on safari with hunter - part one
Extracts from the personal journals and recordings of Phillius Joyce;
being in the way of a rude account of my ventures to the heartland and my exploits therein.
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15 at the drift .
“Yes, of course I understand, that's perfectly fine - no just the usual, I’ll be through the cloud layer again shortly. Of course not lad, it's perfectly alright, keep your chin up and your powder dry as they say what? Ha ha ha.”
These youngsters, voices in the aether, it’s always the same; worry, worry, worry. You’d scarce believe the ambition, their dreams - to be such as me and to live this life; to do… this.
The small arrow of the transport as it pierces the gray-green mists and noses toward the meridian, toward the equator, a smooth passage, tracking nicely.
Ha! For so they like to imagine - of course up close in the rattling skeleton of metal and canvas and among the juddering pieces of equipment, the patched but bursting leather seat and the wind whipping in through claw-like tears in the fuselage - well...
Let's just say it sorts the men from the boys eh?
Cracklings from the audio scanner.
But I do wonder, was I as callow as a youngster? I do not believe so, no. No, grew up quick - had to, we all did back then - 'fraid I was sort of a wrong-un by some accounts I've read. It's true I was something of a smuggler, bit of a glory hunter too. Not anymore - still hunting of course, but glory? Young man's game. My game is more dangerous - more real. AND more useful I hope.
Still got an eye for the ladies of course, ha ha!
Hot clouds, steam, choking the cockpit, a hard slam on the left side - a precarious moment, a threatening sound from the main engine.
"Don't you bloody dare!"
A smooth movement easing the fuel mix, tweaking the power regulator.
"Never stalled yet - but there's always a first time... Just don't let the bird know it, that's the secret."
And in a smarting flare of colour the craft was through the cloud and diving fast towards the interior, towards the ground.
"Up you devil UP!"
Slowly, sulkily, the nose of the plane tilted upwards coquettishly and the craft levelled into a powered glide above the humid mass of jungle and swamp. There, gleaming in the midst of the tropical carpet was the flat pad of the landing port the runway pad extended like a hand. Gently now I brought the plane into a slow and circling descent.
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15 at the landing port.
Clambering down the spiralling iron and into the plexi-met of the port itself was, I will admit, somewhat eerie; a low and mild wind outside rang more ghoulish as it shrilled across so much bare metal and many a vent or tube. There were fronds of jungle life bursting out from the ceilings and wild grass and flowers breaking up through the cracks in the floor. Most of the consoles and desks had sticky moss covering them and making the air smell of unwholesome mould.
What made everything seem so fantastical and unsettling was the strong impression that I was standing in the very cradle of the world. This egg had hatched and history and nature had been brought forth in all their eager raving. Naturally, (no pun intended) there was a solid basis for this since the splintered side of the port let in both air and light and it was toward this that the undergrowth stretched. The rippling exodus of root, vine and branch was therefore the same as mine.
Kicking a jagged piece of metal plating away I leaned out from the towering structure and gazed at the impressive but ominous shrieking green spread beneath me before securing myself and abseiling down.
Busy though I was with attaching my clamps and grabs it was impossible to ignore the throbbing life of the tropics around me. The hoots and screeches and clicks filled my ears with a bedlam of disorganised sound.
It took real effort not to spin on the rope and glare back at the angry sounding jungle but I concentrated on the task in hand, consoling myself with the knowledge that I would return and face the interior myself later. Having descended the requisite number of levels (I did not trust the lift shafts and deep stairs inside) I bumped unceremoniously off the pale skin of the structure and with momentum on my side kicked through a hatch and into the fuelling point.
To my delight, amongst the untamed ruinations of nature I nonetheless found four unspoilt barrels of fuel and a sealed solar panel to replace the one cracked on the planes portside wing. Dragging the barrels over to the window I siphoned what I could into my portable tanks and began the arduous process of taking the fuel in portions up to my craft.
