The Fate of Lost Souls - a sample
- R.C.Blyth
- Nov 12
- 11 min read
Mixing Fact with Fiction
Enjoy this opening scene in a new story I have penned and edited after my recent trip to Botswana and South Africa. It forms part of a new series I have been working on with a character called Robert Burnett.
The Fate of Lost Souls. South Africa, North of Kimberley, 1892
One eye appeared stuck; the lashes glued to his lids. The right eye was clear enough to grasp the reality of his situation and analyse his bearings, but the left eye refused to open.
As he moved his hands, although restricted by some bindings, his wrists still moved, which came as a surprise. Perhaps they, whoever they were, had made a mistake. Through his one good eye, he saw his glasses lying on the ground just out of reach, thankfully, still intact. Despite the gnawing discomfort of remaining in one position over time, he turned his head. The camel thorns stood apart, their yellow inflorescences visible alongside the occasional oleander bush dotted here and there. African sumacs and the long spear grass leaned with the gentle wind, enriched by recent rains that had fallen across the sprawling African land. The slight air movement eased his discomfort.
Why was he sitting on the floor of the great Karroo, amidst the sandy, red earth that made up this desolate part of the world?
Bechuanaland lay ahead, and the Vaal River behind him. Raising his head, weavers darted in and out of their grass nests, a hanging woven chamber between the arms of the umbrella of branches of his tree.
Two names merged through his head mist as he worked his wrists.
Johannes Fourie and Rudolf Kraus.
Yes, that was who he had been walking with until— what? He lost consciousness.
The Afrikaans Fourie and the German, Kraus, yes, that was his guide and accomplice. The German, who lived in the Namaqua land, or Deutsch-Südwestafrika, as Kraus had advised, was in favour of its current annexation.
The distant roar of an animal sounded far away.
Sliding his hands from their bindings, Eichenthal’s hands fumbled free. Focusing on his feet, and thankful that his hands had not been tied from behind, he sighed, having reached a sense of achievement.
Eichenthal was more used to working in an office, not the great outback. His predicament and unease started to sink in as a fully grown longhorn beetle pottered over the crumbling wooden branch of the Mokala, its giant antennae winking at him as the insect trawled back and forth.
While the late October heat caused him discomfort, Eichenthal knew the temperature would drop overnight, and he was scarcely dressed for such a change. The puddles of sweat patches stained under his arms of his thin shirt—his back stuck as he moved. When he moved, his scraped skin on his knee, now visible through a tear in his trousers, stung. Positioning his glasses where they belonged, the view of a lone waterskin propped against the Mokala branch brought him more relief.
Why leave a water bottle? Who had tied him up? What had happened to Fourie and Kraus?
Three questions teased his mind, and as his brow wrinkled with the strain of thought, he could not assign any reason for his recent state, only that Fourie and Krauss had invited him on a hunt for springbok. Against his better judgment, he decided he ought to know a little more about the bush. His girlfriend, Cynthia, had been impressed by his adventure. However, the idea had been that of Kraus and not commissioned by Eichenthal.
‘Just think, Meinheer, how proud Cynthia will be when you present a springbok or impala to her parents’ table?’
Another bout of pain reminded him of his injuries as he rubbed his wrists and scanned the horizon.
Another roar sounded in the distance.
A slight wind blew against his back as he stretched and looked at the sky. The sun suggested it was past midday.
Had Fourie or Kraus attacked him? – It made little sense. There had been no explanation. An impala had bounded into sight as he held the new German rifle. Sighting the two-toned animal, its antlers had a strange, divergent appearance, marking it out as the male of the species. The impala turned, the dark M sign showing on its backside. He pulled the trigger, but there had been no click, no bang as expected, but as he now recalled, there was sudden pain in his head exploding before he was rendered unconscious.
Now alone and stranded, his head throbbed, his knee ached, and the two men were nowhere to be seen. They might have been attacked by a tribe, but it was unlikely; the British army controlled this part of South Africa and swiftly quelled any uprising. His primary thought was still to find cover.
Could he make the Vaal River before dark?
Looking down at his previous temporary lodgings under the tree, a second longhorn beetle joined the first on the fallen wooden branch; he assumed they were courting. Confusion and frustration led to the release of a small tear, which he soon brushed away with the back of his hand. The small amount of money he had remained in his pocket, so it was clear that this was no robbery.
