John Burkitt - Shadow of Makei

“What’s groove?” Simba asked.

“Show him, Sefu!”

Sefu waved his wings. “Just like that? Before the good vibrations?”

“Good vibrations?” Simba was confused.

“Yeah. Cloud nine. Seventh heaven. Peace, love and the distinct absence of major irritation.”

“Oh! In the groove!”

“Yeah.”

Simba thought. “How do you start good vibrations?”

“You think about your favorite things. When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I’m feeling sad. I simply remember my favorite things, and then I don’t feel so bad!”

“Just don’t sing it,” Timon said quickly. “Once was more than enough!” The meerkat thought a moment. “What you’re saying is that you CAN’T do a groove from a cold start.”

“Oh yeah??”

“Oh yeah!”

“Well give me room! I need space!”

Sefu stood atop a log that acted as an impromptu podium. He looked into the sky and began to sway slightly. “Oh, I can feel it coming, cats! It’s coming!”

Simba looked with fascination as the bird began to recite. Softly at first, but later with more volume and confidence:

Simba was fascinated. Sefu stopped, and Simba asked, “How does it end?”

“The story is being written. It comes from the top of your head, from the depths of your heart. You just open your mind and listen to the voices in your head. Listen to the wordless chatter of the leaves. Jump right in when you can. Timon, you add some to it.”

Timon stepped forward and threw out his arms. “Give me space to live, and dig it.”

Sefu listened carefully, and looked thoughtful. “Profound and very....very....uh....depressing. Let’s hear from the boy.”

Pumbaa pushed the reluctant Simba forward. “You can do it! Just make your mind a complete blank!”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Timon griped. “You’ve had plenty of practice.”

“Now hush!” Sefu said. “Let him have at it.”

Simba looked awkwardly at his paws and cleared his throat.

He thought a few moments, and making the supreme effort, burst out with:

“Groovy!” Sefu said. “Dig the chubby cubby--he’s a natural! What he ain’t got ain’t hot!”

Sefu gathered Simba under his wing. “Look here. You keep working on it, and some day you’re going to go places. There’s a spot out there for you. A spot for good lyricists. You do the words, and I do the little black dots.”

“Little black dots?”

“The music!”

“Do you really think I could?”

“Think? THINK?? You got IT, kid! I could make you a star!”

“A star? Me??” Simba’s ears flattened in fear. “I’m too young to die!”

“What?!” Sefu blinked. “No, kid: WE’LL be killin’ THEM. With an act like ours, we’ll SLAY ‘em!”

“Now hold on a minute here!” Pumbaa said. “That’s OUR boy!”

“Are you holding out on me, Pumbaa? You want to be his manager?”

“Not his manager!” Pumbaa said gruffly. “His father! I’m going to make sure he’s taken care of.”

“Okay, okay.” Sefu tapped a foot thoughtfully. “How does a flat rate followed by residuals grab you?”

“I don’t mean that kind of care. I mean love!” Pumbaa looked a little embarrassed. “Hey, I love the kid. I don’t want him to write songs unless it’s what he wants to do.”

Simba looked at Pumbaa. Then he looked back at Sefu. He stalked back to the warthog. “Maybe later, huh?”

“Sure, kid. Whatever floats your boat. I still think we could have made an awesome team.”

Sefu disappeared as quickly as he showed up. Simba looked at Timon with puzzlement. “Is he real?”

“That’s just him. Part philosopher, part musician, all mental case. But he’s really an all right guy when you get to know him.”

“So are you, Uncle Timon. You too, Pumbaa.”

Pumbaa smiled broadly. “Thanks!”

Often a flood began with a few drops of rain, and a fire began with a few small sparks. The first few times Simba felt discomfort after a meal, he thought nothing of it. But finally as days passed into weeks, eating became an exercise in frustration for him. It finally got to the point where he had to be nagged by Pumbaa to eat enough to get by.

He was growing thin. Pumbaa looked at his ribs and said, “Hey, it’s not right for a young fellow not to be hungry like that.” He took Timon aside. “I’m worried about him.”

Finally even Timon became worried. He felt of Simba’s forehead and asked him to stick out his tongue. Everything looked fine, even when he peered at the whites of Simba’s eyes. Though he was no healer, Timon decided that it was probably nothing to worry about—just a childhood disease.

In fact Simba’s appetite kicked in when Pumbaa uncovered a whole nest of Cleoptrid Beetles. They were large, crunchy, and actually had a taste that appealed to Simba. While Pumbaa and Timon were very hungry, they were so glad to see their friend actually eating like his old self that they let him have his fill, even though he ate every last one.

It wasn’t very long until the nausea came back. “Maybe I overate,” Simba said. “I need some water to wash this down. Or I need something.”

“There’s a stream not far from here. Come on.”

“No, Timon. I don’t think I can make it.”

“Do you want to up chuck? Hey, we won’t watch, will we Pumbaa?”

“Just let me....” Simba’s face was a picture of suffering. He coughed, then wretched. “Oh no,” he stammered. Another great heave nearly bent him in two. His meal came up, mixed with a few spots of blood. “Help me! Oh gods, help me!”

“What can I do?” Pumbaa was in despair. “Can I get you anything?”

“No!”

Simba fell on his side and curled up. He wretched repeatedly, splattering the ground with the rest of his meal. But the contractions did not stop.

“Is it gas?”

“Pumbaa, with you, everything is....” Timon looked at the pain in Simba’s eyes. “We have to do something!”

“Let’s pray,” Pumbaa said.

“It’s been so long. I wonder if God still knows I’m here.”

“There’s one way to find out.”

Timon put both of his small hands on one of Simba’s paws. “Don’t you leave me, pal! God, give the little guy a break. He’s had a hard time of it, and he needs something Pumbaa and I can’t give him. Give us a clue. I mean, even if I could help, I don’t know how.” He started as Simba’s paw quivered in his hands, the cub’s muscles flexing with the force of his exertions.

Pumbaa began to cry. “Look at the little boy, God! He’s hurting. Make him stop hurting, please?”

Simba broke out in a sweat. He still retched, though nothing came up but a yellowish drool.

Timon looked up at the sky. “Look, God, I don’t mean to rush you or anything, but if you don’t do something quick, it’s going to be too late! Geez, he’s only a little kid! He deserves a fighting chance.”