Fear stalked the land, searching out its prey with a single working eye. A scarred beast that prowled the maize fields of southern Tanzania, its remaining eye glowing in the firelight like an ember from the underworld. Wherever it appeared, someone vanished.
By the time the terror ended in the mid-1940s, villagers whispered that as many as 1,500 people had been taken. Some dismissed the figure as impossible; others swore it was true, pointing to empty huts, abandoned farms, and the silence that hung over Njombe for more than a decade.
This is the story of the Njombe man-eaters: a pride of lions whose reign of fear has no equal in recorded history.
A land in crisis
The Njombe District in the 1930s was an isolated plateau of rolling grasslands and scattered farms in what was then Tanganyika. For centuries, lions and people had co-existed uneasily there: lions taking cattle now and then, villagers spearing lions in retaliation. But the balance was about to tip.
At the turn of the 20th century, rinderpest, a cattle plague introduced by imported livestock, tore through East Africa. It killed not only cows but also wild ungulates including buffalo, wildebeest, eland, and kudu. In short, the very animals lions depended on. At the same time, colonial authorities, desperate to protect settler farms and commercial livestock, sanctioned widespread shooting of wildlife herds.
By the early 1930s, the great prey herds had vanished from much of Njombe. For a pride of lions, starvation loomed.
And then the killings began.
The first attacks
Accounts vary on who the first victims were. Some say it was a group of women cutting grass at the edge of the bush. Others tell of a child herding goats. What is certain is that the attacks were relentless.
Unlike the famous Tsavo man-eaters of 1898, which were just two lions, the Njombe killers operated as a full pride, one perhaps 15 strong. They hunted both day and night, stalking footpaths, raiding fields, and dragging victims from huts in the dark. Witnesses described their tactics as disturbingly coordinated: one lion would chase a fleeing villager toward others lying in ambush, while still more lions waited to carry the body off into the bush.
The result was psychological as well as physical devastation. Farmers abandoned their crops. Markets emptied. Whole families refused to travel. A rural economy, already fragile, teetered on collapse.
Folklore takes hold
As the death toll mounted, explanations turned supernatural.
Villagers spoke of Matamula Mangera, a witch doctor said to have cursed the land, sending spirit lions to punish those who had wronged him. Some claimed they saw lions melt into the shape of men; others swore that no ordinary rifle could kill the beasts.
Central to the lore was the pride’s supposed leader: a huge, one-eyed male called Kipanga. Was he real? Many hunters, including those who later fought the lions, believed so. Others argue Kipanga was more myth than flesh. Either way, the stories gave form to a terror that felt inhuman.
Even colonial officers recorded the atmosphere of dread. In their reports, villagers were described as “so paralysed by fear that they would not leave their huts even to tend their cattle.”
The scale of the slaughter
Could the lions truly have killed 1,500 people?
The figure comes up repeatedly, cited by hunters, missionaries, and later by storytellers such as Peter Hathaway Capstick. But hard evidence is scarce. Colonial records were patchy, and many deaths occurred deep in the bush, where no official ever ventured.
Sceptical historians suggest the real toll may have been in the hundreds, easily still enough to mark Njombe as the worst man-eater outbreak on record. But even if exaggerated, the number reflects the lived truth of the time: that whole communities were emptied, and that people felt they were at war with an enemy that could not be seen until it was too late.
Enter George Rushby
In 1947, after years of unchecked slaughter, the colonial government sent in a man who had made a career of battling Africa’s deadliest creatures: George Gilman Rushby.
Rushby was a former ivory hunter turned game ranger, a wiry, hard-driving man used to solitude and risk. He was already known for his encounters with elephants, leopards, and rogue buffalo. But the lions of Njombe would be his greatest test.
When Rushby arrived, he found villages half-deserted, fields lying fallow, and families so terrified they refused to leave their huts even by day. “The district had come to a standstill,” he later wrote. “The people were simply too frightened to live.”
The hunt
Rushby knew killing one or two lions would not be enough. The whole pride had to be vanquished. He organised local scouts, set baited traps, and began a grim campaign through thorn thickets and tangled river valleys.
The lions proved cunning. They avoided obvious bait, circled ambush sites, and sometimes attacked in the middle of Rushby’s own camp. Several times he narrowly escaped, his rifle raised only moments before a lion charged.
But slowly, methodically, the pride was whittled down. Rushby shot some himself, his trackers accounted for others, and poisoned bait claimed a few more. The turning point, Rushby believed, came when he killed the one-eyed male said to be Kipanga. Without their leader, the pride’s coordination faltered.
By the end of his campaign, Rushby claimed to have destroyed the entire man-eating pride. And just as suddenly as they had begun, the killings stopped.
Myth, memory, and reality
The story of Njombe sits at the uneasy intersection of fact and folklore.