He drank deeply from the water skin and realised that maybe he should eke the life-giving liquid out more efficiently. The loose thorns cracked at the weight of his footfall, dry and brittle. Thirst quickly drew him back to the waterskin, a need to quench his thirst now strong.
Using more of his precious water, he cleaned the blood from his left eye. Now that he had his vision back, he set off toward the Vaal River.
Eichenthal was not the only creature interested in the Vaal River. As the day’s shadows lengthened, elephants, antelopes, water buffaloes, and wildebeest gathered to drink. Then there were the big cats. The tawny-coloured male lion had scented water two miles away. His pride was small, consisting of a young male still dotted with leopard-like spots and sporting a lighter-coloured mane. Four lionesses and three cubs joined in the hunt, lolloping behind the adults. The females, lacking manes, appeared less aggressive and were the main hunters, just as deadly as the males. Their yellow-white bellies contrasted with the males’ colouring; the thick black mane extended between the males’ forelegs. While many prides were larger, this one was quite small, and all the lionesses in the pride were related.
This pride had moved south of Bechuanaland, heading for the river. As they wandered into new territory, the pride’s male leader let out a roar that could be heard for up to five miles. The pride had rested the same day under a similar tree, much like Eichenthal had lain under the Camel thorn. As the heat increased, the pride sought shelter from the soaring temperatures. Anyone spotting the lions would mistake them for dead, but their chests rose slowly, indicating they were conserving their energy. Travelling nearly sixty miles into unfamiliar terrain took a lot of effort, until thirst compelled them to push on.
Emerging from their shaded cover, one of the female adults stirred. At nine feet long, three hundred and eighty pounds, her coat was sleek and undamaged.
As the sun lost its heat of the day, the pride moved to close the gap between the river and their resting place. The daylight would be completed by 6.30 pm.
The male growled again as the older lioness took the left flank. Her haunches lifted and dropped in slow, pendulum-like movements from left to right. The red sand broke into granules, interrupted by the impact of their massive footpads, which concealed three-inch, vicious claws that could be extended. One swipe could strike with four hundred pounds of force.
The sky had no moon, which appealed to their pride as they had excellent night vision.
Eichenthal stumbled across the grass tufts that dotted the terrain, threatening to entangle his feet, until he found a well-worn trail. A large muffin-like dropping had been carelessly left along the path. Judging by the size of the dense grass-covered faeces, these came from elephants. On the outward journey, the guide had pointed out the bull elephants' quick temper; however, these beasts were not as dangerous as the unpredictable water buffalo.
Scanning the horizon, the roar of a lion sounded louder than before. Impala and Kudu scattered but he ignored the herds, and pressed on.
An hour later, tipping the waterskin, a few drops fell from the neck. Sucking on his tongue, he attempted to make more saliva but found his throat dry and the river beds he had seen on his outward journey. The river with the ferry crossing near Riverton, where ox wagons would cross, was never more imperative. If he could make this point, he knew he would be safe.
The grey and brown river stretched for 740 miles southwest of Kimberley, flowing eastward. Attempts to cross without assistance would certainly attract the attention of crocodiles. An adult could take a baby elephant if it came too close. Then there were venomous snakes, including puff adders and rinkhals, known as spitting cobras.
Eichenthal reached the river further downstream than he had hoped. The wooded edge made surveying the river difficult in the fading light. African weeping willows decorated the river's edge, eager to drink the water with their many roots. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, having not eaten for twelve hours. The weakness from the walk left him exhausted and dehydrated. Drinking from the river was not an option, with material to make a fire. He slumped against a tree and, as the sun set, casting a red and orange hue across the horizon, sleep took over.
Reaching the river, the older lioness smelled the man before her sisters. She broke away. The human scent intensified—hormones interpreted as fear pushed her on, and as she came closer to the outline in the dark. A form of an animal that remained still, legs pulled in to retain heat. The lioness had not tasted human meat before, but she was hungry; their last feast over a week ago.
Hunched belly low, she crawled closer, conserving her energy as she anticipated that her prey would run. Now, twenty feet from the man sitting under the willow, she stopped, waited cautiously. A short burst of speed would allow her to accelerate, despite her depleted energy. At the same time as she launched her three hundred and eighty pounds on powerful legs, the male lion roared. The man awoke suddenly; his fear made him stand, ignoring the pain in his leg. He panicked, starting to run, with the intention of climbing a tree.
