“Okay,” she nodded, her eyes heavy. “I understand that all things are connected somehow, but where does the ‘magic’ of the marula come in. What is it about this special wine or potion you shared with me that makes it different from the wines I’ve drunk? You say I will see things through the eyes of animals and trees. What does this mean? Is this simply a stronger spirit, concoction, maybe? Does it get one drunk quicker than if one slowly sips on the usual marula wine?” She swallowed and looked around the camp, looking puzzled by the once familiar sights surrounding her. “My eyes, that’s funny,” she stopped, “my vision seems sharper. I’ve never noticed the veins running through the mopane’s leaves before. Not even in the daylight. Now, they are very distinct, like the blue veins in my hand rushing beneath my white skin.”
“Yes, they have always been there, the mopane’s veins. It is a living thing after all. It is alive,” he said. “You’ve never looked close enough.” “This may be true,” she agreed, “but it’s more than that. My senses feel keener, the sound of your voice seems stronger, as does mine. The once warm breeze now feels sharper against my skin. I see the mopane’s veins. I smelled an impala making its way down the riverbed. This sounds crazy, but I swear I detect the scent of a leopard nearby, perhaps making its way to the waterhole. Could this be true? Is this the secret of the marula? Why do I feel so acutely aware of everything around me? I can hear the blood pumping through my veins. My God, I can hear your heart beat…” she stopped and looked at him for a very long time. “Should I be afraid?” she asked. “Do not be afraid," he comforted.
His wife looked up from her lap, at the skipping flames of the braai, at the steam whistling from her kettle of lilies, then looked at her. “Don’t be afraid,” she whispered, speaking for the first time that evening. “Just listen very carefully to what he tells you and you will be fine. It is those who do not listen that never come back.”
She laughed nervously, taking in a deep breath and filling her lungs with the primordial scents of fur and bone and blood, leaf and withered soil. She smelled the dry grasses of the weaver bird nests dangling above her, could hear the tiny, hushed breaths of a bushbaby hiding in a tree cavity, not yet venturing out into the night. “I will listen,” she promised. “I will listen very carefully.” He cocked his head to the wind, listened closely and took a deep breath. “The leopard is very near. It is a young female who I first saw yesterday making her way toward the dam. She is very small and very lovely. Maybe two years. She is very close. You are right, I hear her walking towards the waterhole. One last drink perhaps, or she, too, smells our impala.”
He studied her face to make sure she was listening, as he knew she would, but wanted to be sure before all secrets were revealed and she ventured off, alone, into the night bush, into time immemorial. “The potion we have drunk will allow us to experience life as never before,” he stopped and locked his gaze into hers. “For twenty four hours, the lifespan of the baobab’s white blossom, we will have the miracle of experiencing the bushveld as the animal does, the tree does. As the animal’s senses are so much keener than our own, we too, will experience this miraculous change. As you have already witnessed, my friend. You now see and smell, hear and feel as the impala does, the elephant, the beautiful nightjar.”
“Later, and if you choose, you will live the night as a baobab or a bushwillow or the umbrella thorn. You will feel what the wild feels. You will feel the instinctual fear of all things hunted. You will feel the strength and hunger of those who must hunt, therefore tasting the warm meat and blood that offers you life, and as it flows from that whose life you have taken. You will stand tall as the giant nyala tree and witness the life and death drama about and beneath your limbs. You will look skyward and see the incredible silver and gold light cast by the moon and the stars and all the heavens before you. You will live the magic of the marula.”
He shifted his gaze to that of his wife, who nodded, indicating that the bredie was ready, the water lilies just tender. He skewered the blackened meat from the braai and piled it high onto an awaiting platter. The three of them formed a tight circle around the warmth of the flames and savored the juicy meat and smooth flavors of the stew. Hungry, no one spoke, but occasionally their eyes would meet and they’d nod at one another, approvingly, happily, and continue their feast. There were grilled sweet potatoes, too, and their lovely texture and honey-like flavor mixed well with the savory meat. “Kudu,” she spoke, finally, as she lifted another piece of the succulent game. “I’ve never eaten kudu, but I know that is what I’m eating. It is delicious, as is the stew. Thank you,” she smiled. He looked at his wife and they smiled at each other, eyes twinkling, and continued to eat.
