Black Mamba

Of course, Jack had seen a black mamba before. Once, he had seen one of the workers use a catapult to hit one square in the back of its dull grey head. He remembered the satisfying thwack as the stone extinguished its hopeful attempt to enter the farmstead. That sense of foreboding as Augustinus had prised open its jaws with a gnarled branch to show him the ebony gums lurking within, had haunted Jack since that day. Black mamba venom can kill you in less time than the average worker languishes at their desk on a mindless nine to five. One strike, and remember there is usually more than one, forget watching your favourite film one last time. First, comes the loss of speech. Then, you start to get sleepy. And then boom, suddenly, your time is up, and Monsieur Death will come to tuck you into bed.

The town of Grootfontein, or ‘Big Fountain,’ had been Jack’s home after the war. His humble farm stretched out over approximately six thousand hectares of parched Namibian soil. The cacophony of the shells had left Jack longing for as much stillness as possible, although he did not object to the resident cicadas mournfully chirping to remind him that he was not alone.

That day, Jack rose promptly at five. No need for even a cursory glance at his dusty and rust-ridden alarm clock. The frogs had already become more subdued, and the birds were starting to harmonise. He quickly donned his weathered safari shirt and khaki shorts which had been waiting patiently for him on the lonely wooden rocking chair sat miserably in the corner of the room. A quick splash of water over his creased face and Jack was ready for his daily expedition into the bush. Sensing that the time was approaching, Chippy alighted from his cushion by the window and with a pronounced yawn stretched out both legs as though to say, “Well then….”

Chippy was a bull terrier with a solid frame and a splash of brown across his snout. He had already known more years than had been fated. As a pup he had suffered from distemper. His nose had withered, his eyes had caked with pus, and he had writhed in the dust. Everyone had known it could be a killer and it had seemed inevitable that his time was up. But the locals had insisted on removing small chips of flesh from his neat little ears. Jack still remembered his screams from that day. When he recovered, the locals had said that their method had cured him, and Jack never liked to undermine their certainty. For him, it was just proof that Chippy was a tough little scrap.

It was the perfect morning for a walk. Not yet too scorching but still sufficient to raise hundreds of miniature gems of sweat which shimmered on Jack’s tanned neck. As the chipper pair set off into the veld, Jack strode forwards with a confidence that said that no manicured paths were required. With every twist and bend, the farmhouse became a distant memory. As usual, there was no breeze to fluster the sparse clumps of feynbos and long grass. As they walked past Jack’s favourite camelthorn, he caressed the bark. He took care not to trample any of the dark grey pods she had abandoned for the dry season.

Man, and dog continued marching into the wilderness. Jack hummed absent mindedly and occasionally paused to admire a twisted tendril of foliage or watch a hornbill flutter into the cobalt heavens.

In prior days he would have been more cautious, but years spent toasting under the Namibian sun had made him more complacent. He gave no thought to the abundant dangers posed to an elderly gentleman walking on his own. He might be engulfed into the jaws of a hippo lounging in the shallows of the water hole or be consumed by an opportunistic feline relaxing in the long grass. He was also increasingly forgetful, so one wrong turn could leave him stranded miles away from the sanctuary of the farmstead. The townspeople were fond of Jack, despite his prickliness, even more so these days. His loss of memory seemed to have softened even the most hardened of folk to look on him with kindness.

They had been walking for about an hour when Jack paused to catch his breath. As Jack rotated his arms upwards and inhaled deeply, the creature surveyed Jack with cool disdain. The wretched beast was at least one and a half meters long and looked like a shimmering lead pipe on that blistering day. Before Jack even had the chance to blink, the scaly serpent rose silently and embraced his calf. In his army days he had been agile, but the suddenness of the liaison with the mamba caused him to stumble. Before he knew it, he was hurtling at top speed into the earth.

The abandoned well had long been forgotten.

Jack’s body smashed into the earth with almost as much force as those blasted shells that had taken so many of his friends. The crimson dust flew up around him enveloping him in a cloud of chalky fog. As it settled over his body, the gloom overtook him. Anyone looking down the well would surely be blind to his existence. The sheer force extracted every ounce of wind from Jack. It felt as if a crash of rhino had careered full pelt into his core. He gasped and spluttered, but every breath sucked more of the dense fog deeper into his lungs. With a tremendous cough, Jack succeeded in preventing the dirt from making itself too comfortable inside him.

Jack tentatively raised himself to a seated position to survey his new home. As he scraped the muck from his lashes, his opal eyes began to acclimatise to the new lighting conditions. The well was just wide enough to accomodate Jack’s body. Rows of irregularly shaped stones snaked upward towards the entrance which sneered hazily at him from many meters above. The object which at one time would have afforded Jack a means of escape, was now coiled in a frayed heap next to Jack. What possible hope could he enjoy now?

A desperate whine echoed down to where Jack sat. Of course, he wasn’t alone after all. Perhaps Chippy could fetch help. He chuckled at the absurdity, even as he thought it. As if to confirm his suspicions, he heard Chippy dash off miles above him.

“Probably saw a buck…. stupid mutt” Jack said bitterly to himself.

Jack scratched and grappled with the sides of his prison as he rose to his feet. He knew that the venom was mingling ever more quickly with his blood, becoming one. With every passing second, he could picture the heady concoction seeping into the darkest crevices of his being. The numbness had already started to creep up his thigh. He grasped two appealing rocks above him and tried to wrestle himself upward. As his fingernails snagged ever more furiously on the jagged stone and increasing layers of dust caked his arthritic hands, he wondered how much longer he would even be able to stand. The minutes continued to decay as Jack slipped back to the ground.

How long would it take another human to find him? Would they even be able to identify him if they did? He could lie there for years before an adventurer discovered his parched skeleton still waiting hopefully in the ground. Even if the venom didn’t overwhelm him, the heat surely would.

Jack heard a faint scuffle far above. Unfortunately, Jack didn’t have sufficient energy to respond. It was probably just his mind playing tricks on him. But then, that unmistakeable bark hollered merrily down to him. Relief flooded through him. He looked up through the murky periscope. “Mr Jack!” a voice shouted down. Perhaps Jack had some more time after all.