls.

  He held his tail rigid, in hunting mode.

  A rifle I barely knew how to use was lying in the dirt between me and the gigantic feline. There was a single bullet in the chamber. Should I lunge for the gun or make a run for it? Or should I summon the courage to hold my ground as Chris had taught me?

  Frozen in place, too afraid to make a decisive maneuver, and not daring to twitch a muscle lest I trigger the lion’s attack instincts, I knew then and there that no matter what happened now, I would never leave Africa intact. Even if I managed to survive, the person I had been before arriving here three days ago would never make it out alive.

  As Satan inched closer, I suddenly recalled the sound I’d heard my first night on safari. Under a full moon—a Poacher’s Moon, they called it—a life-shattering cry unlike any I’d ever encountered had come shrieking out of the night. That awful, unforgettable cry had drawn me into this crazed adventure, and now it had delivered me straight into the jaws of danger.

  Satan took another bold, feline step toward me while I tried to stand firm. He balanced the weight of his enormous muscular body on his rear legs, eyes still trained on mine, readying himself for a lethal charge.

/>   I gulped down a breath, struggling to hold his gaze.

  Through the pulse of fear still pounding away, I heard something else, an ominous phrase repeating itself. It had come to me like a portent three days ago, a vague premonition murmuring in the recesses of my skull on my very first afternoon in Africa as I’d stood in the vastness of the bushveld soaking in all the fresh sights and sounds and smells—the tall grasses, the endless skies, the intoxicating wildlife, the perilous beauty all around me stretched out in every direction as far as the eye could see.

  A faint whisper on the wind had carried Africa’s message of warning to me, one I had failed to heed.

  This place will devour you.

  THREE DAYS BEFORE

  “Welcome to Johannesburg,” the flight attendant said over the loudspeaker while I tried to shake the feeling that I’d made a huge mistake. “Thank you for flying with us, and enjoy your stay in South Africa.” Her cheeriness and sunny voice were obscene at this hour. The seventeen-hour haul from JFK had put me on edge. I reached over and subtly pocketed a tiny bottle of vodka from her cart. I still had a long day ahead of me.

  It was barely dawn, Monday morning. Johannesburg was shrouded in a gray haze. From the small, round window I watched police officers sporting machine guns hustle across the tarmac. Drug-sniffing dogs searched piles of luggage for illicit cargo. Coils of razor wire topped security fences and compound walls just beyond the runway.

  This trip was bound to be a disaster, I feared, not the escape I desperately needed and had been dreaming about for weeks. I cursed myself for not thinking this whole thing through, for my impetuousness, which was uncharacteristic but lately starting to become a dangerous habit.

  “Have a nice time on holiday, ma’am,” the chipper flight attendant beamed at me.

  “Thank you,” I mouthed ever so slightly.

  I wanted to correct her, though. I wasn’t going on holiday, as in a leisurely vacation. I was going on safari, the Swahili word for “a faraway journey.” In my mind, there was a difference. For the next week, I would be staying at Mzansi Camp, a remote safari lodge located deep in the wilds of South Africa’s famous Kruger National Park. I knew almost nothing about the place except what I’d seen advertised in a glossy travel magazine. I wanted to be far away from home, as far as I could get, and I was going there alone.

  The red seatbelt light blinked out with a ding, our cue to start clutching at belongings, clawing through overhead bins, shuffling in a stiff-legged march down the long, overcrowded aisle. I squeezed past the still-grinning flight attendant. Barely surviving the gauntlet of immigration and customs and baggage claim amid the bustling activity of the jam-packed terminal—more machine guns, more dogs—I made my way outside the airport. The curb was swarming with people coming and going.

  In the unruly line of vehicles, I spotted a black SUV with darktinted windows. A square-jawed driver held a sign scrawled in black marker with the name “Anna Whitney.” At the sight of the SUV I felt a small measure of relief, but as I moved closer the words on the sign made my heart sink.

  My thoroughly Anglo name—Anna Whitney—emblazoned in bold, black ink, shouted like an accusation. Here was just another Western tourist, the sign howled, on some kind of faux pilgrimage to Africa. Going through a nasty divorce, another middle-aged sightseer in a wide-brimmed bush hat was looking for that little extra “something” to rejuvenate a sagging existence. Ah yes, a drone on a brief getaway from the grind, a little timeout from domestic troubles back home, here to snap a few selfies for the social media crowd while spending some good ol’ American money on an overpriced African safari.

  “Missus Whitney?”

  “Um, yes, that’s me. Ms. Whitney, actually.” Whitney was my maiden name. I had never taken Karl’s. “But you can just call me Anna.”

  Feeling unsure of myself and somehow unworthy of this driver’s time, not to mention being utterly exhausted but also concerned about my physical safety amid the pervasive unease of this chaotic place, I removed my Indiana Jones-style bush hat and settled into the back seat of the SUV for the long drive ahead.

  “Very good, Ms. Whitney,” the driver conceded partially. He placed my bags in the rear, then slid behind the wheel and readied himself for the drive. “Your first time in Africa, Ms. Whitney?”

  “Yes, I’m here on safari.” On the run, I could have said. Making a break for it. Heading for the hills. Lighting out for the Territory.

