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.”