"The Spirit Quest" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burkitt John H., Morris David A.)

PROLOGUE

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.

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.