Let the River Run
Copyright© 2026 by Jody Daniel
Chapter 13
Adrian’s bungalow, Skukuza Ranger Station Camp.
There was utter silence in the room.
Not the comfortable kind. Not the kind that settles after conversation.
This was different.
This silence had weight.
Kait and Nadia sat frozen, their bodies locked in place as if movement itself might trigger something. Kait’s fingers were still resting lightly on the edge of the laptop, unmoving. Nadia’s posture—normally loose, almost playful—had gone completely still. Even their breathing had slowed to the point where it barely registered.
No one wanted to be the one who broke it.
Mai-Loan and I stood facing each other.
Close.
Too close.
Our faces were inches apart. Close enough that I could see the fine details most people miss—the faint tension in her jaw, the near-imperceptible shift in her pupils as she measured me, recalculated, adjusted. Her scent was subtle. Clean. Nothing that gave anything away.
Our noses were almost touching.
Neither of us stepped back.
Neither of us blinked.
It wasn’t aggression.
It wasn’t posturing.
It was something older than that.
Two predators, standing still long enough to decide whether the other was worth the trouble.
Outside, even the world seemed to pause.
The light breeze that had been moving through the trees earlier ... gone. Leaves hung motionless. The distant calls of birds had faded, leaving behind a hollow quiet that pressed in against the bungalow walls.
Time stretched.
Thinned.
And then—I broke it.
“There were seven demon priests at the altar of the dammed.” I started softly in a low voice. “They were praying to the Satan, in the valley of the dead. When the battle stopped, and the smoke cleared, there was thunder from the crypt. And seven demon priests will take another demon to the fire pit below...”
My voice stayed low, steady—almost conversational. But the words ... they carried something else. A test. A signal. A line drawn in the sand, just out of sight.
For a fraction of a second, nothing happened.
Then—
Mai-Loan’s eyes changed.
The darkness in them shifted ... and for the first time since she’d walked into my life, they reflected something warmer. Sharper.
Recognition.
Mai-Loan’s eyes this time reflected her smile as she burst out laughing.
The tension snapped.
Not completely—but enough.
“The rhyme goes: There were seven Spanish Angels at the altar of the sun. They were praying for the lovers, in the valley of the gun. When the battle stopped and the smoke cleared ... There was thunder from the throne. And Seven Spanish Angels ... took another Angel home...”
Her voice carried the words easily, almost effortlessly—like she knew them not just by memory, but by instinct. There was rhythm in it. Familiarity. Something shared.
I felt the edge of my own mouth lift. I returned her smile and stepped back. “Don’t be so sure.”
The distance between us widened—just enough to let the room breathe again.
“I like your style, Adrian. I think we will get along just fine...”
Behind us, the world restarted. I heard it before I saw it—the soft release of held breath.
Kait exhaled first, the tension leaving her shoulders all at once. Nadia followed, a quieter release, though her eyes still flicked between the two of us, measuring, processing.
They looked ... relieved.
“What was that all about?” Kait asked.
There was still a trace of tension in her voice. Confusion mixed with something else—something she hadn’t quite named yet.
Nadia leaned back slightly, the ghost of her earlier playfulness returning.
“I think the Lioness and the Tiger just spelled out the rules of engagement and became a coalition in the process...” she said with a giggle.
I didn’t correct her.
Because she wasn’t wrong.
“You know,” Kait began, “The Latin word for ‘coalition’ is ‘coalitiō’ or ‘coalitiōnem. This term originates from the Medieval Latin and is related to the concept of a union or a coming together for a common purpose.”
Once again I was amazed at Kait’s way of defining something.
But then Nadia summed up the scenario with a quote from a Dan Brown wisdom:
“You two are intense. It reminds me of something I read... ‘Angels and demons were identical—interchangeable archetypes—all a matter of polarity.’”
She looked at me and Mai-loan. Then continued: “The guardian angel who conquered your enemy in battle was perceived by your enemy as a demon destroyer.”
She winked at Kait and the asked the million-dollar question: “So, Adrian ... are we the Angels today? Or are we the Demons?”
I had no answer. Outmanoeuvred by two formidable women.
Mai-Loan took all the items and placed them back into the ammo box. Wrapping them as they had been and then closed the box.
“Let me get this to our lab,” she said and looked over at Nadia. “If we leave now, we could be home by 18:00 and let Don and Dave fly this with the jet to Ash in Cape Town.”
“If you don’t mind, Mai, I want to go look at that drainage ditch blockage and advise Kait on how, and when we are going to do it.”
“Okay,” Mai-Loan replied. “I’ll fly back to the Northwest airfield and arrange for Don and Dave to take the box to Cape Town.”
