The Lion Who Stole My Arm by Nicola Davies Page B

and lifted his son high in the air.
    Pedru laughed and looked down as his father held him, high and steady, with just one hand.
    “Remember, Pedru,” Issa said, “you do not need two arms to be strong!”
    1 barbaças: a sparrow-size bird with a loud, whistling call
    2 zombeteiro: a crow-size bird with glossy green feathers and a bright-red beak
    3 palm swift: a small, speedy bird that swoops around the treetops catching insects
    4 turaco: a beautiful big bird with a purple crest and a loud, grating voice

W hile Pedru waited for his arm to heal enough for him to go home, he tried to remember what his father had said. He whiled away the hours in the clinic by teaching himself to tie knots one-handed, and how to carry objects by clamping them between his body and his stump. But sometimes all the things he couldn’t do anymore, like climb trees or go fishing, crowded in on him. That’s when he thought about the lion who had stolen his arm, about its hot breath and its wicked, fiery eyes. It was his lion now, and he spoke to it fiercely in his head.

    One day, lion
. . . he told it.
One day soon I will come and get you.
    He was desperate to get back to the village, afraid his father might hunt the lion without him. But his arm healed fast, and in a few days he was home. Pedru wanted to pick up his spear and bedroll and set off at once to hunt his lion. But that wasn’t how it turned out.
    Everybody made a big fuss over him, sure. His mother, Adalia, hugged him so tightly that he thought his other arm might break. His two little sisters, Zibi and Aji, climbed all over him, asking questions until Issa told them to stop. The whole village came by to take a look at him, prodded and poked him like a goat roasting on the fire, and then talked and talked about lions, over his head. Mr. Inroga’s cousin had been killed by one, just a couple of rainy seasons ago.
    “He went out to chase bush pigs from his crops,” Mr. Inroga said, shaking his head, “and he never came back.”
    Mamma Ramina had been cycling home one day and a lioness and her cub had chased her down the road.
    “She was so close!” Mamma Ramina said, fanning her face at the memory of her escape. “But I pedaled too quick for her!”
    Most horrible of all was Mamma Lago’s story.When she was little, a lion had burst through the straw roof of her parents’ hut and taken her brother. It was a long time ago now, and still Mamma Lago shed tears whenever she spoke about it.
    Everyone agreed that lions were very, very bad. Leopards and hyenas would take your goats or chickens, crocodiles would take your leg, but somehow that was just a part of the way things were, like the rains and the sun. Lions were different. Lions made people afraid and angry. And now there was Pedru’s lion, which might come back and take a person for its dinner. The whole village buzzed with worry.
    Pedru sat still, listening, wanting all the talk to stop. He wanted some action instead, and he hoped that he would get it when old Mr. Massingue, the village headman, came along. His voice was like dry leaves rustling in a wind, so soft that people had to lean in close to hear him.
    “Issa Bubacali is our finest hunter,” Mr. Massingue announced quietly. “If this lion must be killed to keep our village safe, he will be the man for the task.”
    Everyone nodded gravely at Pedru’s father. They all knew it was a great and dangerous duty to hunt a lion.
    “What is your opinion, Issa Bubacali?” Mr. Massingue went on. “Should this lion be hunted and killed?”
    Pedru’s heart leaped. His father would hunt the lion, and Pedru would go with him!
    But Issa shook his head. “I followed the creature’s tracks,” he said. “They led far away from the village. They did not come back. I searched for two whole days and found no sign.”
    There were exclamations of relief all around, but Mr. Massingue held up his hand. “We must remain vigilant,” he said. “Not even a skilled tracker such