The Cunning

This is the second story written as mentioned before in the introduction to rEvolution. It was also inspired by nature programmes as was the former.

Also, I like big cats.

Flies buzzed in the wavering heat as the cat moved stealthily through the prickling undergrowth. Paws slipping silently over the ground it closed on it's prey until it came to the edge of it's cover, where it hunkered down; lean shoulder muscles moving fluidly under it's pelt, content to watch it's prey for the time being.

Totally unaware of the other that watched from further down wind, with something other than hunger.

Antelope grazed on, contented and in peace.

For a long time nothing happened. An insect landed on the cat's ear in the hope of a meal, but was swatted away. The other predator scanned the herd intently, looking for a good target. The predator even considered the big cat that lay almost invisible as a better option. Certainly it would slate the predators blood-lust better.

The only problem though would be to get it back to his lair, with his luck at the moment he would be pounced on as soon as he moved.

No. The big buck would have to do, better safe than sorry in the en -

Suddenly a gap opened up in the herd and a noisy newborn stumbled out.

It's mother looked up from her grazing.

The hunter followed the foal with his sight as it moved neared to the cat. It's mother, seeing danger began to bray, trotting after the errant youngster, getting the attention of the dominant male. He followed the female, nose in the air. The hunter grinned, thinking of Adams ruin as he centred the cross-hairs on the bucks forehead. One shot and it would be all over for lover boy.

He squeezed the trigger.

The herd ran one way and the big cat the other.

Shit. He missed.

Adrenaline flooded his system, making him feel ill. He reloaded his rifle, wondering all the time what had happened at that critical moment. Any other time before or after would have been fine, but it had to happen at the point when every sinew was on a knife point; when he was at his most vulnerable, sensitive to the slightest movement or sound. When stalking prey everything seems sharp. It was one of the reasons he hunted.

He locked the gun; lifting it to inspect the barrel, his smile widening. He remembered that the cat had jumped a fraction of a second before him. It had been spooked by something in the bush beside it, it was either that or the sight had been bumped as he was looking down it. A quick check told him that it had stayed perfectly still, his ego swelling.

Satisfied, he pushed himself up from his hunker, leg muscles, like the cats, moving smoothly as he rose. Muscles that cramped solid as a strange, yet familiar sensation slid an icy finger down his back. That sensation reminded him of the horror that he had witnessed as a child.

The man shook his head, clearing it of the old nightmares, and, getting back to the present he managed to place the sensations point of origin.

It was coming from behind him.

Slightly off to the right.

He turned slowly, his hand sliding down the gun, finger finding the trigger as he came full face to whatever was watching him.

He couldn't quite make out the features of the thing that stood there. It's skin was dark, native to the African sun, blending in with the shadow it concealed itself in. But he could tell from it;s general shape that it was a woman.

Her body cut an erotic curve from the light, dark hair cascading from the shadow that hid her head, to the small of her back.

Now, there was a thing of beauty. To hell with customs. He could easily find another way to get the body out of the country, as he had managed before using contacts in the illegal ivory trade, and of course, one less native woman, a poor native woman from a poor country that could make him rich. Finding a client for this would not be a problem as would be otherwise thought. He knew certain old millionaires whose tastes fitted with his idea perfectly.

As if sensing his thoughts the woman began moving away, hair and hips swaying hypnotically as she dissolved into the gloom.

He swore and started to follow her; more clumsily than he would normally have as he began to feel the clamminess around him thicken, a sure sign that there was water nearby, and sure enough he heard the faint trickle of a waterfall as he entered the gloom under the tree, where, after looking around for five minutes he admitted to himself that he had lost his quarry.

It had just vanished.

If he had been able to, now would have been the time to admit that he was beginning to get scared. He had heard of tales that the area was meant to be haunted by a spirit the natives called 'the Mayhol' (pronounced Mah-youl)

meaning quite literally 'The Cunning'.It was supposed to take the form of a beautiful woman with some sort of hideous deformity. A deformity that changed from account to account, this making the thing even more incredible, and to ones like the hunter; unbelievable. He would only believe something like this if he saw it with his own eyes, and even at that he knew that they could deceive him, as they had done some twenty years earlier....

He and his family had moved out to Africa when he was nine. Him, two parents and an older sister. His fathers friend had moved out the year before to start his own private zoo park. Gotten good at it. In fact things were so good he could hire the best vets in the world to make sure his investment stayed healthy, that he had called his friend one evening and invited him out to join him as a business partner, and chief vet.

So they had gone and lived with the old multi-millionaire in his big house, and a week later his sister Anna, was killed by a lioness.

Then she had walked into his room one night, with her half chewed head swinging by a thread of sinew to warn him of something. That something he did not remember, but he did remember wetting himself for the first and only time in his life

Twenty years was a long time though, and in the intervening years he had seen, and done a lot worse, overcoming all odds, white man pride over native superstition. And as far as the Cunning was concerned, no doubt some poor individual did exist that would give the natives their myth. He/she would be dead by now of course, dead as his sister was. But a story like that had it's uses. Poachers, for example, probably kept it circulating to keep nosy people out of the area. Besides, there had been no deformity that he had seen.

Calmed somewhat by his assessment of the situation, the man made his way deeper into the forest gloom, and eventually found her with back to him, lying on the far bank of a fast flowing stream.

For a moment he stood there, gazing at her. The magic of his surroundings and intent. She was truly beautiful. Before, he could only see the whole in the outline, now though he could see the whole detail of her form. Every sculpted ebony muscle encased in a satin skin, panther like in her femininity. Every darkly oiled hair that trailed luxuriously from the top of her head to the ground a soft delight.

She turned her head slightly and the spell broke.

He dived soundlessly into a nearby bush, landing on his forgotten rifle. He pulled his skinning knife from it's zebra skin scabbard while moving into a better pouncing position. Normally he would only skin his kills once they were dead, but this was an exception. Now he would give her his personal attention.

Flies buzzed in the heat of the clearing as the cat made it's way stealthily towards it's intent. It had not eaten in three days now, its stomach ached, the pain of starvation overcoming it's fear of the larger cat, that now lay asleep in it's den. Its latest kill was spread all around it, enticing the cat, tormenting it to the point of madness.

It had now came closer than before, the lighter detritus of the feeding now under it's nose. It nibbled at the bone, the sound of tearing meat loud in the stillness of the African heat, awakening the thing that lay beyond.

The cat grabbed it's prize and ran.