Shadow of Makei cotpl-3

by John H. Burkitt

  "Sure. They're brown."

  "Are you sure? Are you very sure?"

  "Well I--no, they're green. No wait, they’re blue. Hey, how did you do that?"

  "I will tell you in a minute. But right now, what color are they?"

  "They're still blue but there are little white things--oh, it's the sky! I can see the clouds move!"

  “Very good. If you look at the clouds, some of them are shaped like things you know.”

  Kambra was feeling over Simba's body with a paw. Though she was barely touching him, it was clear from her face that she was concentrating very hard.

  "Look past the clouds,” Gur’bruk asked. “Are there birds in the sky?"

  “Yes. Lots of them.”

  Kambra’s roving ceased as she stared intently at a spot on Simba’s side. Nodding, she glanced up at Timon and winked. Then she looked at Gur’bruk oddly for a moment, and turned back to Simba.

  "Are all of the birds the same?"

  “Yes.”

  “Every one?” Gur’bruk cocked an ear slightly. “How about the one in front?”

  "I see it now. Most of them are black, but the one in front is red."

  "That is your pain, Simba. See it fly away? He takes your pain with him. He is going far away, and he is not coming back. Do you feel the pain smaller?"

  Simba's tense features softened. He had a relaxed smile. "Oh yeah. Oh that feels better! Make the bird stay away."

  “I promise you we will. I had a little ban’ret like you in the past. When he hurted, I play the bird game with him. It made him feel better.”

  “Where is your boy now? All grown up?”

  “He go to died,” Gur’bruk said.

  “That’s so sad. Gur’bruk, there are dark clouds in the sky now. It looks like a storm coming.”

  “Yes, I feel it” Gur’bruk’s eyes misted up and a quiet tear trickled down his cheek. “His name was Gur’mekh. Simba is a pretty name. What does it mean?”

  “Lion.”

  “I think it fits you maybe.”

  Timon moved forward as Kambra nosed Simba’s side again, her tongue flicking out for a second. “Hey! What’re you DOING--” He stared, gaping in astonishment as Kambra drew back and then plunged her muzzle inside Simba, her nose disappearing into him as if she were penetrating her reflection at a water hole.

  “Oh my gods!” Timon wavered drunkenly and sat down hard, head swimming as he watched the impromptu operation in progress. There was no blood, and Simba certainly gave no sign of pain as he continued to stare into Gur’bruk’s eyes. Kambra pulled suddenly, and out came a pink growth which she discarded in the brush. Sitting back, she sighed satisfactorily. “All done.”

  Timon glared at her suspiciously and ran over to Simba. Gritting his teeth, he felt around gingerly under the fur, expecting to find the matted wetness of blood and the ragged edge of a wound in his side.

  Instead, he found nothing. he began combing through the soft fur, poking at the firm hide of the cub. “Where’d ya hide it?!”

  Simba giggled slightly at the touch, and Gur'bruk smiled. “The game is over now. How do you feel, young ban’ret?"

  Simba got up and shook off. "I feel hungry!"

  Gur’bruk nuzzled him, as did Kambra.

  Timon breathed a sigh of relief and grinned at Kambra. "I could just kiss you if you didn't eat carrion."

  "I could just kiss you back if you did not eat the grubs."

  "Good point." He patted her and pecked her cheek. "We owe you one."

  “Owe me one what?” She thought for a moment. “Oh it’s a figuresque of speech.” She looked at Timon closely. “Now listen, old ban’ret. Fate the path goes--if you--how you say ‘ta’kher ohvi gabrukh....’” She stopped, putting her paw on his face and concentrating. “Your charge will find a glorious destiny,” she said in flawless Suricati.

  Stunned, he dropped back into his native tongue. “I’d believe it. He’s a great kid.” Timon scratched behind his ear and shifted uneasily. “Tell me the truth: will the problem come back?"

  "What is he eating?"

  "Grubs and beetles, mainly."

  "Oh gods! That's what caused it. You have to teach him how to hunt. Or at least how to scavenge."

  "Scavenging we can do, but I'm no carnivore."

  "Bugs are not what Roh'kash meant for lions to eat. You must change his lifestyle, at least a little. There are some herbs you can try to stall the problem, but someday you'll have to let him be what he was born to be, a hunter."