Fact: A pride of lions really did terrorise the region, killing an unknown but horrifying number of people.
Folklore: A one-eyed demon lion, spirit beasts conjured by witchcraft, an exact death toll of 1,500.
Reality: Ecological collapse drove predators into desperate behaviour, and human fear magnified their legend until they became almost supernatural.
In this way, the Njombe lions became more than animals. They became symbols of a world out of balance.
Echoes today
Such mass outbreaks of man-eating lions are virtually unheard of now. Conservation measures, better livestock protection, and changing landscapes mean lions rarely, if ever, target humans in large numbers. But the underlying lesson remains: when ecosystems are broken, predators adapt in ways dangerous to us.
Human-wildlife conflict still exists across Africa, from elephants raiding crops to leopards taking goats. The Njombe lions are simply the most extreme and unforgettable example of what can happen when that balance tips too far.
A legacy of fear and fascination
Today, the hills of Njombe are quiet. Farmers tend their maize, children herd goats, and lions are seldom seen. But the memory lingers. Around campfires, elders still tell of the years when lions ruled the night, when entire villages hid indoors, and when the roar of a one-eyed beast froze the blood in men’s veins.
Were they spirit lions? A cursed pride? Or simply predators pushed beyond the edge of hunger? Perhaps all of these at once.
What is certain is that for more than a decade, fear itself had teeth and claws in Njombe. And its story remains one of the most chilling chapters in the long, tangled history between people and lions.
If you’d like to read a fictional story which shares the same elements, then check out The Daughters of the Darkness on Amazon, Kindle, and Audible.
In the early 20th century, deep in the rugged terrain of the Kumaon region in northern India, a man-eating tigress was terrorising local communities. By the time she was finally brought down in 1907, she had claimed an estimated 436 human lives — a staggering toll that remains the highest attributed to a single big cat. Her name would become infamous: the Champawat Tigress.
Her story, however, is also inextricably linked to one of conservation’s most complex and legendary figures: Jim Corbett. While today he is remembered as a pioneer of wildlife protection — and the namesake of India’s first national park, Corbett began his journey into the wild not as a saviour, but as a hunter. The Champawat tigress was his first true pursuit of a confirmed man-eater. And it was a pursuit that would change the course of his life.
A Killing Machine Created by Human Wounds
We now know the Champawat tigress turned to humans after sustaining severe injuries likely inflicted by poachers or after a confrontation with hunters. Broken canines and damage to her jaw made her unable to bring down natural prey. In desperation, she turned to easier quarry: people.
Her killing spree spanned the border of Nepal and India. After the Nepalese army failed to stop her, she crossed into British India’s Kumaon region. Panic and grief followed in her wake. Villages emptied. Daily life ceased. Entire communities were paralysed by fear.
Enter Jim Corbett
In 1907, Jim Corbett, then a railway man and experienced shikari (hunter), was called upon to stop her. He was young, only in his early 30s, and this marked his first major hunt for a man-eating big cat, a fact made clear in both Corbett’s own writing and subsequent historical biographies. After several failed attempts and tense tracking, he eventually shot the tigress near the village of Champawat. The hunt earned him widespread recognition, but more importantly, it ignited a lifelong mission to understand why big cats turn man-eater, and how to prevent it. He later even became a keen early, wildlife photographer and observer.
Corbett’s later life saw a complete transformation. He would become one of India’s earliest and most passionate voices for tiger conservation, often risking his reputation to defend the species he had once been called to destroy.
The Book: No Beast So Fierce
For those intrigued by the history behind the hunt, Dane Huckelbridge’s No Beast So Fierce (2019) offers a gripping, well-researched account of the Champawat tigress and Corbett’s involvement. It not only explores the hunt itself but also examines the colonial, ecological, and human factors that gave rise to such a tragic chapter. Huckelbridge places the tigress’s killings in the wider context of deforestation, conflict, and human encroachment — themes that still resonate today, when tiger populations have been decimated by a shocking 96% since Corbett’s time.
Setting the Record Straight: A Note on Recent Misinformation
Recently, television host and adventurer Forrest Galante released a YouTube video discussing the Champawat tigress. While his enthusiasm for wildlife storytelling is commendable, the video unfortunately contained some mild inaccuracies. Chief among them was the claim that this was not Jim Corbett’s first hunt for a man-eater.
Corbett himself, in his 1944 book Man-Eaters of Kumaon, makes it clear that the Champawat tigress was his first real confrontation with a man-eating big cat — a life-and-death pursuit that shaped his entire philosophy on wildlife. Galante’s failure to reflect this not only disrespects the historical record but also distorts the narrative of a pivotal moment in conservation history.
