The Spirit Quest cotpl-2

by John H. Burkitt

  The Spirit Quest

  ( Chronicles of the Pride Lands - 2 )

  John H. Burkitt

  David A. Morris

  Продолжение "Chronicles of the Pride Lands". Жизнь и приключения Рафики до, в течении и послеThe Lion King.

  THE SPIRIT QUEST

  by John Burkitt and David Morris

  Part Two of Chronicles of the Pride Lands

  FOREWORD BY THE AUTHORS:

  DEDICATION:

  This work is dedicated to Aslan, the lion whom we have adopted through the Born Free Foundation. His newfound freedom and the loving care given him by his friends in the BFF is a source of joy for our spirits.

  And how I love you! You make the morning start

  Joy streaming from my heart as I repeat your name;

  You are my treasure. You came into my world;

  Whatever Fate may hold, my life won’t be the same.

  In the middle of writing this work, the awesome power of nature reaffirmed itself. Hurricane Fran devastated portions of David’s hometown and we were out of touch for several days. I never realized before how much I missed his friendship, gentle humor and insights; things I no longer take for granted. As Uzuri so truly said, “There is not much time between sunrise and sunset. If you would not be caught out after dark, you must leave some time for all the important things.”

  This work tackles the unique perspective of Rafiki without being a simple restatement of Chronicles. Reading it, you will find that there is a little Rafiki in all of us.

  Now let us discuss lions and ourselves. Male lions sometimes kill cubs when they take over a pride. Sometimes they won’t, and that is very significant. Leonine society is a patchwork quilt of possibilities, probabilities, and the occasional life that sets a higher goal for the species. Human society is much the same in its diverse way. We have hopeful possibilities, depressing probabilities, and the occasional life that sets a higher goal for our species, like Moses, Francis of Assisi and Florence Nightingale. The Nazi holocaust and the Mayan sacrifice of war prisoners were documented human behaviors. You are human. That means these things are part of the observed behaviors of YOUR species. Does that make you feel offended? Many of us are repelled by these events, though events such as this form a recurring pattern in the history of our species. Pick up the paper—they are still occurring and most likely will continue despite our best efforts. By this criterion, “Cruelty, Human” has earned a place right before “Cub Killing, Male Lion,” in the encyclopedia of behaviors. Is this intended as a stinging indictment of the human race? Hardly. What about the “Magna Charta,” Robert Louis Stevenson, and Livingstone’s charity hospital in Central Africa? Isn’t that also part of the human legacy? Sure it is. “Magna Charta” comes before “Mother Love, Lioness.” A light begins to shine on you, and the meaning becomes clear. We are not that different--not really. A divine spark of love in each of us waits for the chance to burst into flame. Tend it, encourage it, add the tinder of respect and blow upon it softly with kind words. Those of us, human, lion, and mandrill, who burn brightly in the darkness not only walk with God, we light the path for others. Follow this trail and strive to set a higher goal for yourself and your species--it is your own Spirit Quest.

  John Burkitt, Nashville, Tennessee

  October 1, 1996

  It's good to be back again. It feels like a homecoming, to be back in the Pride Lands. There are so many wondrous places to go, and faces to see...like the song says, "There's more to be seen, than can ever be seen; more to do than can ever be done." So stay a little longer with us.

  There's a few other places we still have yet to visit.

  On Saturday night, September 7th, Hurricane Fran had smashed her way into history here in Wilmington. With the power out, I was sitting in the pitch blackness of my room, trying to write down a scene for this story by candlelight when the phone rang. To my utter delight, I heard John's voice on the other end. His selfless concern for me moved me to tears, and the buoyant effect on my spirits was immeasurable. I count myself lucky to have such a friend.

  David Morris, Wilmington, North Carolina

  October 1, 1996

  PROLOGUE

  "The righteous are bold as a lion."

  --- Proverbs 28:1

  Early one morning Busara, a young Mandrill shaman, was headed far afield to gather Tiko root. It was scarce and very valuable, but he knew some secret places to gather it easily.

  Since his income relied on a secret, he was careful not to be followed. He only told his wife where the mint grew, and he was careful never to take the same route twice.

  This day, he dared to ford the tall savanna grass. He was surrounded by golden wands that screened his enemies but shifted noisily around him and crackled under his feet. He was very nervous, and felt like he was being watched. He stopped and listened carefully, glancing about for signs of watchful eyes.

  He spotted a lioness in the grass and gasped. For a heart-stopping moment, he sized up his situation. She had seen him and was watching his every movement. He began to tremble violently.

  He thought about walking quietly away, but knew it would probably trigger a spring and certain death. The moment he ran, she would pursue. “Great Pishtim,” he thought, “hear my prayers. If I must die today, gather up my soul. But please don’t let me die!”

  But he then saw the ugly red gash on her shoulder. No one hunted cape buffalo without risk: she had gambled and lost. She would not spring on him. In fact, she was the one who was afraid.

  Relieved, he took in a deep breath and slowly let it out. The air felt good, venting the fear from his lungs. He started to walk off, still a little trembly in the limbs. He thought about his wife and home that had for a moment seemed forever lost. “Once I get home, I’m going to kiss that girl!” He would also make an offering to Pishtim, and remember to pray for that poor lioness--may her suffering be cut short.

