A Swell Veldt Part 1

The rain beat down heavily on the African veldt; a swell veldt if I ever saw one. Miles Everhard, the noted Pretty Good White Hunter stood outside the tent of Lady Cynthia Sackable and inquired in a voice loud enough to be heard above the din of the rainfall if Lady Sackable might not care for a spot of company. Shooing Noblong Ndive her personal porter and parasol bearer who at that very moment had been applying insect repellent slowly and diligently to her backside - an area most vulnerable on the veldt or so he had said - out the rear tent flap, Cynthia hailed back at Miles to do come in as she was ever so lonely.

Abandoning his umbrella purchased through the mail order Snobs-Are-Us catalog Whitecrest, U.K. Ltd., to the night, Miles slipped through the tent’s front flap and found Lady Sackable had arranged herself on her cot in a fashion that suggested she had, well, arranged herself on her cot. She was seated directly in its center, nightgown somewhat askew, with bedding pulled to cover this and that, but allowed to show the other thing. Her mosquito net lay tantalizingly open, but she had little fear of the nightly nippers and felt particularly safe on her backside where there were simply oodles of protection.

Positively ravishing, thought Miles as he shook the moisture from his water repellant White Hunter Jungle Garb, the Official garb of the Nairobi Nasties the local futbol club, and the thought was so compelling that he took the next moment to just blurt out the words that had rushed to his suddenly fevered brow. “I say, Lady Ess, beastly night this. Have you got anything for a fevered brow?” Being British, the concept of getting to the point without first mentioning the foul weather had been completely erased from his DNA.

“Would a spot of gin help? There’s some there by my dressing table. And do call me Cynthia” said Cynthia. “And while you’re at it, getting the gin and calling me Cynthia that is, be a dear boy and freshen this as well” She handed Miles her own nearly full glass. “I’ve a bit of fever myself”

Miles strode to the dressing table and poured two healthy droughts from the Deep Rock Gin Dispenser and drank his off in long, full swallows, because that’s how manly white hunters take their spirits. That and furtive swigs from their flasks out in the bush when things large and toothy are about. The gin had the immediate effect of stiffening Miles resolve and reducing the impact of his British reserve to the point where he was able to get beyond both the weather and his fevered brow.

“About tomorrow,” he said, handing over Cynthia’s tumbler of gin, “if this blasted rain – apparently the weather thing was still with him- lets off, I think we will be able to find you your rhino. I know how anxious you are to get the horn.”

“Oh just ever so eager, Miles. I must get horned before Lord Sackable returns from the bush or I dare say I won’t get horned at all. You know how possessive he gets. He’ll be wanting all the horning for himself.”

To be cont.