As wildlife communicators, we owe it to the truth, and to the animals whose stories we tell to get the facts right. In the name of entertainment and click-bait, this isn’t always the case. We would do well to remember that the Champawat tigress was more than just a man-eater; she was a tragic byproduct of human impact, and her story catalysed the transformation of one of conservation’s most influential figures.
Remembering the Legacy
Today, as tiger numbers teeter and human-wildlife conflict continues, the tale of the Champawat tigress remains deeply relevant. It is a cautionary tale. Not of a monster in the jungle, but of what happens when humans and nature fall fatally out of balance.
Corbett’s journey from hunter to conservationist reminds us that change is possible. And that understanding, compassion, and respect must guide our relationship with the wild.
The party of men and women walked quietly along the edge of ‘the gallops’ – thin, undulating corridors of grass bordering thicker patches of mixed woodland that stretched for some three or four miles around the estate, close to the edge of the strictly manged moorland. The landscape resembled, and indeed would have made for, a decent golf course. Yet, that was not their purpose. The grass was kept naturally short by the grazing deer – and a few centuries before, these were the hunting grounds of the lord of the manor and his guests. Today, the mixed herd was made up of both fallow and sika deer – and although they were no longer hunted with hounds as Lord Croftman would have liked, they were still managed and butchered to supply top-end restaurants and butchers across the North and Borders region. His opposition to the banning of hunting with dogs had not been successful, but a more recent endeavour had been. He had led a last-minute derailment of legislation to ban hunting trophies being imported into the UK, organising enough peers within the House of Lords to suggest amendments to the bill. In America, his attempts would have been described as ‘fillibustering’ – although not quite correctly. However, the end result was the same; the bill had all but been killed. After successfully being voted on in parliament, and even being included in his party’s manifesto – who were still in government, it was a small group within the unelected House of Lords who had been able to veto the much-wanted legislation being called for by the British public.
Lord Croftman liked to shoot. In his native Britain, he was restricted to his private deer herd and other managed game, such as the pheasants, grouse, and perhaps woodcock they sought this morning. Yet, rooms of his mansion were adorned with more exotic exploits. At the banquets, parties, and public events he attended, he argued – and argued well, how hunting played a significant role in conservation. That fees mustered from safaris and hunting licenses supported local communities living alongside wildlife and protected habitats. As a politician, he was the first to admit that the truth rarely played a part in a good story. His argument ignored both that photographic safaris brought in around ten times that of hunting outfits, and the corruption endemic to both the politicians and private businesses profiting from the latter.
The success had put him in a good mood. He was looking forward to his next trip to South Africa, where he planned to stay on a luxurious ranch that offered him the opportunity to hunt not only what was known as the big five, but also, almost amusingly, a tiger. Although not native to the African continent and only being found in Asia, private hunting operations had stumbled upon a loophole that offered hunters a legitimate way to claim the endangered big cat – with no way to legally do so in their Asian homelands, unless through more illegal means. But with numbers of tigers in captivity outnumbering wild tigers by nearly three to one, “farmed” tigers could be bred under license and raised to be killed, on a continent they were never meant to set foot on in the first place. He would have to wait a few weeks before he could enjoy that sport, but today, he was quietly celebrating his victory with other interested parties who’d helped him stall and kill off the new legislation. After the shoot, both a banquet and a cocktail party would reward those that had remained resolute, even against the overwhelming will of the British public.
But what do they know, Croftman thought with a smile.
He smiled as the little Land Rover 90 pick-up pulled up beside his guests. The larger, more luxurious SUVs that had dropped them off were parked behind them, on the edge of the trees. Croftman pushed open the passenger door and stepped out, greeting his friends yet ignoring the driver who’d ferried him across the estate, prepared his gun, packed his bag, and supplied his coat.
This was just fine with the driver, Dominic Grey, who trundled the vehicle over to the others and parked up. Dominic had served the estate since leaving school. It didn’t pay much, but it came with accommodation, and Lord Croftman had suggested he might be able to get him into the army if he ‘kept his nose clean’. That, as with many of the Lord’s promises, had never come to fruition. But it didn’t matter now. He took a small, military looking radio from his pocket and switched it on. He checked the channel with a glance and pressed the signal button twice, before switching it off again. Opening the driver’s door, Dominic slipped from the Land Rover and silently made his way towards the trees, moving away from the party as fast as he could without drawing attention.
From where they stood, they could see the mist was beginning to clear from the moor – and in the distance, they could now hear the beaters. Lord Croftman nodded to his companions and the murmurs of conversation came to a stop. The breaches of shotgun barrels were snapped open and charged with cartridges. Then, they waited. The first covey of birds flew over them so fast and so low, only a few of the shooters even had time to raise their guns to the sky, before realising it was hopeless. The natural dip in the land created by the gallops meant that the hunting party were out of sight, even from the air, until the very last minute – and the birds would naturally flee towards the woodland, where they were equally at home. And now, the guns were ready.
