mane on its neck. He could smell its breath, hot and meaty, and feel where its teeth had pierced his arm and crushed the bone, although he was too afraid to feel any pain.
The lion was bumping his body back along the path, dragging him into the long grass.
As soon as it feels safe, hidden in the bush,
Pedru said to himself,
it will eat me
. Suddenly, he stopped feeling numb and started to be very angry. This lion was not going to put an end to him!
His stick, with the fish still tied to it, was gripped in his left hand. He swung it with all his strength and hit the lion hard on the head. He felt the blow strike, and when he looked at the lion, it had a cut between its ears. Pedru hit it again, and for a moment it looked right at him, its golden eyes hot like the sun. Then it snarled and ran away, and Pedru saw that it had taken his arm.
P edru woke up in the hospital. Or rather, outside the hospital on the porch in the back, because all the beds inside were full. Pedru’s father, Issa, was sitting beside him, fanning away the flies with an old newspaper.
“How did I get here?” Pedru asked.
His father smiled. “I put you on my back and cycled like a crazy man.”
It was ten miles over dirt roads from the village to the clinic at Madune. Even for Pedru’s father, the best hunter in the village, probably in all of Africa, this was quite a feat.
Issa put down the newspaper and placed his big hand on the top of Pedru’s head. “Now, my son,” he asked gently, “tell me, how do you feel?”
Issa had always told Pedru never to answer any question without thinking first. So Pedru thought hard about his answer. He turned his head and looked to his right. Where his arm had been was a bandaged stump, like a white stick, ending just above where the elbow had been. For a moment, Pedru’s head swam and he shut his eyes. But when he opened them again, the arm was still gone. It hurt badly where the doctor had sewn up the wound the lion had left, but Pedru knew that it would stop hurting in time. The other pain, however, would not go away so easily.
“I’m scared,” he told his father. “Scared that I won’t be myself anymore. I’ll just be the boy with one arm.” Pedru tried hard not to cry and went on: “And a boy with one arm can never be strong and be a hunter like you.”
Issa listened carefully, his brow a mass of creases as he took in Pedru’s words. It was a few moments before he spoke. “Pedru,” he said, “tell me what you can see and hear.”
“The holes in the roof,” Pedru answered. “Children crying. Grown-ups whispering.”
“No, not here in the clinic,” Issa said. “Out there.” Issa pointed beyond the porch to the patch of grass and trees where the town of Madune ended and the bush began again.
Pedru propped himself up on his good arm and looked and listened. He’d always been proud of his sharp eyes and ears, and Issa had taught him to know every bird and beast in the bush. It was a comfort now to look out into the trees and sky, so lovely in the first light of day. Pedru found that his eyes snatched up every detail, like a hungry guinea fowl pecking corn.
“There are five
barbaças
1 in the top of that dead tree, and a flock of
zombeteiros
2 in the tree next to it. There’s an eagle, too, far off. Just a speck in the sky. A fish eagle, I think.”
“Good!” said Issa. “Go on!”
Pedru shut his eyes and let the sounds trickle in, as clear as the first rains after the dry season: a mad, chattering, twittering sound and a low
kurru
,
kurru, kurru
.
“Palm swifts 3 and a turaco 4 calling,” he reported. And then he heard another sound — a sweet
si si si
almost too high for human ears. “And sunbirds. Sunbirds!” Pedru smiled and opened his eyes. His father was standing beside him.
“So,” Issa said, “the finest tools of the hunter, your eyes and your ears, are still working. Now, hold tight, Pedru.”
Issa scooped up the ends of Pedru’s sheet, like a hammock,
The lion was bumping his body back along the path, dragging him into the long grass.
As soon as it feels safe, hidden in the bush,
Pedru said to himself,
it will eat me
. Suddenly, he stopped feeling numb and started to be very angry. This lion was not going to put an end to him!
His stick, with the fish still tied to it, was gripped in his left hand. He swung it with all his strength and hit the lion hard on the head. He felt the blow strike, and when he looked at the lion, it had a cut between its ears. Pedru hit it again, and for a moment it looked right at him, its golden eyes hot like the sun. Then it snarled and ran away, and Pedru saw that it had taken his arm.
P edru woke up in the hospital. Or rather, outside the hospital on the porch in the back, because all the beds inside were full. Pedru’s father, Issa, was sitting beside him, fanning away the flies with an old newspaper.
“How did I get here?” Pedru asked.
His father smiled. “I put you on my back and cycled like a crazy man.”
It was ten miles over dirt roads from the village to the clinic at Madune. Even for Pedru’s father, the best hunter in the village, probably in all of Africa, this was quite a feat.
Issa put down the newspaper and placed his big hand on the top of Pedru’s head. “Now, my son,” he asked gently, “tell me, how do you feel?”
Issa had always told Pedru never to answer any question without thinking first. So Pedru thought hard about his answer. He turned his head and looked to his right. Where his arm had been was a bandaged stump, like a white stick, ending just above where the elbow had been. For a moment, Pedru’s head swam and he shut his eyes. But when he opened them again, the arm was still gone. It hurt badly where the doctor had sewn up the wound the lion had left, but Pedru knew that it would stop hurting in time. The other pain, however, would not go away so easily.
“I’m scared,” he told his father. “Scared that I won’t be myself anymore. I’ll just be the boy with one arm.” Pedru tried hard not to cry and went on: “And a boy with one arm can never be strong and be a hunter like you.”
Issa listened carefully, his brow a mass of creases as he took in Pedru’s words. It was a few moments before he spoke. “Pedru,” he said, “tell me what you can see and hear.”
“The holes in the roof,” Pedru answered. “Children crying. Grown-ups whispering.”
“No, not here in the clinic,” Issa said. “Out there.” Issa pointed beyond the porch to the patch of grass and trees where the town of Madune ended and the bush began again.
Pedru propped himself up on his good arm and looked and listened. He’d always been proud of his sharp eyes and ears, and Issa had taught him to know every bird and beast in the bush. It was a comfort now to look out into the trees and sky, so lovely in the first light of day. Pedru found that his eyes snatched up every detail, like a hungry guinea fowl pecking corn.
“There are five
barbaças
1 in the top of that dead tree, and a flock of
zombeteiros
2 in the tree next to it. There’s an eagle, too, far off. Just a speck in the sky. A fish eagle, I think.”
“Good!” said Issa. “Go on!”
Pedru shut his eyes and let the sounds trickle in, as clear as the first rains after the dry season: a mad, chattering, twittering sound and a low
kurru
,
kurru, kurru
.
“Palm swifts 3 and a turaco 4 calling,” he reported. And then he heard another sound — a sweet
si si si
almost too high for human ears. “And sunbirds. Sunbirds!” Pedru smiled and opened his eyes. His father was standing beside him.
“So,” Issa said, “the finest tools of the hunter, your eyes and your ears, are still working. Now, hold tight, Pedru.”
Issa scooped up the ends of Pedru’s sheet, like a hammock,
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