Satiated, and ever aware of the euphony of night sounds around them, the high pitched shrieks of the nervous francolins, the flapping of moth wings against the glass of the lantern, they settled in closer to the fire still, and he continued his tale. “When I am through with this tale,” he started, “and we settle for the night, to sleep, the journey will begin. You will have control over most of the situations you will come across. If you think logically and never lose sight of who you really are, regardless of what animal form or tree form you have taken, you will never be in danger. You must be aware of your time limits. Remember, twenty-four hours only. The life of the blossom. In your mind’s eye, you will always see the time. If you do not return before the time has lapsed, you will remain as the lifeform of the animal whose body you are currently inhabiting. If you are the baobab when that time has lapsed, you will live the rest of your days as that benevolent giant. You will forget that you were ever once of human form.” She swallowed and nodded that she understood.
“But,” she questioned, hugging her sweater closer to her body, “if I am the duiker, the young impala, the scrub hare, those that are hunted, how will I not be in imminent danger from my predators?” She felt a rush of chills up and down her body, and shivered. His wife, as if sensing her increased sensitivity to the night air even before she had felt the onset of chills, handed her a steaming cup of rooibos tea to settle her nerves. “As I said,” he offered softly, “if you always remember who and what you are, no matter what animal’s body you have taken, you will be all right. You will have the awareness and instinct of that very animal and yet, you will also have the insight of the human. You will know what to do to survive. You have this incredible advantage over all those who are hunted. You will feel fear. You will feel that your life is in jeopardy. However, do not panic. Do what the duiker does, think as the human does. Remember this, too. Depending on what lifeform you have taken, do not always run from your stalker. If you run, you are instant prey. If you hold your ground, think, you will walk away unscathed.”
“I don’t know that I could live as the lion, the leopard, the cheetah or hyena,” she said quietly. “I would love to know how they feel, what they experience, but I’m not sure that I could take a life.” She looked into the soft apricot orange color of her tea and smelled deeply its aroma. “I know that’s hypocritical,” she whispered, “I’m just not sure I could do it.”
“The choice is yours, my friend. Tonight, we offered thanks and then feasted upon the succulent meat of the kudu. I don’t make any judgements against you. The choice is yours. It is a gift like no other. Experience as many lives or as few as you like. Get the most of each breath you take and every leaf or twig you browse. It is a miracle.”
The three looked up into the wide expanse of the African sky and squinted from the brightness of the many stars. A sudden gust of wind caused the mopane’s leaves to rustle and the handful of weaver bird nests to dangle and dance upon its fragile limbs. The awakened bushbaby darted from a darkened hollow and seemingly flew from the tree to the shadows of a neighboring bushwillow. The flames of the fire had diminished to a few sporadic pops of light and energy, then blackened.
“It is time,” he nodded. “May the benevolent spirits of the bush look after you. Be well, my friend,” he smiled. “I give you this gift as I know you will live it and respect it as I do. So for now, good night.” He bowed slightly, lifted his head and gave her a final smile with his glistening black eyes, then turned and walked away.
By the golden light of her lantern, she took one last look at the clock beside her bed. She marked the time in her head, blew out the flame, and closed her eyes.
* * * * * * *
I am very thirsty. It has been hot. Hotter than usual and the grasses are very dry. Most of the natural pools and rivulets have dried up due to lack of rain. We must travel quite far to find a waterhole. We have been browsing on abundant seedpods, not our favorite food, but since most of the herbs and shoots have dried and withered, the seedpods will do. Today, we spent many hours lying still beneath the shade of thorn trees. The biting sun has worn us and we are almost too tired to flick off the oxpecker birds which are intent on bothering us. Normally, I would let them have their way, foraging for tics around my ears and legs, but today, so hot, their weight and movements are too much to bear.
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