Specks appeared in the sky, rising, and falling in quick, darting, and panicked flight. They lurched back and forth as one, as if being pulled by unseen wires against their will. But in truth the birds were desperate and tired, discombobulated after being forced into flight so early during the day. The guns too moved as one, tracking their targets. Then, just as they appeared overhead and began to wheel about, seeing the danger below, a raucous eruption of simultaneous thunder belched from the barrels. Excited spaniels and Labradors rushed forwards, trimmed tails wagging as they went about their work.
Lord Croftman smiled broadly, his revelry showing in the twitch in his moustache. He turned to congratulate his nearest shooting partner, a young member of his political party who was blue right down to the blood, when a movement caught his eye. It wasn’t unusual for the mist to cling to the trees the longest, especially along the gallops, where the uneven ground rose and fell more obviously. Beyond a few feet in, unformed shadows hung in the air ominously – their lack of definition inviting speculation and suspicion what might lurk there. But today, the shadows moved – and moved towards them. In a few seconds, a line of men – and several women, Croftman noticed, stepped into the open. They were all dressed in dark, high-end, military-style clothing made of wool and some other material he couldn’t identify. The mottled conifer greens, midnight blues, and dark chocolate browns made for perfect camouflage among the trees. He noticed their lack of body armour and he knew their attire had been chosen for stealth. But it was the modern-looking submachine guns they carried that none of them could take their eyes off.
The line split into two as they approached the shooting party, with an advancing line training their guns directly at them, whilst a rear line formed in their wake, filling the gaps between the others, and maintaining a clear line of sight. Croftman saw one of his gamekeepers, on the far left of his party, swing his shotgun round to face the strangers. The three short bursts of fire came without hesitation before he was even halfway through his turn. He crumpled to the ground, his shotgun spilling from his hands. That’s when the screaming started.
“Drop your weapons,” ordered a man at the head of the line of armed strangers.
Croftman noticed how they automatically slowly spread out and flanked the shooting party in a wide semi-circle. These people were military, or ex-military. They had waited until the shotguns had been emptied on the birds before they commenced their assault, striking quickly and effectively before they could have reloaded. And, as they had shown, they were willing to kill. Perhaps, even, were looking for the slightest excuse to do so. Croftman decided not to give them one and threw his shotgun to the ground. He studied the man who had given the order. Tall and lithe, but well built, the man had dark features and hair with thick stubble across his cheeks, chin, and top lip. With him at least, there was no doubt about being military. There was something familiar about him. The man looked at the world though a slight, semi-permanent squint that hid a hawk-like ability to see everything. Croftman knew the man was sizing up most of the party using his peripheral vision and was paying close attention to the hands of those nearest to him. Only an elite and highly trained soldier did that on instinct.
“Listen up,” the man commanded. “Each and every one of you is guilty of two crimes. The first was against democracy, and the second, against the natural world. You ignored the will of the people so you could have a little sport,” he smirked. “The penalty, I’m afraid to tell you, is death.”
A few gasps and stifled scries rose from the shooting party. Croftman felt a swell of anger in his gut. He despised the swagger of this stranger, but he was sickened too by the cowardice his comrades showed so quickly and easily. They were weak. But then, he knew that didn’t he. Wasn’t that how he had been able to bend them to his will in the first place?
“However,” the man continued, “we’re not against a little sport ourselves. Just over half a mile through these woods is the border of the estate. If you get there before we catch you, you’re free to go.”
“And if we don’t?” Croftman growled at the man, glowering.
“Then you’ll be the one hanging from my wall, Lord Croftman,” the man replied, meeting his stare with indifference. “You have a three-minute head start, starting in five… four… three…”
Croftman looked dismayed as his guests leapt towards the trees like greyhounds released from their traps on race day. He went to follow them, but the man who, for now, controlled his destiny, raised his gun a fraction, indicating he should stop.
“I’m afraid I may have misled you,” the man said. “You and I shall be taking a walk together Lord Croftman – if you’d be good enough to head along the gallops just ahead of me.”
A scream echoed out of the woods and Croftman’s head whipped around in the direction the sound had come from. Confused, he looked at the line of armed men, all still in place. None had moved. The man smiled knowingly, and indicated with one hand that he should keep walking.
“Your woods are a dangerous place for predators, Lord Croftman,” the man sighed. “They are unwelcome. We’ve just evened the odds a little. Your friends are learning exactly how your kind of conservation treats anything other than humans that might prey on your precious birds.”
