If cold, storms and cabin fever are getting you down this winter, open your Kindle copy of THE LION HUNTER for a little heat, dust and danger. This short story effortlessly propels the reader to a remote African safari lodge, where an English couple are enjoying a five-star honeymoon. They get chatting to an American medical man who is interested in big game and has quietly invested in a hunting trip.
Could the events portrayed occur? I've just read a true account of how people in Zambia believed a metal ring around a bird's leg must mean that the bird was connected with witchcraft. They also thought a black bird was connected with witchcraft. When a person working for a bird study group explained to them this was not the case and the ring had been placed by those studying migration patterns, schoolchildren rescued and released the next injured, ringed bird they found instead of harming it. We've also read many stories connecting poaching, hunting, terrorism and money. So I would have to say the tale by Daniel Pembrey could be all too likely.
Pembrey is a British author who has previously set stories in California, Luxembourg and the Netherlands, among other places; they usually involve crime and sometimes relate to quite recognisable contemporary situations. THE LION HUNTER is his first venture to Africa and he seems to have nailed this location too, from terrain to locals; and with predatory wildlife which comes all too close. Read it if you dare.
Andrew and Lavinia Riley are on their honeymoon at an
African game
lodge when they meet a Texan trophy hunter. Andrew, a
journalist,
senses a timely story about lion hunting, and engages a
local guide
to learn how the lions are tracked in this remote
borderland of north
Tanzania. Andrew finds lions, but his inquiries draw him
into a
different type of danger altogether β with local
tribesmen. Soon, his
only hope for survival lies in an unexpected source.
EXCERPT
Here is how The Lion Hunter starts:
He did have the look of a killer, now heβd alluded to it.
Jim Paterson was a tall man with close-cropped hair. His
physique was lean and wiry as opposed to muscular. He
still wore his green hunting vest; round the waist were
little loops for cartridges. Heβd said he was from
Houston, but there was no drawl, no Texas swagger. A
neurologist, heβd mentioned.
Clearly he had money.
βYouβre here to hunt a lion,β Andrew Riley confirmed.
Paterson smiled. βWas,β he corrected Andrew. The fine
wrinkles round his eyes remained immobile. βI leave
tomorrow.β His voice was deep, soft and laconic.
Andrewβs wife patted him wearily on the shoulder.
βDarling, we leave tomorrow, too,β Lavinia said. βIβm off
to bed.β
βWise words,β Paterson remarked, his gaze lifting to her
face. His eyes warmed, or maybe it was the reflected
amber of his whisky catching the flecks in his irises.
The safari lodge was candlelit.
Andrew turned to smile at Lavinia but sheβd already left,
her shapely rear retreating.
βFine creature,β Paterson said as his mouth disappeared
into his cut-glass tumbler.
Andrew bristled at his word choice. βWeβre on our
honeymoon,β he said.
βYeah, you mentioned.β
He pretended to ignore Paterson.
It was their last night at the world-renowned Three Trees
Lodge. He was savouring the experience, just as he
savoured the aftertaste of the whisky. It was a good,
distinctive single malt. A Lagavulin, if he wasnβt
mistaken.
The stars above were brilliant. Before them, trees massed
darkly. Three Trees Lodge was famous for the tree-
climbing leopards that inhabited this end of the park.
βAll legal, of course.β
For a moment, Andrew wondered what Paterson was talking
about. His wife was a lawyer. Itβs funny, he was still
getting used to calling her that. Wife. The word felt
odd, blunt. But Paterson wasnβt talking about Lavinia.
βAll the permits and paperwork are in order, in case
youβre curious,β Paterson was saying.
Andrew recalled that heβd told the Texan he wrote for The
Times.
βYou know that lion stocks have fallen eighty per cent
across Africa in the last couple of decades?β Andrew
said.
βWell . . .β Paterson was swirling his whisky, dissolving
the remaining ice, which tinkled. βTens of thousands
remain, so I doubt you can attribute much of the decline
to lilβ old me.β He made as though to leave, and smiled
again. His eyes almost did, too.
βDid you . . . find one?β Andrew asked.
Paterson was halfway out of his chair.
βYes,β he said, sighing contentedly. βShe really was
magnificent.β
He stood and gathered up his sunglasses and the book that
he was reading: a collection of Hemingwayβs short
stories, of course. No doubt a valuable edition.
βGoodnight,β he said. βAll the best for your onward
journey.β
βNight.β
Andrew sat for a few more moments, taking in the cool
night air. There was a hum of insects, and the sound of
swishing in the undergrowth. Strange woofing noises as
well.
He could have sworn there was another man present, but he
couldnβt see anybody. Perhaps it was one of the guides,
standing guard in case one of those leopards became
adventurous or just plain hungry.
Andrew drained his whisky and returned to his room and
his wife.
© 2003-2026