  He tried to block out her pained expression. It would not be easy, for Busara was a healer and compassion was his way to worship God. Once when he was a child his father had taken in a sick leopard cub. For three agonizing days and nights, he watched as one formula after another failed to satisfy her needs. Finally with a faint cry, she died of starvation in his arms. Somehow at that moment it did not matter that leopards eat mandrills. Busara wept and held the still-warm body until it was cool. It was his first experience with death, but certainly not his last. He knew that death was a part of life, and he knew he was not responsible for the wound that brought down the once mighty lioness. Still each death took a small chunk from his soul, and he would bleed inside. Many old wounds were reopening.

  “I will pray for her,” he said. “There is nothing more that I can do. She is dying, and yet she could kill me too.”

  He kept walking. There was Tiko root to gather. He had a wife to support and herbs to trade for. After all, he had devoted his life to healing the sick. If he threw away his life on this lioness, many would die on some future day. There was simply nothing he could do!

  “Pishtim, take care of her. Shorten her suffering. Take pity on her.” The fearful eyes and the ugly wound haunted him. How that must hurt! How pained and thirsty she must be, panting away her last moisture, watching her life ebb away in a red river of death. “There’s nothing I can do!”

  He was nearly to the patch, and maybe work would take his mind off of her. But something inside him grew sick--the kind of sickness even Tiko root cannot dispel. He tried to walk forward, but he felt himself being dragged back. “If I were alone, and did not have a wife, I would go back. But I must consider Kima’s welfare.”

  He stopped. He knew tha
t a compassionate husband left home, but a different husband would return if he could abandon that creature to a slow death. He may look the same as the old Busara, but inside he would be more cynical and less caring. He did not like the person he was in danger of becoming.

  Against his common sense, he turned back. “I’m going to regret this.”

  She greeted his arrival with a snarl that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. “Go away! Buzz off, ape!”

  He stared at the shoulder. Clearly, she could not walk well, if at all.

  “I said beat it! You think you can throw sticks and stones at me? You think you’re really funny?? I’ll make you laugh till you beg death to release you!”

  Busara just stood there staring, tears in his eyes and his chin beginning to quiver. Despite her spirit, she was obviously afraid and in deep anguish. He took a gourd from his staff. “There is an artery just under the skin on my throat,” he said calmly, drawing a line with his finger. “If you rake me there, I will die in two minutes, maybe three and you won’t have to die alone.”

  The lioness was surprised by his answer. “You’re very brave--or very stupid.”

  Busara reached in the gourd and took some moistened herbs. “Lie still.” He started to put the herbs on the wound when a paw swept out and struck his hand. Busara moaned and clutched his bleeding hand. No doubt she expected him to run. Her expression changed from anger to surprise.

  Without unkind words he gathered up the scattered herbs from the grass. Setting the example by putting a small dose on his own hand, he said, “I mean you no harm. A little more still, if you please.”

  Patiently, but trembling, he reached toward the wound. “This won’t hurt a bit--I promise.”

  “What is that stuff?”

  “It will relieve your pain.”

  “It looks like weeds to me.”

  “It can save you.” He reached for her jaw and before she knew what to expect he slipped his other hand in her mouth. Her eyes turned to stare at him. “Consider it our agreement. If I hurt you, bite it off.”

  Despite her misgivings, she held still and let him place the poultice on the wound. It did not pain her, so she even let him poke and prod around the wound, then massage the area to restore circulation.

  She sighed with relief and let go of his hand. “That does feel better,” she said. “I have been stoned by monkeys before. I didn’t know they could be kind.”

  He looked into the large, beautiful eyes of the lioness. “Anyone can be kind.”

  She looked back. “You’re crying, aren’t you?”

  “The Bedango makes my eyes water.” He wiped his eyes and got another gourd. “Here, drink this water.”

  Slowly and carefully he poured its contents into her mouth. Some of it spilled, but enough made it into her parched throat to bring a smile of relief. “The gods must have sent you. What is your name?”

  “Busara.”

  “‘Teacher.’ That is a good name. I am Asumini.”

  “That means ‘jasmine.’ A delicate flower.” He looked at his cut hand and glanced at her injured but still powerful arm. With a smile of amusement, he harvested grass, then raised her head and made a soft cushion. “Asumini, as soon as you can walk we have to get you out of this sun. I live in a cave nearby. There you will be safe from the jealous eyes of night.”

  “I can’t stay here. I can’t eat fruit, and you’re no hunter.”

  “I’ll scavenge.”

  “You’ll drive off the hyenas, eh?” She looked at him wistfully. “I know I am not long for this world, but I will pray for you, Busara.”

  “There must be someone that can help you,” Busara said. “Don’t you have family or friends?”

  “My husband and my pride sisters,” she said. “If you would go to the west to Pride Rock, surely the gods would repay you someday. As you walk, chant ‘Aiheu abamami,’ so they will know you are a friend. Tell them Asumini sent you.”

  “I will find them.”

