Alan arrived at the village much faster than he had anticipated. An hour's hard running had gotten him further than he had supposed. This was where it was coming from, he decided. The feeling of misery and horror that was niggling in the back of his mind originated here. It wasn't his own unhappiness that he sensed, he had immediately realized. It was the mourning of the land. Africa, herself, was in pain. Her children had been stolen.
Shaking his head, bringing himself back to the here and now, Alan found himself face to face with the village shaman.
"You have come," the man said in his language, relief momentarily painted on his features.
"What has happened here?" Alan asked, not questioning how he knew this particular dialect, or how he knew that something was horribly wrong.
"He has come."
With that vague statement, Alan's mind was flooded with images. A cruel man, his boots and musket an identical, oiled black, amid the blood of hundreds of creatures, and people. A hunter, but other than that different from Quatermain in every way. He sought the thrill of the hunt in tracking the most skilled, sentient beings he could find - in a game more dangerous and abhorrent than any other.
"The sons of our village have been taken. Seven youths, all our best hunters. In our sleep they came, and they drugged our people and stole our hunters. They burned some of our homes, and killed the wives and children of the kidnapped ones."
Alan took a step back in shock, and flinched as the land cried out in pain. The shaman's eyes widened.
"You are the one," he breathed. "You feel the pain of the land. Africa sings in you, speaks to you."
Alan was silent, trying to absorb what the shaman was saying.
"Please," the older man said, his voice broken with sorrow. "Please help us."
Alan could not refuse. "I know this threat," he said simply. "I do not know if I can bring your warriors back to you. But I can hunt this evil, and I swear on my soul that I will destroy him, or die in the attempt."
The shaman bowed his head slightly. When he looked up, there were tears in his eyes. "The land cherishes you," he responded in blessing. "Africa will never let you die."
Alan bowed his own head in return. "My thanks, elder," he responded. He glanced at the position of the sun and then said softly, thoughtfully, "But never is a very long time."
He did not see the small, gentle smile that graced the lips of the shaman, who whispered, "May Africa guide, protect, and speed you on your way."
Alan turned back to the old man, who had by now turned back to the village. "My thanks," he murmured. Then he turned and began to run, spurred on to greater and greater speeds in his haste. He knew this threat, and was determined that the demon that had stolen so many, including one dear to his heart, be stopped. He had never believed in vengeance, but he could hear Africa now, thrumming in his head, the heartbeat of the land demanding justice for her stolen and murdered children.