  “Ah, on safari, you say?” He eyed my new hat. “Very good.”

  “Kruger.”

  “Ah, Kruger is the best. What animals you hope to see?”

  I was so focused on my last-minute plans to get here that I had put little thought into this obvious question. “All of them . . . I guess?” My cheeks burned with embarrassment.

  “South Africa’s Big Five, eh? Elephant, rhino, lion, leopard, buffalo.” He counted them off on his fingers for me. “My favorite is the elephant—very, very smart.” He flicked a silver elephant pendant hanging from the rearview, giving it a little jingle. “Everyone has their favorite. You will have one too. You will see.”

  I tried to picture myself returning home with a big lavish tattoo of my newfound favorite animal splashed across a shoulder blade like one of the women at my health food store. Earth Goddess wasn’t exactly my look, but I wondered if I would be drawn to the ferocity of the lion, the gentle power of the elephant, or whatever the rhino were like.

  “You are very, very lucky, Ms. Whitney. There is no place like Africa.”

  No place like Africa. Yes, that was exactly what I felt in my bones. That was why I had come all this way, following that instinct. But what did I know?

  As he swung the SUV away from the curb and swept me from the confines of the airport, that mysterious three-syllable word—A-fri-ca—danced in my mind again. The word itself tapped into some deep subconscious well, releasing a flood of images all at once and in seeming contradiction. Africa: a land of vast expanses, teeming cities, white hunters, impoverished masses, natural beauty, gut-wrenching violence, baobabs, savannas, poachers, wildlife, businessmen, shamans, colonialism, corruption, lions, urch-ins, luxury, poverty.

  The word repeated in my head—Aaaa-fri-ca—until that wonderfully expansive short-vowel a sound mingled with the other two complementary sounds and produced an incantation that became unreal, dreamlike. After I had booked this trip and was in a slightly more rational frame of mind, I looked up the word on my phone in an effort to figure out the etymology. No conclusive answers about the name’s origin had appeared on the little screen, only a handful of questionable theories: the Phoenician word afar, meaning “dust”; the Latin aprica, “sunny”; the Greek aphrike, referring to “heat” and “horror.”

  Despite its unclear meaning, or perhaps because of it, an amorphous sense of promise—for me, for my life—resonated in this word that defied my attempts to define it. What could that little word Africa possibly mean to me, a forty-year-old white woman from America who had never laid eyes on Africa until now?

  It was a five-hour drive from Johannesburg to Nelspruit—Nelsprait, the driver pronounced it—a small town to the southeast and the last outpost near the western border of my final destination: the Mzansi Reserve. The expansive bushveld wilderness of Kruger—to be specific, the gigantic 150,000-acre Mzansi Reserve—was tucked into the greater Kruger National Park wilderness where the five-star Mzansi Camp awaited. The Mzansi Reserve was a private “game reserve” that shared a long contiguous border with Kruger—essentially an extension of the park itself—where bespoke safari lodges were permitted to operate.

  As the SUV plunged headlong into the helter-skelter traffic of Johannesburg, the reality of Africa continued its collision course with my escapist fantasies. Within the first few blocks we came to a stop at an intersection where a skeletally thin African man stood on the curb holding the hand of a runny-nosed girl. In his other hand he held a half-empty Coke bottle. The girl was wearing a dirty, tattered dress, some kind o
f secondhand frilly thing.

  Then the man looked over at the car, his eyes blazing as he scowled at me. Even through the tinted glass, I was positive he could see me. I slipped on my giant aviator sunglasses and slid instinctively lower on the soft cowhide seat. Perhaps I was feeling paranoid, but to me it seemed there was outright hostility in the man’s bloodshot eyes. The little girl was staring at me curiously too.

  “Oh, that poor girl.” Her squalid appearance was so upsetting. I was wilting under her innocent stare and the man’s hard gaze.

  The girl and the man began to recede from my view in a cloud of dust and exhaust when I felt a loud bang near my ear and heard a shattering of glass. The man had hurled the Coke bottle at the rear window, and the bottle exploded into a million pieces and cracked the window. A stream of brown, sticky Coke ran down the tinted glass.

  “Dammit,” the driver cursed, momentarily dropping his veneer of professional calm as he spun around to assess the damage, slightly swerving the SUV in the process. Then he quickly turned to face forward and resumed driving straight down the highway.

  The little incident left me feeling quite vulnerable, like an unwanted stranger.

  The SUV moved on through the urban haze, and I saw more images of a type of poverty generally unknown in America. We passed a sprawling settlement of doll-sized shacks sitting at odd angles and made of corrugated metal. The rusty, multicolored shacks were located just off the highway, connected in haphazard rows, seemingly thrown together without planning or forethought. I asked the driver what the place was called. “Township,” he said without elaboration. Children played in the street with a frayed soccer ball; women carried babies on their hips; undernourished men wore secondhand T-shirts, their skin covered in a shimmer of perspiration; members of both sexes heaving random bits of construction materials over their shoulders—big, messy spools of wire and piles of oddly shaped wood scraps and jagged sheets of plastic and metal. People walked along the hot, dusty edges of the highway, hauling small bundles of firewood to sell. Some were wandering, seemingly without destination, while others squatted on the ground and stared at the dirt.