  “It’s a long trek.”

  “It does not matter.” He reached down and stroked her face. “Don’t worry. This time death will not win. I promise.”

  Her tongue touched his hand. “I won’t forget you.”

  “And I won’t forget you.” Clearly it was not the Bedango that made his eyes water that time.

  Thus begun the ‘Peace of Asumini’ which made Mandrills corban--safe from harm--which is still honored in the Pride Lands to this day.

  CHAPTER 1: RAFIKI IS BORN

  The mandrill Neema was crying out in anguish as she brought her child into the world. Her husband, Chief Kinara, had sat unruffled through many struggles with a calm smile. Now he was clearly in distress listening the muffled moaning of his wife. His sons Makedde and Makoko were trying to comfort him as best they could.

  “Bear down,” the midwife said. “It will hurt more, but it is much quicker. Bear down.”

  A piercing scream left no doubt it hurt. “Oh gods! Oh gods! See me through!”

  The midwife said, “The more it hurts, the more you will love your child.”

  “If I love him much more, it’ll kill me!!”

  Even in her pain, she kept a little sense of humor. But the chief was not amused. He kept wringing his hands and pacing around. “Why doesn’t she hurry!”

  “She’s doing the best she can,” Makedde said. “Some things can’t be hurried.”

  “That’s it,” said the midwife. “Come on, Neema! It’s almost over!”

  Finally there was a cry that sounded more like a call of relief. And a few moments later came a shrill yip showed that a new voice was speaking.

  At long last the midwife came for the Chief. The young sons were warned away for now. “You’ll get your chance. Don’t crowd the mother.”

  Chief Kinara looked at Neema and the small moist bundle of fur and long limbs she held. “Our son,” she whispered.

  “Our son,” he said, bending down to kiss Neema’s perspiring brow. “You said you wanted a daughter this time. Did you change your mind?”

  “I stick with what works. You know that.”

  He turned the small face to look at him. With a slight shrug, he contemplated the somewhat plain but pleasant visage. “Metutu,” he said, for the child was no beauty but also was not ugly. The midwife, not understanding, went outside and said, “Listen all! Chief Kinara has a son. By the will of the gods, Metutu!”

  Neema frowned at her husband. “Now look what you’ve done.”

  “It means one whose face does not lie.”

  “It also means plain one.”

  “He’s the son of the chief. They better not call him ‘plain one’ if they know what’s good for them!” He bent down and looked into the child’s eyes.

  “Oh look, he’s smiling at me!”

  “It’s probably gas,” Neema said.

  “I tell you he’s smiling,” Kinara stressed. “And well he might smile. His life will be easy and free from pain, at least if I have any say over it.” He kissed the child. “Welcome home, Metutu.”

  CHAPTER 2: GROWING PAINS

  Metutu’s first days at home were a series of pleasant experiences. Kinara’s promise was being fulfilled, for the only hardships he’d ever known were in the stories of gods and heroes his mother used to tell. His every need was taken care of by his devoted mother and his trusted servants.

  When he turned three, the age where other young mandrills took on small chores, Metutu was told to keep a sharp eye on the servants and make sure they did not shirk their jobs. Even then, there was no doubt he was being groomed for leadership, perhaps as the next chief.

  Metutu’s brothers were much older. They treated their young sibling with affection and gentleness, but they were interested in playmates more their own age that understood the rough, complex games of older boys. So when Metutu wanted a playmate, Busara was careful to select someone about his age, a bright, polite youth from one of the powerful families on the council. Wandani by his temperment a
nd learning was the clear choice. In addition, his parents were strongly loyal to Kinara’s administration, so Wandani would never try to influence the Chief through his son.

  By the time they had coached Wandani on his duties, he knew the honor given him was balanced with the weight of responsibility he bore. The only remaining question was if Metutu would like him. That was quickly settled to the joy of all--Metutu was delighted with him.

  It would be unkind to suggest that Wandani was only doing his job. Metutu was a gentle soul, much like his mother. He didn’t have the charm of his father, but he had no lack of compassion as far as his sheltered life would let him understand it. Wandani quickly warmed to this, and it was expressed in the zealous way he carried out his job.

  Metutu knew that he was different from the others. He knew that other children were not as privileged, and had to work harder. He also knew that others, including Wandani, had a sort of beauty on the outside that he lacked. Once Metutu asked him if he were really so plain, and Wandani was beside himself with passionate denials. But Metutu knew he was no great prize, and he reaffirmed his belief by a quick glance at his reflection in the water.

  Wandani, in a moment of great maturity, told Metutu that his beauty was on the inside. It was little comfort when Metutu took a great deal of ribbing about it from some the other youths. They seized upon his name as a cruel taunt. Still, he never forgot what Wandani said. Like most young males, he was not overly demonstrative about his feelings toward his playmates. But in his love for Wandani, he would often call him by the name he would come to bear himself: Rafiki Wandani, “my dearest friend Wandani.”

  Most of the time Metutu played with Wandani and Asumini, the daughter of Chief Scribe Busara. It was rumored that this Asumini was named after an old lioness that used to visit Busara’s cave.