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."
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 that 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.