Justin

For two cycles of the moons I remained locked in despondency. Simba dead, his ashes swirled in the currents of the Nyoka, carried back to our beloved jungles. I became the personification of the negative connotations of my name.


It was not so much the question of honor that plagued me, although that certainly weighed heavily on my spirit. I scrutinized that puzzle from every conceivable angle until I had convinced myself that his actions, though tinged with the brashness of youth, were noble. His untimely death, amidst the premiere of his prodigious caste skills, was no stain on the venerable name of Storm. I took great comfort in that rationalization, but it could not erase the loss.

We were an unlikely pair, my half-brother and I. He was birthed by a mother who shunned me. His life in Shaba was vastly different from mine in the city, our paths rarely crossing until his sixteenth birthday when he chose to swear his allegiance to Schendi and returned to live in Storm Manor. Inexplicable forces drew us together, whether they were born of the old language we shared, or the circumstances of our proud lineage, we became as close as twins. His adherence to the old ways mirrored mine as though he leeched Drusilla’s catechism from me. The modern world was changing before our eyes and we, steadfast in our views, and despite our lofty status as scions of the Ubar, were loved best by each other.

But it was Justin who held the right of primogeniture. Many years my junior, it was he who was heir to the legacy of Abu. He was the man I should have been. That might have produced an abiding hatred in some women. I cannot deny that there were, in unguarded moments, fits of jealousy and regret. But I am vain enough to admit proudly that I developed instead a fierce protectiveness and affection that was returned in equal measure by my brother.

Months earlier, another companionship for Abu had stripped me of the title of Mistress of Storm Manor. Convinced it was the gracious thing to do, I removed myself from the manor and lodged in the small beach house on the estate Uncle Arioch had gifted to me on my twenty-fifth birthday. I remained there nursing my pride despite Abu’s impeachments. It was not until Abu, at the height of his grief during the pyre for his son, implored me to be at his side again, to be his solace in our shared bereavement.

Thus the long days of mourning passed, melancholy aggrandized in the selfish belief that the one person who loved me unconditionally, who accepted my rigidity, who, in fact, exalted it, was gone forever. I saw no one but Abu and the slaves sent to cajole me to eat and bathe.

The world did not stop revolving. Events I had no hand in nor gave thought to, little by little drew me back from solitude. A renaissance in Schendi could not be ignored. Hesitantly I emerged from the shroud of woe into the glaring light of Tor-tu-Gor, into the society where my duty required me. I like to think that, in breathing the acrid smoke from his pyre, I have taken Justin’s spirit inside me. I will nurture it every day of my life facing the world a better person for having his company if only a little while.

Na’kupenda, tiba Simba.

Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, where have you been, my darling young one?
I've stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains,
I've walked and I've crawled on six crooked highways,
I've stepped in the middle of seven sad forests,
I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans,
I've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

From A Hard Rain’s a-Gonna Fall by Bob Dylan © 1963