Night Wonder

In the tiny South African country of Katari, Dr. Michael Lugano, assistant minister of health, closed the manila folder on his desk with a sigh. The file, stamped, “Case Closed” in bold, black letters, would be placed in the dead records office along with the effects of ten women slain by “The Katari Ripper,” the brutal serial killer who had terrorized the nation. Rumors had been spread throughout Africa that the great leader of Katari, President Mozamba, had possessed the right magic to stop the murders.

Closing his briefcase and picking up his medical bag, Dr. Lugano strode wearily out of the government building and climbed into his jeep. After removing his white lab coat and hastily loosening his tie, he headed out of town. The doctor carefully flashed his badge and papers at the each of the checkpoints leading to the border. When the dirt roads changed into the beaten paths of tribal herds, he turned to the right and climbed steadily up the Hill of the Ghosts. The villagers believed these verdant ridges were home to spirits of the dead and therefore, sacred.

Dr. Lugano, who respected the superstitions of the herdsmen, fingered the talisman of feathers, beads, and lion claws on the leather strap around his neck. When a tall medicine man dressed in a brightly hued, feathered tunic and white face paint stopped him at the base of the third hill, the doctor bowed his head in respect, showing him the charm. The medicine man raised his arm and shouted a special incantation as he drove away.

Sweat poured down Lugano’s face as the late afternoon sun continued to beat down on the open jeep. At the base of a vertical escarpment, he stopped, turned off the engine, and started off on foot. Hastily removing his binoculars from its case, he scanned the trees and rocks until he found what he was looking for: the mouth of a small cave nearly hidden by thorny brambles. Taking a drink from his canteen, he climbed slowly up the mountain, carefully scanning the area.

The Hill of Ghosts, was not just a holy place, it was home to a pride of mountain lions that fiercely guarded their territory. The only human the feral animals feared was the man the doctor had come to see.

Before going any farther, Lugano removed a hand mirror from its leather pouch. Catching the sun’s reflection, he moved the mirror back and forth until the beam could be seen from the entrance to the cavern. When a flash of reflected light signaled in return, he knew it was safe to proceed.

Hiking up the side of the cliff was agonizingly slow and treacherous, but his sturdy walking stick, given to him by a tribal chieftain years ago, kept him from falling during his precarious ascent. Once near the apex, he wiped the sweat from his worry-lined face and took a long drink from the canteen. Pushing the brambles aside with gloved hands, he entered the dark recesses of the cave. It took several minutes for his eyes to adjust as he continued down the low, narrow tunnel to the right. His mouth creased into a grimace as he moved deeper and deeper into blackness, his back aching from its uncomfortable stooped position.

Finally, the tunnel opened into a larger cavern, illuminated by the small flame of a kerosene lamp. The man he sought sat in the gloom, surrounded by a sentient pride of lions reclining near his feet.

“It’s about time,” the man’s deep baritone echoed from the shadows.

Dr. Lugano waited nervously as the vigilant animals stared at him suspiciously with large yellow eyes. The hulking man rose and moved into the light. His dirty, disheveled clothes hung on his body in shreds. His ghostly white face, lined with deep creases, was enveloped by matted, wild hair. The beard on his chin and jaws had grown so long and shaggy that he resembled the mythical Yeti of Tibet.

Seeing the disturbed look on Lugano’s face, the tall man asked, “What did you expect? I’ve been living in the jungle for months. I ran out of supplies weeks ago. Fortunately, my feline comrades provided me with the first taste of their kill. Not what I prefer, but one has to eat.”