Arduous and slow indeed and I shall not bore myself with the recounting. Suffice to say that I was ready to continue my voyage on to veldt where I aimed to begin my mission.
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16 upon the veldt.
The flight was easy in comparison to planetfall, which was to be expected. Although there was occasional turbulence as I moved from the thundery jungle edge to the calm of the rolling savannah. I noted well the air pressure and the time; for a journey back might risk such tension erupting into an electrical storm such as could cripple my transport in moments.
In any event it was pleasant to survey the plains and low hills below and to feel the air stirring freshly once more after the humid constriction of the port. Some might disparage such a landscape as featureless but to an experienced scout like myself, (and with a noted gift for such things) I found the layers of grass and the curious formations of the hillocks fascinating. The landscape utterly alien nevertheless struck some resonant chord in me, as perhaps it might with any venturesome hunter or explorer, a queer feeling akin to déjà-vu.
I have decided to describe this in more detail at a later more comfortable juncture, indeed I should take an opportunity to organise the jottings into a more cohesive narrative, lest I try the patience of my readership. I suppose if I were better at such things, (as indeed I am not, being instead well reported as simultaneously both eccentrically garrulous and socially withdrawn and awkward), then I shouldn't be here in the first place but rather setting the court ablaze with the fiery telling of my exploits.
It was approaching dusk as I spotted a strong candidate for secure landing spot and was down in a trice to set up camp and to rest my weary frame for the remainder of the eve.
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17 at the veldt.
Early morning, the sun up for approximately two hours, so ‘10.00’ by the standard cycle, nothing stirring, took the opportunity to lounge in the shade of the lee and catch up on my journal reading and self improvement. Just to prove that I am not as removed from the petty concerns of life as I might you suppose; I was taken by the latest line of Clarkwell coats, suitable for a gentleman yet light and durable. Perhaps I will treat myself to one upon my return. Ah, in days gone by of course I would simply have arrived at the trading station and slammed down a couple of pelts, eye-balled the cove behind the counter, (their mask of indifference failing completely to fool me, I would see the gleam of appreciation at once) and received a coat and sundry equipment immediately.
Not really needed here I know, but I’m a chap that likes to plan ahead and I’ve a yen for the bare mountains of the west, a coat such as Clarkwells would come in handy for just such a trip.
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Hard to believe, as one examines the endless plains, that merely a short distance away the stillness is wiped away and by the teeming morass of the jungle interior, peaceful is not often a word that springs to my mind (as you can well imagine) man of action that I am, but peaceful it certainly is.
Appearance can be deceptive, as I have earlier remarked, and I’ve a shrewd eye for such things. Tempting though it may be to lie out in the long grass and wait simply to pounce nonetheless it would be a foolish and lethal thing to do. There are waves of shred-ants out there as can strip an idle hunter to the quick and in a blink at that. No, much better to remain here on the high ground, austere it may be but I am comfortable enough with such things. After all, the Western mountains will be far less hospitable than these sheltering rocks.
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Early afternoon with my patience beginning to wear and I saw the first raptor pop its head up like a rabbit, head poking out from the tall grass. First one and then another and further off a definite formation of others, flocking in the typical arrow head pattern.
Well, my Webley has been sleeping longer than I these past few days and it fair leapt into my glad hands. The finder is a good one and peering down through the scope I could the things clearly, marking their movements as they began a slow build up to an inevitable sweep.
Would they attack? I would not give the buggers a chance.
The roar of my first shot sent a bird of some sort screeching off from behind me and caused the line of raptors to pause quivering and blinking slowly as they regarded the spot previously occupied by their scout and containing now nothing but singed grass and smoking raptor remains, there was a brief flurry as some of the motor parts stuttered and jerked but then with a hiss and a pop they too exploded and lay silent among the dead raptor’s broken cogs and diodes.
Bull’s-eye! My finger was steady on the trigger and my eye narrowed to a hard point as I eagerly awaited the advance of its comrades.
………………….. end of pt one