“When do you think we could get some answers?” I asked.
“By the latest I would say tomorrow afternoon the first results would be available.”
“In the meantime I will see to it that Kait and Nadia get to the blockage and do their assessment.”
“That is settled then,” Mai-Loan said and took the box off the table. “The sooner we get this analysed, the sooner we will know how to proceed...”
“Will you be okay to fly back alone. Mai-Loan?” I asked.
“Yeah, the platypus is single pilot certified, and it is only fifty minutes home,” she replied. “I’m just worried if you will be okay, Nads?”
“I’ll be fine,” Nadia chipped in. “I packed for three days. No problem.”
“Then let’s get going,” Kait said.
“Nope!” I replied. “We leave tomorrow morning after breakfast.”
We stood there—Nadia, Kait, and I—watching Mai-Loan ease the PC-12 down the runway and then, with that familiar surge of power, lift cleanly into the afternoon sky. The nose came up with quiet confidence, and within seconds the aircraft was climbing, banking gently into its departure path, sunlight catching the wings as if it approved of the whole performance.
I’ve always loved that sound.
It’s hard to explain to anyone who hasn’t spent time around aircraft. Yes, the Pilatus shares its Pratt & Whitney PT6A with a dozen other machines, but somehow the Pilatus PC-12 makes it ... different. There’s a fullness to it. A smooth, confident hum layered over that unmistakable prop bite. Not loud in a crude way—just present. Assured. Like it knows exactly what it’s doing and doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone.
I watched until it became a shrinking silhouette against the pale blue, the sound trailing behind it just long enough to leave an imprint.
I’d already seen Mai-Loan’s return flight plan earlier. She’d be flying under Visual Flight Rules at 9,500 feet MSL—high enough to clear the ridgelines that ripple across the Highveld, but still low enough to enjoy the view. Classic Mai-Loan: practical, efficient ... with just a hint of personality worked into the routing.
She’d added a few dogleg waypoints.
“To skirt the restricted areas and keep away from the Jo’burg and Waterkloof Class C airspaces,” she’d said, half-grinning when I asked. “I would, however, enter the Jo’burg controlled airspace just overhead Kameelpoort, north-west of Pretoria. But that’s just a radio call. I requested flight following so they know I’m around.”
I couldn’t resist.
“If they’re awake and not huddled around a bucket of KFC or chicken legs,” I’d smirked.
She didn’t miss a beat.
“Oh, they love their ‘Runnaways!’”
Nadia tilted her head. “What’s Runnaways?”
“Cooked chicken legs—yucky!” Kait shot back instantly, pulling a face like she’d just bitten into something regrettable.
Mai-Loan laughed softly. “That’s one of the reasons Don doesn’t eat chicken. He maintains that he does not eat anything that flies!”
That was my opening.
“Chickens don’t fly...” I interjected, folding my arms with the quiet confidence of someone who thought they’d just ended the debate before it began.
In my head, it was a solid point. Logical. Unassailable.
Of course, with this group, that kind of certainty never survives for long
“That’s an argument I lost to both Don and Dave...” Nadia replied. “And they proved it to me. Chickens DO fly. Not far, but they fly. It’s like saying the Wright Brothers did not fly far – but they flew!”
As the PC-12 became a dark speck in the sky, Nadia turned back to us and uttered one word: “Derdago,” and she smiled.
“Derdago?” Kait asked.
“The full rhyme is, ’Derdago, derdago. Fortaloris inaro. Sommaloris, summatrucs, Fallaf gessenducs... ”
“Huh?” We all gasped. Stunned.
“Is that Polish?” Kait asked.
“No, just gibberish.” Nadia giggled. “But Ash swears it is a mix between Latin and Spanish meaning; ’There they go, there they go. Forty lorries in a row. Some are lorries, some are trucks – full of geese and ducks!”
I snorted, shaking my head as I looked back at the fading speck in the sky.
“Right ... so we’ve gone from debating aviation physics to ... enchanted poultry logistics and imaginary truck convoys?”
Kait folded her arms, still squinting at Nadia like she was trying to decode her.
“I’m more concerned that you delivered that like it was ancient wisdom,” she said. “You even had the dramatic pause and everything. I almost believed you.”
Nadia gave little cryptic wink and a shy smile that made me wonder if maybe Ashwin Windsor wasn’t joking at all.
I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice with mock seriousness.
“Be honest—Ash didn’t ‘translate’ that. He made it up on the spot, didn’t he?”
Kait nodded firmly.
“Oh, 100%. And you just upgraded it to mythology.”
