John Burkitt - Shadow of Makei

“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 nuzzling him desperately. “My precious little boy!” she finally choked out between her sobs. “Gur’bruk, it’s him!”

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?"