~
Julian Gough ran swiftly, weaving through the trees with ease and tenacity. He knew that his youth and fitness were on his side – and maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to be first to the road – he just had to be faster than the majority of the party behind him. To that measure, he glanced behind him. Following his path, but a good distance away and already bright red with the exertion, was Lord Altmann and Baroness Chadlington. Perhaps they thought he knew where he was going and had decided to follow. Out of the two of them, Julian’s money was on the Baroness. Although in her 60s, she was in good shape and seemed active enough. The same could not be said for Lord Altmann, who enjoyed the pleasures of the members dining room in the House of Lords far too often. In fact, he seemed determined to eat his way through the taxpayers’ £3 million subsidiary that covered everything from chargrilled ribeye to duck leg terrine, single handed. He remembered Altmann leeringly jibing about what the members paid for the exquisite version of fish and chips the members restaurant served – coming in at under £8, when the public paid often twice that and more on any High Street. Julian felt little pity that the big man was likely to make it.
Julian returned his attention to the path ahead and left the trees behind him as he entered a small meadow. He fought the cry of relief that lodged in his throat as he saw the grey bluntness of the high stone wall that marked the estate boundary. Then panic began to set in as he realised it was too high to climb. His feet kept moving though, clinging to the hope that there would be handholds or a way of scrambling up and over. His eyes widened in joy as he saw two round, smooth wooden columns that rose from the ground – some kind of sculpture he guessed. One was shorter than the other, and he was sure he could clamber on top of the shortest and jump to the next, or at least get a handhold on its top, before levering himself up. He sprinted towards them, his desperation fuelling the momentum. The ground seemed to favour him, with the ferns and moss underfoot adding a natural bounce to his run. Julian closed the distance to the sculpture with a few lightning quick strides, then leapt, confident of his footing. His left boot connected well with the shorter stump, and he let the natural momentum and trajectory propel him upwards. His hands reached out for the top of the second pole, his legs spread to grip the smooth wood as his boot heels kicked in further down for full purchase. Then his fingers crept over the top of the pole.
From the sound of the soft, metallic ping to the snap of the bone in his wrists was a matter of milliseconds. Julian screamed. The agony was unbearable and relentless. Panicked by not being able to see what was causing him such unstoppable torment, he thrashed back and forth and bashed his skull against the smooth wood of the pole he was now trapped on. The pressure against his wrists was not just constant but increasing. As his eyes rolled into the back of his head, he was only dimly aware of the arterial blood that began to spill over from the top where the invisible force continued to clamp down on his limbs, denied of fulfilling its purpose to close completely. Phlegm flew from his throat as he convulsed against the pain. One sporadic, desperate, mournful moan escaped his lips before his body, which had felt like it had been on fire for the entire sixty-three seconds he had managed to stay conscious, shut down. Julian Gough slumped against the pole, hanging from his wrists at the full extent of his arms. He died a few moments later.
The sight was enough to stop Baroness Chadlington in her tracks. She turned up her mouth in disgust as she realised what she was looking at. The anti-hunt mob turned terrorists had constructed a giant pole trap. Used by gamekeepers, they were baited and used to kill birds of prey on estates such as this – often illegally. Of course, that was only if you get caught. And Julian Gough had well and truly been caught. She shuddered. The whole thing was a trap. None of them were meant to get out alive. She could only wonder what else lay in wait for them between here and the wall. Seemingly keen to find out, Lord Altmann dashed past her without a glance back, or up at the unfortunate Gough. For the first time in her life, she froze and did not know what to do. Altmann dashed on, ducking under the bough of a large field elm, and disappeared from sight. Deciding there was nothing to do but follow him, the Baroness tried to calm her nerves – but a short, sharp, miserable cry that could only be Altmann, stopped her in her tracks again.
Somewhere behind her, she heard the movement of foliage, and it spurred her into movement. Taking care, she moved the obscuring branches of the elm out of the way. She let out a little gasp, as she saw Altmann’s sagging body caught fast by the simplest of traps – a snare around his neck. It was only as she stepped closer that she realised the snare was made from razor wire, and Altmann had near decapitated himself by sheer momentum. Still partially wrapped in the thin, stripped branch strands that had disguised it, the Baroness noticed how the singular path was boxed in on both sides by dense patches of thorn and bracken. It was then she saw that there was also a grim view of Julian Gough, hanging lifelessly from the pole trap. Altmann would have only had to glance away for a second to have become ensnared – and she was in no doubt about what had distracted him. Worried she was now making the same mistake, she moved carefully on along the path, until she came to the estate’s boundary wall.
The path ran along the bottom of the wall in both directions, but she was in no doubt where she needed to head. Dangling from the lofty top of the wall was a thick, green-coloured rope. It looked like it could be military – as the terrorists attacking the hunt clearly were. Both fearing and suspecting a trap, she considered all possibilities. The terrorists hadn’t come through the main gate or along the drive in vehicles, as they would have been heard and stopped. Even if they had forced their way through, the commotion would have caught their attention, and the main house would have called the police, or come to their aid. Neither the police, nor aid, had arrived. The group had approached through the woods – from this direction. There was a chance, perhaps even a good one, that this was how they had entered the estate.