I smirked. “Well, I, for one, will never look at trucks the same way again. Every time I see one now, I’m going to wonder if it’s secretly full of ... contraband geese.”
Kait burst out laughing. “And ducks. Don’t forget the ducks. Apparently they’re a key part of the linguistic structure.”
I glanced back at Nadia.”So what’s next? You going to prove cows can hover if they’re motivated enough?”
Kait added, deadpan: “Don’t challenge her. She’ll come back with a full dissertation—and a rhyme.”
After a hearty supper of braised kudu steaks—rich, slightly gamey, and cooked just to the point where they practically melted—and a side of steamed vegetables that tried very hard to pretend they were the star of the plate, Gustav leaned back in his chair with that look he gets when an idea has already won in his head.
“I’ve got it,” he said, wiping his hands together. “Let me take you all to Skukuza Rest Camp. Proper bush hospitality. The local pub—you’ll love it.”
I almost laughed.
Not because it was a bad idea—it wasn’t—but because of Nadia. Gustav was clearly under the impression that she was about to be introduced to something entirely new. I decided not to burst his bubble by pointing out that Nadia had been in South Africa for nearly five years and had probably seen more “authentic bush hospitality” than most tourists ever would.
“Let me go show you what Skukuza has to offer,” Gustav repeated, already halfway to the door.
And just like that, the plan was set.
A short while later, the four of us—Gustav leading, Kait and Nadia chatting behind him, and me bringing up the rear—were bumping along the road toward Skukuza Rest Camp.
The air had cooled just enough to make the drive pleasant. The bush had that night-time presence about it—alive, but quieter in a way that made you listen more carefully. Every now and then, the headlights would catch a flicker of movement: a pair of reflective eyes, a shadow slipping between trees, something that reminded you this wasn’t just scenery—it was someone else’s home.
“If the Kruger National Park was a country,” Gustav declared as we approached the river, “Skukuza would be its capital city.”
It wasn’t entirely wrong.
Skukuza has that odd duality to it. On one hand, it’s deep in the bush—wild, untamed, unpredictable. On the other, it hums with a kind of structured life: staff, visitors, supply vehicles, quiet routines that keep everything moving. A frontier town, if you will, but one with decent coffee and a curfew.
The “town” itself sits just across the river from the airstrip, but the road loops you around in a way that stretches the journey out to a good seven or eight kilometres. Long enough to feel like you’re entering somewhere, not just arriving.
As we crossed the Sabie River, Gustav slowed slightly and pointed off to the right.
“See that old railway bridge?”
We followed his gesture.
There, silhouetted against the fading light, was a train—motionless, suspended across the river like something caught between two worlds.
“That,” he said with a hint of pride, “is the Kruger Shalati Hotel. You can actually book a room there. Thirty-one rooms, built into twenty-four train carriages.”
I leaned forward slightly, studying it. Even from a distance, it had a surreal quality—like someone had taken a piece of history and decided it deserved a second life, just ... elevated.
“Hmm...” Kait murmured, tilting her head as she took it in. “That’s like watching the Kruger while suspended on a bridge.”
“Exactly,” Gustav said. “You’re right over the river. Elephants, hippos, crocs ... all right below you.”
Nadia smiled faintly, clearly impressed despite herself.
I had to admit—it was one of those ideas that sounded gimmicky until you saw it. Then it just made sense in a strange, uniquely South African way. Take something old, give it a story, and place it somewhere unforgettable.
As we rolled off the bridge and continued toward the lights of Skukuza, the bush began to give way to something more structured—pathways, buildings, the faint glow of lamps.
Civilization, Kruger-style.
And somewhere in there, Gustav’s “proper bush pub experience” was waiting—whether Nadia needed the introduction or not.
The first group we ran into at the pub was a group of men from the construction company—apparently the same outfit that had been brought into Kruger to conduct an independent assessment of the situation.
Now, I’ve dealt with engineers before, bush engineers especially, and these guys didn’t fit the mould. No dusty boots, no sunburnt necks, no rolled-up sleeves with pencil marks behind the ear. No—these okes looked like they had just stepped out of a boardroom twenty floors up in a glass tower somewhere in Jo’burg or Cape Town. Crisp shirts, expensive watches, that polished confidence you get from people who are used to air-conditioning and presentations rather than mud and mosquitoes.
Still, the moment they clocked Gustav, everything shifted.
Word travels fast in a place like Kruger, and Gustav wasn’t just any ranger—he was the ranger. The kind of man whose name carries weight even before he opens his mouth.
They gravitated toward us almost instinctively, pulling chairs closer, drinks in hand, eager to talk shop. Within minutes, the conversation loosened up and flowed like we’d all known each other for years.
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