It had been long dark when the hunter and the PH arrived at their camp. Poor patrick had been awakened out of a soft bed next to his wife more than 3 hours ago. In the dark he climbed onto the truck. It was cold that night and he shivered during the drive.
The lights of the camp came on when the sounds of the truck groaned through the still night. The camp was out to greet the new hunter, but it was very late. Sunup would come soon and everyone needed that extra 2 or 3 hours of sleep.
When the sun came over the horizon of the old volcanic crater it lighted the camp. Despite that the old hunter lay asleep. After all it had only been 3 hours since his arrival. The young PH also slept. He had had a very long day, driving almost 15 hours. The sun however would not let up. It demanded that all under it awaken. First came patrick. His jobs in the camp were many and he attended them wll. He woke the PH offering him either breakfast or lunch. Such was the time of day.
After attending to his duties, the PH sent patrick to wake the old hunter. It was a hard job to struggle out of the bed, but after all it was Africe and time to get on with it. Each year the old hunter faced similar days. Mother Africa had called to him again this year, just like she had the several before.
Their quarry this time was a ghost. A ghost that lived in a swamp located in the center of an old volcanic crated in northern Zambia. It was a rare ghost they sought. This ghost live in the high payparus. Both knew that the hunt would probably be long and hard, after ghosts are not easily seen.
Breakfast was spectacular. The huge omlet rivaled anything the finest restaurant would offer. The young PH had a job to do. The boat that would take them into the waters of the swamp had leaked badly the last time. He had brought the mending supplies and left camp to pick up the boat and bring it back for repairs.
The old hunter waited. The sounds were familiar. The ever present doves, the baboons, the small birds, all welcomed him back. It was all part of moth africas scheme to make sure he was welcome and would come back again.
Mid afternoon came and the PH was back. The grinding gears of the truck proceeded him as the truck made it up the wall of the volcano into camp. He was excited as he lept out of the truck. Get you rifle, get you gear it shouted to the old hunter. While loading the boat he had seen an apparition. A ghost in the swamp.
Not knowing he could move so quickly anymore the old hunter loaded his things in the truck and they were on their way. Down the side of the crater, across the mud flats made bumpy by worms they went. It was several miles across, the old crater. On the way the crown cranes danced, the snake eagles floated in the air, and the huge spur winged geese cried out as they flew over the swamp. The heat of the midday sun had not relinquished its power yet.
as they eased the truck as near to the swamp as they could the trackers started to peer through the binoculars. The reeds rose high, To high to see anything the old hunter thought. But no, it wasn't. One of the trackers standing on to of the truck had seen something that was different. Something spiral in straight lines of the reeds. Only the tip shown, but it was there to been seen. Perhaps just a stick, and perhaps not. It deserved further study, until it moved. The spiral was on the other side of the swamp. A boat would be useless, and the truck could not traverse the ground to the other side.
The young PH studied the sight. It was a big spiral horn, and next to it was a second. The pair forming a perfect lyre. The ghost was seen, but how could it be gotten close to. A machan was across the swamp, but it was to late for that, to far away. No it had to be through the swamp.
It had only worked for the PH once before. A stalk through the swamp. Ghosts were much to clever for that, But maybe, just maybe. He asked the old hunter if he was up to it. A gleam in his eyes told the story. Though the years were creeping up, he was still able and willing.
They shed their Boots, their gear belts and anything else that would hinder travel. As they waded into the water the unknown crept into their minds. Were there hippos there? crocodiles? what unseen things lurked in the water. The surface of the water was green with plant growth, but under that growth it was clear and cool. They made their way into the reeds slowly, trying to be quiet, to become one with the swamp. Ghosts can notice things that are not supposed to be there. The botton of the swamp was slippery with mud and plant decay and hippo dung. One step at a time. For what seemed like hours they crept through the tangle of reeds. Then there was an opening. FInally they could see beyond their hands. The opening was narrow and not deep. At the ends they could see a female, feeding, her head down. Had see seen them?? If so she did not take notice. Where was the ghost? He had been around this place, but where was he now. Then the spiral horn appeared. Still well back in the reeds, but moving. Moving closer. Very slowly the pair moved to the edge of the reeds. The water was over waist deep and they were out of cover, but the horns kept moving closer. There was a small notch in the reeds, and as suddenly as life itself, the head of the ghost appeared. The PH had given the old hunter a strange set of shooting sticks. These were made of aluminum and felt odd in his hands. After all shooting sticks were made of mopane, not aluminum.
The ghost moved ever so slowly into the notch. At long last his chest was visible. It was visable, but the magnificent set of lyre shaped spiral horns drew their attention. A perfect set, Long and even. THe old hunter raised his rifle onto the aluminum sticks. They were to short, he was to short, they needed to be just a few inches taller. Holding the sticks together in one hand and raising himself up on his toes the ghost came into view. The sights of the rifle fell onto the partially visable chest and it seemed to go off on its own accord. The rifle wasnit a new one, Older like the hunter it was, and the cartridge had been around for longer than both of them. Over 100 years old and the bullet it spewed was half that. The ghost lept into the air. Propelled on huge splayed feet that walked on the water. High into the air. As he came back down the rifle spoke with the second barrel. The first shot had hit the heart, and the second the spine. The ghost was indeed, now a ghost.
It was another 100 yards across the open water to where he lay. It was luck that the second shot had hit the spine. If it had not the ghost would be very hard to find. There are no blood trails in the water. No open area to see in the reeds.
It took the better portion of a nhour for the track back across the swamp. The group followed the hippo trails. The water was deeper, but the footing more solid. Across the reeds, and finally to dry land. It was a time of triumph. They had met their quarry on its terms and conquered.
The trip back to camp was gleeful. Laughter abounded, and as the group neared the camp songs echoed through the night air. The camp was alive with anticipation. The singing was a sign, a sign of luck, a sign of gods gifts of life to all
The mopane fire was on the edge of camp. The sundowner tasted of ambrosia. So did the next one.
The evening dinner was another masterpiece. Eland medallions, soft gravy, fresh vegetables in cream sauce.
It was late, and the old hunter laid in his bed. His wife next to him. She had stayed by the truck that day. Watching and watching. Now it was the time of peace. A smile crossed his face. That of a deed well done. The ghost of the swamp was his. The legend of the sitatunga was true. It was a ghost of the swamp. His rifle had spoken true, the ghost had died quickly as it should be. Tomorrow was another day

As it should be.

Very well done!

Yes my Butchloc my friend, TVR can findem eh?