Thank so much Sawyer Fan, DocRock06 and mistX. You're wonderful! I'm really, really, really if I continue to make mistakes and, please, forgive me for my limitated use of English. Good reading!

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WHEN YOU'RE GONE

Chapter 3 : Goodbye to Africa

The sky was still very cloudy but on the horizon it began to clear up, while the roar of the thunder was getting fleeber and more distant.

The old hunter stayied gasping near his own grave. All his limbs were aching and trembling. He could hardly stand up and his eyesight was darkened. Tottering a bit, he leaned against the witch doctor beside him. A sense of queasiness overtook him and it made him giddy.

Returning from the Other Side wasn't a beautiful sensation!

The old medicine man took him to a wooden cross of the little cemetery and he helped him to sit down against the wall.

" Stay here. Rest. "

Bit by bit Allan began to feel better but he still had the ideas confused. The breathing became more regular and the pain grew weak, untill it nearly disappeared. His head also stopped buzzing and the images recovered more clear. Looking around, he noticed something, black and shiny, near his grave, half – buried by the soil just turned up. Getting upwith a bit of difficulty, while the native stood still beside the cross. He went up to the object. It was a barrel of a rifle. Quatermain took it from the ground. It looked familiar, very familiar. He was still trying hard to remember where he'd already seen it when, those which before were rare and fleeting drops of memories, suddenly they turned into an authentic fall, a violent current of cold wather that pierced his lung and frozed his blood. Now he remembered everything, every single aspect and detail. He remembered also that gun a his proprietor.

Thomas!

His heart became wider at the memory of that boy he'd known and the last time he'd seen him. He'd got M! Shooting had been the only thing Allan had taught him but Tom had learnt it perfectly. He was so pround of him. He wasn't a bad teacher anymore. He'd trained him very well. The boy was really ready for the action.

In spite of what Moriarty said!

He had finished making mistakes, also like a father. A father! Being a father again! It was a strange but pleasant sensation, like an anchient perfume almost forgotten, like a gentle and penetrating warmth which melted the ice, the snow of a winter that he had inside him since too much time.

Quatermain smiled to himself. He would teach him every his other tricks, everything he Knew, as fathers do to their sons. It would be his legacy, the inheritance of an hero. But he'd become aware of having given already to that boy something which went beyond those things. He gave him his life. He'd never hoped to offer him anything more precious than his knowledge. Now he knew he was wrong.

Nothing was more priceless than the life.

With that action Allan had remedied every mistake in all his life. He'd remedied his son's death saving another one.

Then he'd run into the League. Although at the beginning in the group there were diffidence and some conflicts, at the end of the adventure they had found themself united against the common enemy, side by side, to save innocent lifes. They had worked in team, helping each other and not leaving behind anyone. They had do the most they could and they'd won. Despite all the difficulties, the treacheries and the obstacles, they had succeed to do something of good, together.

The old hunter was interrupted from his reflections, taking him back to the reality, by the voice of the native.

" They're already gone. "

Quatermain stared at him. His face was expressionless and his eyes were fixed on him.

" When ? "

" As soon as they buried you. "

Allan felt the anguish rise inside his heart, a sudden and uncontrollable hurry of going, reaching his team, seeing them.

" How much time is passed? "

" Neither a day. " answered cordially the old man " Africa keeps always his promises. "

The white hunter lowered sadly his head, smiling scarcelly.

" Thanks. "

Though ha was grateful for that marvellous gift, Allan was disheartened and a bit disappointed. He knew very well he was took back to this world only to continue helping Africa and so it wouldn't in her plans to allow him to go around all the continents to scatter troubles with a bizarre band of odd and eccentric people. With that gesture she wanted give him new tasks, new responsability and new hopes. He couldn't betray her trust in him! She brought him again to the life and so his life belonged to Africa.

What a paradoxical sotuation! I would have the opportunity to go and see them... but I can't!

Although half – heartedly, Quatermain decided to stay there to go on with protecting the black continent, his home, as she expected it of him.

But it is a shame, a real shame!

In the meantime the witch doctor was staring at the hunter. He knew the troumbling in Allan's soul, that cold light which came to the surface of his eyes. His way of gazing at the gun, like he was on the point of leaving it forever, like it was the last time he would see it.

He interrupted the silence.

" You're not compelled to remain. "

Allan looked at him, incredulous and astonished. Maybe he had not understood very well.