She could hear the bushes moving around her in more than one place. Her pursuers were no more than 30-50 yards away. Cornered, she realised she had only one chance, and it was right in front of her. Gingerly, she clasped the rope in one hand and pulled gently on it. She felt it become taut – but nothing else happened. Hope sprung in her chest and she leapt upwards, pulling on the rope with haste and bracing her feet against the wall as she began to clamber up. There was a metallic scraping sound, and the rope gave by about half a foot. Instinctively, she looked up as a black, pipe-like object dropped from the top of the wall, held by a counterweight. As it straightened, she found herself looking directly up through its opening. As soon as it clicked into place, there was a flash of light and an explosion of sound.
It was a good few seconds after she had hit the ground that the agonising pain registered. She rolled on the ground, clawing at her face and crying out. She was blind, but her fingers found the raw flesh of her face. Her throat burned as if scalded by acid, yet she gurgled blood that was filling her mouth. It was only then, as her heartbeat hammered in her chest, only to pause erratically and start again slow and unsure, that she realised she couldn’t breathe. As she began to convulse, her arms fell to her side against the ground and her mind became clear and calm. She knew what had killed her. Her own gamekeepers used them on her own land. A pipe gun, filled with a single shot of cyanide crystals. Bait was put on a line, and when pulled hard enough, the trigger depressed – delivering a fatal charge of poison, usually into the unsuspecting creature’s mouth. It was almost ironic. Or perhaps, simple justice. Death came and she thought no more.
~
As Lord Croftman walked slowly along the gallops, back towards the manor, he glanced over his shoulder at his captor. More screams and the sounds of shots had echoed out of the woodland. His guests were being hunted down and murdered. But by who, and for why? At first, the shock of the events had scrambled his mind – but now, his thoughts were becoming linear again. He realised he knew the man.
“Payne… you’re Montgomery Payne’s boy… goddammit, you’re a soldier,” Croftman realised aghast. “Your father would be ashamed.”
“Not nearly as ashamed as I am of my father,” the man shrugged nonchalantly. “His opinion matters as much to me as mine does his. The only difference is, I can make my grievances felt, as well as heard. That’s far enough.”
Croftman stopped, puffing slightly from working their way up hill, back towards the house. He caught movement to his right and saw two more men crossing a path to reach them. They were carrying a barrel with them. Croftman frowned, not understanding. As they neared, they placed the barrel down, still upright.
“Lord Croftman,” Payne addressed him, perfectly politely and respectfully as he had before. “You instruct your gamekeepers to trap and kill almost any predator that dares to step foot onto your estate. Our recon missions and intelligence revealed some ingenious, if not original devices. Pole traps for birds of prey, pit falls for badgers and foxes, and a variation of this for the stoats and weasels. Do you recognise it?”
Croftman shook his head. “If you intend to have me drink myself to death, I can imagine worse,” he growled.
“No… this is one of the simplest but most effective traps we found. We just had to make it a little larger, to account for a slightly more… shall we say robust target,” Payne smiled, looking over Croftman’s ample figure with a somewhat judgemental glance.
Still not understanding, Croftman took a step towards the barrel and craned his neck, not wanting to get too close but curious to see what it contained. What he saw made him freeze in his tracks and he grew visibly pale.
“Just imagine,” Payne explained. “A polecat – protected under the Wildlife and Countryside Act – yet legal for your gamekeepers to shoot, visits your estate. There, they come across a pipe with an inviting scent too tempting to resist. The put their head in and their whiskers tell them there’s room to pass. So, they squeeze in further. On the way in, the indented spikes pointing down at an inward angle brush harmlessly against their fur. It is only when they retreat that they realise, all too late, that it is a trap – as they impale themselves viciously and tear themselves to pieces in their futile attempt to escape.”
Croftman couldn’t keep his composure. The very thought of what Payne was suggesting had him doubling over and he vomited over the grass, splashing his own boots as he did so. Before he could stand up straight again, he was lifted upwards by both arms. His head still spinning from nausea, he looked confusedly as the two men dragged him towards the barrel. Just as Payne had described, the inside of the barrel was rammed with 12-inch nails on all sides. They all pointed downwards at a sharp angle. Croftman tried to clear his throat, but nothing happened. In pleading terror, he looked at Payne. He was sure he saw pity there, as Payne gave the nod to the two men holding him.
