Fire and the Rat

The rat arrives in South Africa, finds himself in a large Metropolis, teeming with people. Finding his luggage, he marches off; complacent, cold, arrogant, sure of himself. Arriving home, he greets his family. Then, he is off to business, as usual.

Days quickly pass, there is no past for this man. He lives totally in the present, emotionless. He is successful, hardworking, sane. Some might find him to be attractive.

The time for a vacation arrives. He decides to go hunting. Rhino hunting is his passion. The Rhino is a protected species. He likes the thrill of poaching, illegal though it is.

He prepares for a good hunt packing; elephant-rhino bore bullets, food, a guide, gear for roughing it.

He collects the guide. They head out into the open plains country to check out his ammo. He tests it on the gentle antelope, easy prey. He leaves what's left of them to rot - scornful of the meat. The Hyenas relish his leavings.

The guide and he search for the trail of the Rhino, it is difficult to find. They have the minimal provisions for their needs. They stop after a number of hours to make camp.

A certain pace is set for each day, carefully followed. The Rhino spoor has not been found, usually it roams these plains. They stop to eat the evening meal, then settle down. Night falls quickly. The hunter dozes off. The guide who has been observing his companion, hiding his revulsion silently slips into the night.

Sometime later, much later, the night sounds penetrate the consciousness of the sleeper, who awakens. Glancing around the camp, the moonlight glints off eyes gazing at him through the tall, dry grass. He banks up the fire, and chalks up the loss of his guide as just another of life's grim realities. Settling down, he drifts off to sleep again.

The camp is out in a plains area, with trees sparsely covering the ground. Tall dry grasses, yellowed from the drought wave in the breeze.

The hunter awakens, hungry, gritty face bristling with beard, sweating in the heat of early morning on this plain. Breakfast; a hot cup of coffee.......His groggy-minded attempts to put together a cooking fire are unsuccessful. He's a purist, a non-smoker. A cup of coffee would taste so good. Finally he ignites a fire prepares a meager breakfast. He carefully prepares a cup of coffee from the hoard of expensive coffee he bought in downtown Botswana while the starving natives are beaten in the streets by the enforcing bullies owned by the government. What robust coffee, refined, unlike him! Water from his supply poured into the much used coffee pot , boiled on the fire.

A sound alerts his ears, he turns and in that moment a breeze stirs up, whips the fire, sparks fly into the tall dry grass nearby. A few barren trees, their branches broken, sweep the ground, the leaves are dry , curled. The dry grass hungrily feeds the fire. Smoldering at first, unseen to the eye.

The man makes sure his cook fire is totally out, packs up and leaves.

The fire in the grass grows stronger. The breeze is gentle, nurtures it quietly. Time passes. The fire is growing stronger feeding well on the dry grass quietly spreading. It's a very large plain, no water nearby. The air, hot even at this early hour carries in it the strong scent of the grass, the dry earth, animal spoor. The only sound is the sound of boots crunching, rippling the tall yellow grass. The dried tops scratch his legs.

The fire blazes up. The wind fueling it faster starts it to smoke. A moving wave of flame starts rolling across this barren land. The wind shifts, the smoke is carried on it.....

Startled, the hunter turns and sees white smoke. He glances around, sees miles and miles of dried tall yellow grass, some barren dying trees, nothing else. The smoke is light in color. The trees nearby are curled, awaiting.......

The man inwardly has a desire to increase his pace, yet rationally knows it's useless. He turns and continues on in the decided path. He is traveling light, a few items in his pack. His heavy gage rifle, ammo, and a canteen.

The wind shifts once more, finds the growing fire, playfully sends the remains of his cook fire; seems he missed a few smoldering embers with his big heavy boots. The sparks happily jump and join with the fire spreading and consuming the tall grass. The flames catch hold of the savanna, firing up. The wind pushes them on. Slowly, they march after him. The fire beyond the trees consumes the plain.

The grasses gladly sacrifice their energy to this fiery avenger.The fire twists and turns, hunger growing. The wind keeps the fire moving. The hissing of the flames grows stronger. The hunter becomes aware of a new sound behind him, his stomach knots. The flames curl and wave. The wind pushes them onward. The yellows, oranges, reds and greens of the flames are greener near the center. The happy flames march on.

The wind, the sun are hot, and high in the sky. The sky hazing with white and grey smoke. Red, the plain is red. The sun is redder still. Strange, it's usually gold this time of day. The fire is seeking the intruder, who marches on.

The trees curled and dry. Their broken, leaved branches hugging the ground, wait...............The fire finds them and they cry not. Death already had claimed them. They welcome the fire, join with it. The flames race up. The wind lifts the fire, it jumps to the next group of waiting trees.

The hunter hears a rush and a roar; his squinting eyes catch the edge of the fire. In knotted terror he turns..........behind him a field of fire, before him trees in clumps curled, awaiting. He panics, and starts running, the fire hotly burning rushes in waves. The roaring starts, his ears are consumed by the sound. The heat is increasing, he lifts his canteen, warm to the touch, gulps what remains.

The field behind him is spreading, running here, there, smoothly growing. The sky is darkening as the trees are consumed. The sun rising higher, redder, sees the man alone on the plain. This man who left torn bleeding hearts, hearts that had once loved him, to die a death, a death he was indifferent to, left
them alone in their aloneness forgotten as he lived his own life unthinking, heedless, uncaring. Unable to hear their cries, cries of the ones who loved him.

The sun so red above him darkens.

His reason returns, he slows down, marches slowly, cold, fearless as before. Looking like a man yet not. A pitiful being, he. Never once joining his brothers, never able to let his gentler side show; least of all with his fellow man, never with a woman. Not even when he is alone. Always strong, never able to show
emotion, tears........

Who is he really hunting, desiring to kill?

He looks up sees the dark red sun, feels the searing wind. His hair is hot on his head, sweat is pouring down his face, his arms, his legs. He longs for coolness, a place of respite. The smoke hazes the sky becoming denser, his nostrils once more smell the approaching doom, no time no time, to seek a refuge. He sees ahead as he slowly struggles on a dip in the land. Sensing escape moves toward it. He marches faster. The fire, slowed by the wind, yet growing, growls.

The glare of the fire rises higher. The bank of trees to the right await. The day grows darker red. The sun boils crimson, dark around the edges. The trees, the flames racing higher and higher. The wind lifts the fire, the fire lands, consumes the curled, twisted trees. The bank far off glistens with a stream of water.

The hungry lions, lazy with the warmth of the day, doze, their stomachs empty, their sides thin, their coats shaggy, their cubs crying for food. The lioness waits, her pride needs her strength. There is no prey in sight.

The fleeing man hears a rush of wind and flames. The fire, so hot pushes him forward, he thirsts now and fears. The canteen is empty, useless, his boots bind his feet. He turns as the heat increases, looks, sees the rising fire; higher than he is pouring after him.

The day is cruel with redness. South Africa, his home has turned against him.