The lioness, now in full flight, reached the man’s back, closing the gap swiftly. Extending her front claws, she struck, pushing him down with her weight. Stunned, his head hit the ground. The hardened spikes of her claws gripped his skin, plunging deep into his flesh. Screams echoed through the night enough to cause birds flight and baboons to respond in kind. Anchored with the thick fishing hook claws, Eichenthal could not escape. The lioness’s breath was warm as jaws clamped onto the man’s neck. She found this prey much easier than usual. Not only was the neck thin, but the skin was weak compared to the hides of her regular prey.
Six hundred pounds of pressure snapped Eichenthal’s neck as if it were a thin branch. She dragged the dead human carcass, leaving a blood trail and used her incisors, ripping at the abdomen first. The thin shirt offered little resistance, and as the skin split open, she tore at the soft viscera. Soon Eichenthal’s form changed. Her tongue, a blanket of spines, eviscerated and tore at his organs.
Now she was settled, a face, a mask of blood, she enjoyed the soft, nutrient-rich value of the soft organs. As her carnassial teeth clamped on the man’s thigh bone, she tore the limb free. The lioness knew that the pride would require a larger, substantial prey to feed on than a human. Despite her effort in acquiring her snack, the male lion arrived, and she backed off. The cats could eat between 11 and 15 pounds of meat a day, while after a period of starvation, they would need five times this amount. The male lion continued to work on the human flesh as it disintegrated further. The bone marrow was the last part, after the bones had been split open, offering little resistance.
Once the lions left, any remaining morsels would attract the Cape vultures with their creamy-buff colour andf near-naked head and neck. A hyena pack might smell the blood and force the vultures away.
§
A tracker since he was knee high, Johannes Fourie found what was left of Eichenthal. Kraus, Fourie’s partner, turned away, sickened at the sight.
It never ceased to amaze the tracker how animals can digest carcasses and clean up so effectively. But then, he reasoned, this had been the plan all along, and it had worked to perfection.
Fourie spoke in a guttural African dialect to Kraus. His pronunciation made it difficult for Kraus, the language being closer to Dutch. ‘Give me your wrist bracelet.’
Kraus watched as the Boer left his bracelet next to the remains. He then vomited.
Three weeks later
The embers of the sun broke around 6.30 am. The day promised to be fine as the ferryman returned. The river’s dark depths were obscured by heavy silt content. As the ferry reached the side opposite his starting point, he let the passengers off. His dog, a crusty old Bitzer, barked at nothing in particular. The dog seemed excited.
The owner spoke softly – ‘What’s that boy?’
The dog took off, and the man followed, concerned that they might have an unwanted meeting with a vicious animal. The dog reached a point, stopped, turned, and barked again.
Staring down, the traveller saw a shiny glint and picked it up and then stood back, shocked. He made out the clean leg bones severed below the knee; the foot was still housed in the one lone boot, but nothing else remained. The man shivered, his face pale, his hands shaking, as he stared at a partial leg standing erect in the small clearing. He wondered how long it had been since that had happened. What he did know was that the bone was white, and no flesh remained.
The traveller looked at the bracelet and read the name, and looked over at the leg. He thought, well, I’ll be damned. Those crocs must have done for this poor bugger. I wonder where this man Kraus comes from.
As the man left, a lone male baboon stared, wary of the dog. In his hands, he held a pair of spectacles.
Thanks for reading this short introduction of the novel - The Fate of Lost Souls by R.C Blyth
Synopsis
The Fate of Lost Souls follows a gripping tale of identity and deception. After the mysterious death of Malcolm Eichenthal, Kraus, a German agent, impersonates the Briton and integrates himself into British society, eventually becoming a member of Parliament. Kraus works covertly for the German secret service, advancing their interests in Britain.
When Kraus's daughter, Nancy, discovers the truth about her father's identity, she escapes from her aunt while on holiday in Sienna, Italy, determined to expose Kraus and the web of lies surrounding him. Her journey takes her to Sicily, where she falls in love with the head of a family involved in the Cosa Nostra.
Robert Burnett, a British secret service agent, discovers the missing girl through an Italian contact and learns the reason for her defection. Burnett's relentless pursuit of the truth compels him to uncover evidence of Kraus's real aims and the consequences of his infiltration.
Burnett and Nancy have to navigate a treacherous world where trust is paramount, and the fate of a nation hangs in the balance.
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