The day was hot, and the sun almost overhead. Francis had not gone very far before he was sweating, and he was grateful for the large bottle of water that Alice had packed. He now noticed something else at the bottom of the rucksack: a bottle of sunscreen and a hastily scrawled note.

Put this on. If you return as red as a beetroot, it might draw unwelcome attention.

Francis did as his sister's note suggested, smiling and making a mental note to do something nice for her. Never mind arousing suspicion, he thought. On a day like today, one could end up cooked alive.

He walked on. He had to restrain himself not to break into a run, because every moment that he spent away from home, was another moment in which their plans might be uncovered. But he also realized that now was not the time to panic, and there was no point ending up with heatstroke.

I also need to be on the lookout, he thought. Who knows where those poachers might be, not to mention Frank Mabuza. He did not want to run into either of them now.

Below him he could see the riverine bush, and he sadly thought at how pleasant their first trip along this path was. That seemed like ages ago now. The path was still covered in the tracks of all the policemen that went this way just two nights ago, trying to get to poachers who, unbeknownst to them, Frank Mabuza had been protecting.

So he led them down this same path, Francis thought. And then to where? Wherever it was, it was away from the poachers. He wondered just how much contact with them Mabuza might have.

I haven't seen Frank at all in a while, he thought. Could he be around here, perhaps even hiding out with them? The thought made him decidedly uncomfortable, especially now that he was in dense bush and couldn't see more than a few metres around him.

Nothing to do but to continue. He reached the large pool where they had taken a rest last time, and then went on towards the ford. Around him, the bush was quiet in the intense midday heat. Not a breeze stirred, and apart from the mournful call of a wood dove, and the buzzing of cicadas, everything was quiet.

Rivulets of sweat poured down his face, cutting clean swathes in a layer of dust. At the ford across the river, he briefly halted and splashed water across his face. Then he took off his T-shirt, dipped it in the river and put it on again. It brought brief relief. He rested a while, then crossed the river and took to the path again. He couldn't see the tracks of the policemen any more. He wondered where Mabuza had led them to. They did after all find the poacher camp, and took all those hides.

As he emerged from the area of the river, it became slightly cooler, but there was still not a breeze to bring any relief from the heat, or the swarms of mopane bees trying to get into his eyes and nose.

It is strange, he thought. Last time when we walked this route, it was almost as hot as today, but it didn't feel that way. Today that sense of adventure and holiday spirit was missing. He was tired and lonely. But he was also determined that he would do what he had set out to do.

Somewhere off to his front and right, he could hear the flapping of some very large bird taking to the air. He paused briefly, looking up into the air to see what it was. He wished Alice was with him. She would have been interested in such a large bird.

Bird? What a minute, he thought. That didn't really sound like wings at all, and nothing emerged from the bush into the air either. What could this be? Thoughts of poachers and automatic rifles occurred to him. He crouched down and remained quiet for a while. Was that perhaps a tent being shaken out? He couldn't place the sound. It was unlike anything he knew.

After a few long minutes, he slowly got up. Looking intently at the area from which he had heard the sound, he inched forward. Nothing but a thick stand of trees. He relaxed a bit and walked normally.

Then again: flap-flap! He froze, now both alarmed and curious. Was that a wisp of dust he could see from that stand of trees? Were the poachers here, perhaps shaking out their tent or some dusty hides? But surely he would have heard them talking?

He turned from the path and crept forward towards the place from where he had heard the strange sound. Only a few metres more, he thought, just amongst those trees. But when he peered around a bush towards the stand of trees, he still couldn't see anything.

It was as quiet as the grave. Even the wood dove had stopped its calling.

Then pandemonium broke loose. From right beside him, he once again heard the flapping, this time sounding as loud as a firecracker. Simultaneous with it, a high-pitched, trumpeting shriek that he could feel vibrating into his bones, and seemed to cut through his whole head.

He froze for a brief moment, half crouching and looking to his right.

He began to see everything through the same strange, slow-motion blur that overcame him the day when the armed poacher approached them, his gun at the ready. Huge, grey pillars of skin and muscle, and towering above, a massive, shaking head and flapping ears. A flank like a mountainside, covered in brown dust and streaks of blood.

The elephant, he thought. The wounded elephant we saw from the hill that day!

Then he thought no more. He turned around and ran, in blind panic. In some part of his mind, he knew it was not a good idea to run from wild animals. But he doubted whether standing still was going to do him much good in this case, and he was beyond caring.

He had to run around the small trees that grew in dense stands here. His pursuer did not. Behind him, he could hear the enraged, wounded elephant trumpeting insults, and seemingly effortlessly crashing through all obstacles.

He knew that elephants, for all their ungainly looks, can in fact easily outrun a human. His only hope was that this particular one's wounds would somehow slow it down. He veered slightly towards his left, running as fast as his legs could carry him in the direction of the hill. If he could get up and in between all the large boulders, no elephant would be able to follow him.

It was not very far any more, but he could still hear the huge bull gaining on him. He did not look back. Running into a tree or boulder because he wasn't looking where he was going would be fatal now.

The ground was beginning to shake below him. He burst through some bushes, thorns clawing at his face and ripping through his shirt. Then he was running up a steep incline. The hill! He thought. I have made it! He did not pause, but kept right on running, scrambling over jagged rock, pulling himself up on branches of fig trees.

At last he stopped, close to the broad rock on which they had been sitting when they heard the gunshot that day. He looked back. Below him he could see the elephant, its trunk stretched upward in its fury, uttering ear-splitting trumpet blasts. But it was almost spent. Its flanks were heaving in exhaustion, and the running had torn open its wounds again. It seemed to be losing rivers of blood.

Francis sat down on a rock, and began to helplessly laugh in delayed shock. He sat for a long time, giggling and feeling faint and nauseous all at once.

Then he got up and started to move towards higher ground. Whether he would get through to anyone, he did not know, and how he was going to get back home with an enraged, wounded elephant patrolling the area below him, he did not know either. But there was nothing to do now but to complete his mission.

Right at the top of the hill, on a large, rounded block of granite, he crouched down. He could see the house from here, and worried he might be just as clearly visible.

Well, nothing much to do about that now, he thought, and took out his cell phone.

There was no signal. It was all in vain.

He was just about to put it back in its pouch, when the signal indicator briefly came to life. Just possibly, he might get through. He hastily dialed his father's number.

The seconds ticked by. He could hear the ring tone at the other end.

"Hello," said his father's voice.

"Dad!" he called. "It's me! You won't believe what has happened here!"

"...available right now, but if you leave your number after the tone, I'll get right back to you as soon as possible."

He had reached his father's answering service.

The phone beeped, awaiting a message.

"Dad, this is me, Francis," he said, suddenly calm, knowing that he might not get another go at this.

"This is an emergency. I know this sounds weird, but you have to get back here. Uncle Vernon and Frank Mabuza are involved in crime, and we are practically being kept prisoner here. I don't know whether we can even trust the police, or which of them to trust. Please believe me, this is no joke. We have proof and ..."

The phone beeped and buzzed, then the line went dead. Signal was back to zero. He had no idea whether the message went through at all, and he knew that when his father attended conferences, he would often not check his messages for days on end.

He sighed and sat down on the hard rock. They were really on their own now, he thought.