  “I guess so. But hey, where did you guys come from? I mean, you’re not from around here, are you?”

  “No.” Kambra closed her eyes and sighed. “But where we came from, we cannot go.”

  Timon fell silent as he looked at her, recognizing a kindred soul of one who has been cast out. Yet he knew somehow that this was much more than a simple outcast before him. Gur’bruk came to stand beside Kambra, kissing her face and nuzzling her neck. Timon regarded them soberly, seeing the comfort they took from one another, but there was an evident look of sadness on their faces that was at once noble and poignant.

  Reverting to common speech he said, “Look, why don’t you guys stick with us? I mean, we don’t have a home either. Not really.”

  “We go where Roh’kash sends us, like the restless wind.”

  “In a way, so do we.”

  Pumbaa looked at them wonderingly. “Will we ever see you again?”

  “If you need us once more, you will see us.” Without explanation, he looked up and said, “Yolanda, we paid the debt.”

  The two vanished back into the undergrowth in a quiet rustle of leaves. Timon and Pumbaa stared after them for a long moment, until they were distracted by a cough behind them. They turned to see Simba rising unsteadily on all four legs, a look of disgust on his face as he spat into the dust.

  “Yech! My mouth tastes like five day old pond scum!”

  “Must’ve been something you ate,” Timon said dryly. “C’mon, kid, let’s go get some water.”

  “Yeah!”

  From the concealment of the lush undergrowth, Gur’bruk and Kambra watched the trio meander away, the cub leaning against Pumbaa’s shoulder as Timon perched on his head, directing the way to the water hole. Gur’bruk blinked as his thoughts raced unspoken to his mate. “Do you think they’ll be all right?”

  “They’ll be fine.” She smiled at him. “Have faith, love.”

  “I trust Roh’kash implicitly. THOSE two...”

  “...are fulfilling their destiny. Just as the cub will one day, with their help.” She looked after the odd trio, her smile fading. Gur’bruk felt an odd feeling emanating from her, something akin to awe. He looked at her curiously, and she met his gaze, her eyes shining. “I told the meerkat the child was destined for great things, and he is. When I removed the growth, I was caught up in his Ka. He’s the one true king! And he is the anointed.”

  “The anointed? What are you saying??”

  “He bears the mark of Duhbrek. Roh’kash had chosen him from his birth to bring freedom to the captives and mercy to the oppressed.”

  “And we were sent to save his life!” Gur’bruk closed his eyes and muttered, “Thank you, Lord!”

  She fell quiet, trembling. “Yes. We have paid the price. Husband, he has set us free!”

  “I think so, dear. But we must wait on the Lord. Roh’kash will send us a sign.”

  “What kind of sign?”

  “I don’t know. But when it happens, we’ll know.”

  Just then they heard a rustling in the undergrowth. “Muti? Maleh?”

  Gur’bruk gasped. “My gods, it’s the sign!”

  Kambra cared nothing for signs. She shrieked, running to Gur’mekh’s ka. As tears streamed from her eyes, she rubbed him and smothered him with kisses, yipping a string of wordless utterances that were wrongly called “hyena laughter” by those who did not understand. Raising up on her back legs, she wrapped her forearms around his neck, pushing him to the ground and nu
zzling him desperately. “My precious little boy!” she finally choked out between her sobs. “Gur’bruk, it’s him!”

  CHAPTER 51: THE MASTER

  Simba recovered rapidly as the weeks progressed filling out nicely as his appetite returned with a vengeance. Timon and Pumbaa were more than happy to oblige, Pumbaa doing the heavy work of lifting logs and nudging over stones to find special goodies while Timon hunted down the odd herbs which Kambra had told him about that would keep Simba’s innards working properly.

  The three of them busily engaged in devouring a particularly feisty group of ants, the little insects tickling the throat delightedly as they went down. Simba giggled nonstop throughout the entire meal, giving rise to a bout of hiccups that, while short lived, was particularly intense, much to the amusement of his companions.

  Finishing his meal finally, the cub shook himself and padded over to where Timon lay, uttering a periodic “HIC!” every now and again. Coming alongside, he flopped down and rolled sideways onto his companion.

  “ACK! Hey! Whattaya tryin; to do, squash me?!”

  “Oops.” Simba rolled back, watching as Timon brushing himself off, breathing deeply. “Sorry. You okay?”