Croftman fought desperately, trying to yank his arms from their grasp, but it was to no avail. Before he had time to react, he was being hoisted into the air as they manhandled him. Each held him under the arm, interlocking with their own as they used their other hand to grab at the seat of his pants. He screamed as he was upended and lowered into the barrel headfirst. He felt the press of the sharp metal against his skin, scratching and pressing persistently at his flesh. He opened his eyes, gasping for air. A blaze of pain ripped across his left cheek, shoulder, and neck, as the barrel was upended again and he found himself on his feet. With the confines of the barrel tightest against his midriff, Croftman stood still as a statue, not wanting to risk further injury. He could feel the blood running down his face. His arms were pinned to his sides and the slightest movement resulted in stabbing pain.
“Think of it this way, Lord Croftman,” he heard Payne say – the voice slightly muffled by the barrel. “You will be remembered for generations for what you did. As it should be.”
Croftman felt the kick that took out his knee, causing him to stumble and then fall. The agony of hundreds of footlong iron spikes ripping into his skull, chest, arms, and back all came at once. Instinctively, he jerked his head back, not realising he was already held fast by the nails, and one found his right eye and sliced through, cutting off his scream as more nails were rammed into his mouth with the force of his fall.
Payne watched the barrel roll gently back down the gallops, Lord Croftman’s legs flailing wildly as only that of a corpse could. By the time they dug in like anchors and brought the peer’s makeshift coffin to a stop, he was sure they were broken – and he was even more sure Croftman was dead. Payne sighed and shrugged, then made his way down the gallops with the two men to collect the other trophies of their hunt.
In celebration of National Poetry Day, here’s one I wrote earlier, whilst still carrying out a daily commute on the train, inspired by the ‘poems on the underground’ series.
This is the first in a new series of blogs, where I’ll be introducing you to some of the characters you’ll (hopefully) meet in my books. I’ll be giving you some insights into their background, my inspirations, and even my thoughts on their personalities. Perhaps I’ll even do some imaginary casting for when that film deal breaks! As always, it’d be great to hear readers thoughts too!
It makes sense to start with the main man himself, so without further ado, lets find out a little more about Thomas Walker.
So, first off, how do I picture Thomas? Thomas is in his early forties. He’s six foot two, and he’s well-built, and of course, handsome, with dark hair (some signs of grey now too), and very deep blue eyes. His skin is a little weathered, but not damaged, and he never lets his facial hair get beyond a rugged yet short crop of stubble.
Thomas hates suits, and his clothes are usually a blend of luxury, comfort, and practicality.
Perhaps readers might be surprised to learn that I never depicted Thomas with a Scottish accent. Although he was born in the Highlands, he has travelled all over the world, and was educated in England. He spent years in both America (Wyoming) and Africa (Kenya and Tanzania), so is certainly a well-travelled man. But as with any true Highlander, a trace of an accent will always make itself known.
Although we’ve never really met them in the books (yet), Thomas has a sister, and his parents own a small vineyard in France, which is famous for a rare, boutique wine matured in whisky barrels (of course!). As we learn in the first book, Shadow Beast, Thomas’s father is a skilled carpenter, who has passed on some of his knowledge to his son. He put it to good use in the renovations of an old deer farm, which he named Sasadh – Gaelic for a place of comfort.
In both of the books he appears in to date, his tragic past, in particular the death of his first wife, Amanda, affects him deeply. He keeps people at a distance, and suffers from night terrors. He doesn’t really have any close friends, except for his dog, Meg. He tends to bury himself in his work, whether building the house, or working as a wildlife biologist.
But, as anyone who’s read the books will know, he doesn’t work alone. Thomas works with Catherine Tyler, and his attraction to her (and strong, intelligent, independent women in general), is apparent pretty much from the off. I’ll let you find out how things develop there for yourself if you don’t already know!
Thomas is a Cambridge zoology graduate, conservationist, and wildlife researcher. But he has also been a hunter, a safari guide, and a professional tracker. He has always been involved in the control, management, or protection of wildlife one way or another. He is strongly against trophy hunting though, as we again find out in Shadow Beast.
Thomas lived in Africa for a long time with Amanda. Amanda was a zoologist and Thomas was a game guide and hunter. On a safari where Thomas had to help hunt down a man-eating leopard, one of the guests, who was an American TV producer, saw the potential in a show and they soon shot to fame hunting man-eating animals all over the world. In the fourth season of the show, tragedy struck whilst returning to Africa, and Amanda was attacked and killed by a lion.
Following the death of his wife, Thomas drank heavily and lived in the United States where he hunted mountain lions and other problem animals with tenacity. This is where he met Lee Logan, who helped turn his life around. Lee Logan and his team of expert trappers are important characters in Shadow Beast, and Lee’s son will make an appearance in the upcoming third instalment, Phantom Beast.
