“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.”

A rustling in the underbrush startled them, and they turned to see two hyenas step out slowly, scenting the air. The bigger female stepped forward and spoke, stumbling slightly in the common language. “We take care of him.”

“Hey, you’ll have to kill us first!”

“You’re Timon, are you not?” The male saw by his startled expression that he must be right. “We here-” He shook his head and tried again. “We are here to help you with the sick child. You were the one that asked God to give the child a fighting chance, aren’t you?”

“You could have overheard us. That’s not a miracle.” Timon did not trust them. “Get lost before my buddy here stomps you flat.”

The male fixed Timon with his gaze, stilling the meerkat as he stared into the deep set eyes of the hyena. Sparkles winked on and off in there, a dancing firelight of silver as the hyena spoke softly. “There is nothing whatever to fear from us."

Timon answered back, "I'm not afraid."

"We trust we will have your full cooperation."

Timon nodded. "If there's anything I can do for you, just let me know."

The male said, "You will introduce me to the child."

"Sure. Simba, these are two good friends of mine. They have come here to help you."

"Who are they?" Simba asked, cringing from another spasm.

"I don't know," Timon said, looking puzzled. “I must have forgotten their names.”

Simba cringed away from the huge hyenas as they moved closer. "I am Gur'bruk, and this is my bak’ret Kambra. We are--how you say--healers. We were sent by Minshasa, the lioness of white hair. You know her, don’t you?"

Simba’s eyes flickered for a moment, but another spasm of pain wrenched at him, and he simply moaned.

"I don't know any white lionesses," Timon said, puzzled. "But hey, I'm glad she sent you."

Kambra sniffed of the spots on the ground. “This is bad. We must act now.”

“I could have told you that.”

Gur'bruk frowned at Timon, and the meerkat silenced. Then Gur’bruk had Simba lay on his side. "Look at my eyes, son. Can you tell me what color they are?"

"Sure. They're brown."

"Are you sure? Are you very sure?"

"Well I--no, they're green. No wait, they’re blue. Hey, how did you do that?"

"I will tell you in a minute. But right now, what color are they?"

"They're still blue but there are little white things--oh, it's the sky! I can see the clouds move!"

“Very good. If you look at the clouds, some of them are shaped like things you know.”

Kambra was feeling over Simba's body with a paw. Though she was barely touching him, it was clear from her face that she was concentrating very hard.

"Look past the clouds,” Gur’bruk asked. “Are there birds in the sky?"

“Yes. Lots of them.”

Kambra’s roving ceased as she stared intently at a spot on Simba’s side. Nodding, she glanced up at Timon and winked. Then she looked at Gur’bruk oddly for a moment, and turned back to Simba.