  “Fine.” Timon felt his ribs gingerly. “Just don’t do that again, okay?”

  “Okay.” Simba got up and wandered away to where Pumbaa was lying, snoring noisily as he digested his meal. Simba laid his ear against Pumbaa’s belly and grinned; the warthog’s stomach was making as much noise as his mouth was, and with a much wider range of noises. He brushed against Pumbaa lightly, then made his way to the warthog’s head, leaning against his face as he nuzzled him.

  Pumbaa’s eyes shot open and he sneezed violently, jarring Simba away. “Eufff! I can’t breathe!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Pumbaa sat up and blasted another sneeze toward him, sending fur flying in a small burst. Your hair makes my dose itch,” he said, sniffling. “Please don't do dat--WAA-CHOOOO!--again, ‘kay?”

  Simba wilted. “Okay.” He padded away slowly as Pumbaa lay back down, still rubbing his nose. Finding a soft bed of leaves, Simba flopped down and lay his head on his paws, the good feeling of the funny little ants gone completely now. Absently, he began to groom his forepaws in slow strokes, ignoring the fact that they were clean, in fact much cleaner than any cub his age had a right to be. Sarabi had brooked no refusal in this area, and she had instilled her fastidiousness in her son in this regard. Simba smiled slightly as he remembered sitting by her one cool evening, the carefully picked over remains of an antelope behind them when she had given him his first taste of meat. They had lain together against the slowly cooling body, Simba sprawled across her forepaws, his eyes closed in utter ecstasy as she had licked him clean of the animal’s blood. The purring from deep in her chest had been loud against his ear, and he had answered in kind, content to simply be there with her, to feel her soft fur against his face, reveling in the warm sweeps of her tongue that smelled of lioness love.

  Pumbaa glanced back at Simba, wondering at his sudden silence, and saw the tears leaking slowly from the cub’s eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  Timon glanced over and got up to join him. “Jeez, you look blue.”

  "That means you're depressed, right?" Pumbaa looked at Simba worriedly.

  "Yes, that's right, and I am." Simba said.

  "WHOOPEE! I remembered!" He looked at Timon proudly.

  Simba smiled weakly, unable to remember when his depression had last brought someone so much pleasure.

  Timon shushed his friend. "What's the matter, kid?"

  "I feel awful."

  “Oh no, not again!” Alarmed, Timon put his hand on Simba’s brow. “You don’t FEEL sick.”

  Simba lost his tenuous grip on his emotions and began to weep openly. “I want my mother!”

  "Aw, don’t do that! Hey, kiddo. Let me show you something. Ever seen me juggle?”

  He sniffed and wiped his eyes. “What’s that?”

  Timon ruffled the young lion's head affectionately. “I’ll show you.” Timon picked up three pebbles about the size of his own head. “Juggling, my dear carnivorous compadre, is a specialty of mine. It's easy! You just take a couple of stones in your hands like...." The meerkat trailed off, nonplused, as he looked at Simba’s enormous paws. "Hmm. Problem. Ahh, well, just watch me. I'll show ya a trick or two."

  Timon tossed the first stone dexterously into the air and quickly followed it with the other two. The three rocks became a blur of motion as they circled rapidly, forming a grayish oval that framed his face. "See?"

  "Wow!" Simba stared, entranced. "You're awesome!"

  Timon shook his head solemnly. "This, awesome? Nope. This is for beginners, kid. And I am the master. Hey, Pumbaa! Throw me another stone!"

  The warthog tossed another rock to him. Timon caught it backhanded, where it joined the others.

  Simba laughed delightedly. "Boss!"

  "Boss? Where do these kids come up with this stuff?" Timon nodded to Pumbaa. "C'mon."

  Pumbaa grinned as he tossed another stone to the meerkat, then another. Soon six stones were orbiting around Timon's head. Sweat matted the reddish cap of fur on his head, and his arms were growing heavy. "Guess that's enough."

  Simba looked at him eagerly. "One more, pleeease?"

  "I don't know..."

  "Aw, c'mon, Timon!" Pumbaa watched his friend struggling to hold the stones aloft. "You said you were the master."

  "You stay outa this!"

  Simba flattened out on the ground, stretching out a paw before him as though addressing the king. "Pleeease, Unca Timon?"