" What ? "

" You can go. " repeted smiling the old man.

He seemed to be honest but the hunter was still suspicious.

" You're not reading my thoughts, aren't you? "

" Absolutly not! " he answered calm " but it's not necessary to be a prophetic to decipher that gaze, to know what you're thinking about. "

Quatermain lowered his eyes on the rifle.

Caught!

A bit embarassed, he tried to explain. " It's only that... "

" You miss him. " finished the other man.

He gaze at him and nodded.

" He anso miss you very much. He's been the last person leaving your grave. "

Allan felt discomfort. The last thing he'd seen before dying had been the young's expression of dismay, anguish and profound sadness.

I shouldn't be here! That boy needs me! He would think I'm dead. He would suffer for this and I couldn't be able to nothing to mitigare his grief!

Interpreting his silence as a confirmation of his theory, the witch doctor went on to talk.

" You died for him, did you? "

The old hunter was pierced to the quick. He didn't knew what to answer.

He saw the distance, beyond the horizon. He felt a cold shiver run down his spine, while that moment, that dreadful nightmare lived in his mind again: Moriarty's diabolic sneer, Tom with a knife pointed at his throat, so near to the death and the fear and the tension of having only a few seconds to save the person ho loved the most in the whole world...

Quatermain put a hand on his eyes. God! He'd almost losed him! If it happened he wouldn't never forgive himself!

But he returned to admire the light of the sun, his positive and comforting power.

He wasn't dead! I'd succeeded to protect him! I'd done it!

" Why don't you retun to him? "

" Because I have a dept of gratitude to Africa! "

Allan began to get furious. Why on earth he persisted in tormenting him? Why he had to insist in touching on a sore point?

You bloody know better than me why I can't leave!

The native sighed, shaking his head, as he'd listened those words.

" I haven't revived you for that motive. "

The white hunter opened his eyes wide.

Ah no?

" I've done it so that you might continue to do what you were doing while you're protecting my village, rescuing innocents and saving women and children. If you remain here, you couldn't carry out adequately your mission because you would be distant from people who needs your help. "

And coming nearer, he put both his hands on Allan's shoulder and, smiling, he concluded.

" The only thing I ask you to do is just hte same you desire the most: taking care of who you love and letting not nobody to take it from you. "

Quatermain couldn't believe it! He was free to go!

" I ... don't know how to thank you. "

" You know it. " the witch doctor said, patting his shoulders " You know it. "

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A rider and his horse ran across the silent savannah of the black continent.

Allan breathed deeply the air which was investing him, the air of the freedom and the adventure. It was intoxicating while his heart throbed headlong of joy and the spirit glided on the wings of the wind. It was like he was returned young, like he still had the vitality of his best years, an inextinguishable fire in his veins.

He was more alive than he'd never been before!

Now he could realize all his dreams. It wasn't too much late to change his life, to write a new final chapter for his history, or rather, to star a new book. Running against the wind, Quatermain kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, while with his mind he flew across torrid deserts, green hills and endless seas, beyond Countries and Nations, always more distant as far as the Nautilus, as far as the League, as far as his boy.

But unexpectedly, the distant trumpeting of an elephant broke the spell. It seemed like it was calling him. He stopped the horse to listen better but that call faded. He looked around to localize any traces of the pachyderm but fe fuonded out to be alone in the immense african plain, soaked by the fashinating light of the sun, which was disappearing beyond the border of the earth in a silent struggle against the advancing darkness, on the background of a bright red sky, so flashing and enchanting, while the shadows widened untill they were losted in the eternal nothing of the night.

How much were wonderful the sunsets in Africa! That triumph of blazing colours where drowned his thoughts and his worries and where his warlike spirit founded peace and tranquillity.

And he felt the bite of the yearning. Heaven knows how much time would pass before he could see again his country, his home land. Admiring again its vast spaces and going through its boundless prairies again and its landscapes so full of snares and charm. The black continent had been his hom for many years. He would miss that star – studden sky and the hunting parties with his friends and companions of adventures.

Neverthelless it seemed that Africa was smiling at him. Her spirit was with him and it would be always.

Africa will belong always to my heart.

And he resumed running.

If in my work there are some elements which refer or belong to stories of other writers, believe me, they are completely chances. I don't want to copy the story of anyone. My sources of inspiration are absolutly different!