His charm usually hides his accidental arrogance, but not always. He is gently spoken, but quite forceful in getting his own way and he is approachable and understanding to a point, but when that point is reached, he has little tolerance beyond it. He has a cutting sense of humour best employed on those he knows well, but suffers guilt and upset if he thinks he crosses the line. His temper is rarely seen, but is usually provoked by injustice to others. When he is personally attacked, he is much more likely to retreat and retaliate when he is in a better position to do so. In many ways, he reacts like a predator by responding when he has carefully considered all of the options, but does so instinctively and by producing the most damage with the smallest of input. He is very considerate to those he is close to, but possibly accidentally dismissive to those he isn’t.
Thomas is clearly respected and liked in his local community. Outsiders might feel slightly threatened by him. He is confident and content with himself, but also very aware of his short-comings and is his own worst critic.
Some friends have commented how they thought Thomas was somebody I’d like to be. But, whereas I certainly share his petrolhead tendencies – and I’d certainly like his money, I actually probably wouldn’t get on brilliantly with him. He’s a little too arrogant and cocky for me I’d say. Maybe we’d meet for the occasional drink and catchup though.
When it came to my inspiration for the character, there’s no definitive singular source. For sure, there’s a little of Clive Cussler’s Dirk Pitt about him (although they admittedly wouldn’t look much alike). Perhaps more than a trace of Bond’s wit and appreciation of the finer things is in there too. And maybe, just maybe, there’s a little bit of the Preacher’s charm, empathy, and sense of justice from Pale Rider. You’ll have to wait until Phantom Beast until this particular cowboy gets a horse though.
And…who should play him in that yet to come movie deal? Perhaps a rugged-looking Henry Cavill? One of the two Toms (Hiddleston or Hardy)? Ben Barnes or Richard Madden might be interesting choices too. Guess we’ll have to wait and see!
I often have my most profound thoughts and reflections at the oddest of times. There’s the cliched ‘eureka’ moment in the bath of shower of course, but for me, nothing beats the good old commute. Whether on a train, in a car, or on the bus, you can be surrounded by other people yet lost in thought. And as this year trundles to its final stop, it seems a perfect opportunity to reflect on the journey I’ve taken as a writer this year.
My second novel, The Daughters of the Darkness, came out in June. It continues the adventures of Thomas Walker, the wildlife biologist turned monster hunter, whom we met in Shadow Beast. The book is getting some lovely reviews from readers, and is slowly making itself known among the Amazon charts.
A few readers were surprised to find Thomas facing his past rather than picking up exactly where the first story ended. However, there is method in my madness. Firstly, given that Thomas is a hunter of man-eaters, I couldn’t resist pitting him against what are arguably the most famous duo to have ever developed a palette for people: the Tsavo lions. The legend and historic record of the man-eaters features strongly in the narrative, and as we learn in the first book, Thomas has unfinished business with a pride possibly made up of their descendants. There is of course something a little more cryptic (or perhaps cryptid), to their nature too. But, secondly, I also needed some time for things to…shall we say grow? Without giving any spoilers away, Phantom Beast, the third instalment, will see a return to the animals we met in Shadow Beast, and things have certainly…developed!
So, obviously Phantom Beast will be a major project for 2018, but getting stuck into my third novel was also a major part of this year.
But, there are a few other things on the go too. I’ve made progress with a science fiction story, and some headway with a rampaging bigfoot as well. And a recent achievement to my 2017 was mapping out what I see as my “novel universe”. Connecting characters, books, and storylines proved a really interesting exercise and gave me considerable clarity on where to take the stories. It also gave me a considerable to-do-list, so 2018 will be a busy year! Like many writers, I collect notebooks and journals, jotting down everything from vague thoughts to one-liners I’m yet to fit to a character, plot, or storyline!
One of the funnest experiences in 2017 was joining Shannon Legro of Into the Fray Radio for an episode of her excellent podcast. If you’re interested in the paranormal, strange goings-on, cryptids, serial killers, UFOs, and other worldly things, you should definitely check it out. You can find my episode here, and you can find Into the Fray on all good pod catchers.
Another lovely aspect of 2017 was receiving reader mail from all over the world. From a gentleman in Florida, to a horror fan in Germany, I have been amazed and touched to find my books have spread so far, and pleased so many. If you’d like to get in touch, you can drop me a line via luke@blackbeastbooks.co.uk.
So, 2018 beckons, and of course, there’s plenty of things I didn’t get round to doing. I still haven’t set up a website, or started a mailing list. I don’t promote my books enough. Writing and a full-time job do take their toll, but I’m going into the next twelve months a little more prepared and determined. Christmas has seen aids, such as a social media planner from the brilliant Lucy Hall added to my resources, so I’ll hopefully be a little more proactive and less reactionary on my channels.
And along with everything else, I’ll keep writing too. Here’s to 2018!
The blog of author Luke Phillips 