  "Aww...." Timon's mouth flattened into a thin line. "Why not. I AM the master! Pumbaa! Another stone, if you please!"

  Obligingly, the warthog picked up another pebble and tossed it to him. It was ripped out of the air by his flailing hand and sent aloft to join the other six in one perfect, fluid motion. Timon gaped up at the circling stones. "I did it!"

  Pumbaa cackled as he flicked an eighth stone to the blissful meerkat. Reflexively, Timon grabbed for it and lost control.

  "Look out below!" The others ducked as the stones rained down on the beleaguered Meerkat’s head, each impact punctuated by an agonized "YEOWCH!" The onslaught over, Timon raised his head and rubbed his abused skull gingerly as he surveyed the litter of rocks around him.

  "What happened Unca Timon? Did you drop them?"

  "What?" Timon looked indignant. "No, of course not! I uh, just wanted to show you how dangerous juggling could be. A guy could get KILLED,” he said, glaring at Pumbaa, who merely grinned wider.

  "Okay, if you say so. I feel lots better, though." Simba bent and kissed him on the cheek. "Thanks, Unca Timon. You're the greatest."

  Timon smiled, and the ache in his head seemed to lessen abruptly. "Sure. No problem, kid."

  Simba gave him a wet lick that sent him back on his keester. He got up silently, brushing himself off.

  Simba’s face fell as he peered at the meerkat in alarm. "I'm sorry! You aren’t mad, are you?"

  "No, I like it." Timon abruptly opened his arms and embraced Simba’s neck, hugging the cub to him. "We're all family here."

  CHAPTER 52: GROWING PAINS

  Simba seemed ignorant of the fact that he was growing like a weed. His rough and ready play was cute once, but nature took its course, and the inevitable happened. One day he was playing with Pumbaa and gave the warthog a playful whack that sent him reeling. Pumbaa shook his head and tapped his ear with a forefoot as if to set his brain back in its socket.

  “Hey, are you all right?”

  “Nothing a good nap won’t fix. But please to remember to retract your claws, and watch that right cross, little guy.” Pumbaa sat back and regarded the young lion, noting the lanky form and the smooth interplay of muscles across Simba’s shoulders that was becoming easily visible. “Really, you’re not such a little guy anymore.”

  Timon had long since stopped playing with Simba, and directed his lighte
r moods into word games and riddles. Timon looked at Simba appraisingly. “When will you be grown up, and how big will you be?”

  Simba furrowed his forehead in thought. “When I’m three, I’ll be a grown up, but I won’t get any bigger when I’m two and a half. I don’t know how big I’ll be.” He looked up at the angle he used to take to peer into his mother’s eyes. “Gee, I guess I’ll know when I’m two and a half.”

  Simba was a work in progress. Every day, his potential unfolded like an opening flower, but there was one particular day when it really became real to him. He was playing with a tortoise near the water’s edge, batting it around playfully and finally knocking it into the creek. He came to the water, still rippling with the splash, but even then he noticed something odd about his reflection. Waiting until it stilled, he took in a deep breath and let it out in a shout of delight.

  "Timon! Pumbaa!! Check it OUT!" He reached back with a paw and trembling with joy stroked the first russet hairs of his emerging mane. "Look, it’s happening!"

  "What, what?" Timon looked up from the pursuit of a lovely red beetle, annoyed at the interruption. "WHAT’S happening??"

  Simba was prancing around so quickly that they couldn’t see what the big deal was. "Look guys, just LOOK!"

  "Hold it! What is it, kid?"

  "Look at my mane, guys! I got a mane coming in!"

  Pumbaa stares, entranced. "Wow! You really DO have a mane coming in!"

  "Yeah!" Simba grinned again. "Cool!"

  Timon smiled, but uncertainly. "That's nice and all if it’s your thing, but what's the deal about manes, anyway?"

  Simba looked at him as if Timon had asked him for the reason behind breathing. "What's the big deal?? A mane is...." He thought a moment. “Well the girls dig it.”

  His euphoria faded rapidly as he pondered the odds of a girl noticing him at all. The lion population of the jungle was notoriously small; currently, it was running at exactly one. He regarded the wall of greenery around him with sudden dislike; it seemed cloying, the scents of rotten vegetation and flowers abruptly nauseating.