A/N: Allan Quatermain, after the events of the 2003 movie "The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen".
Encore
The remaining members of the League - Captain Nemo, Rodney Skinner, Mina Harker and Tom Sawyer - solemnly walked away from the graveyard toward transport back to the Nautilus; in their fugue, they were scarcely aware that the weather was changing quickly. Behind them, storm clouds gathered as the local witch doctor danced and chanted; setting some kindling afire, his intonations increased. Lightning crackled in the cloud, and a bolt shot down and struck the Express "Matilda" rifle lying on the fresh grave of Allan Quatermain.
Oddly, the rifle was not damaged by the bolt; instead the ground beneath it began to tremor as the pebbles on the new mound began to roll down the sides. The witch doctor smiled and walked away, apparently satisfied. The tremor subsided and the sky cleared as quickly as it had clouded up. The day finished as most had before it - hot and dry. The night was clear and cold, as the stars shone down from the black firmament above as they traced their paths across the sky until being washed out by the predawn light. At the exact moment the rising sun appeared over the horizon, a hand thrust itself up from beneath the mound.
Back in the gentleman's club, several members were already relaxing in the lounge that had to be relocated to a different part of the building after the explosion that had precipitated Quatermain's departure to join the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. Bruce the barman was polishing what now passed as the collection of drinking glasses behind the counter - the previous complete sets were now seriously deficient after their smashed comrades had been swept away. He sported a fresh scar on his forehead where he had be the recipient of one of the shards in the explosion caused by the bomb left by the Fantom's henchmen.
His back to the entrance, he was arranging a few glasses when he heard footsteps approaching. "What'll it be?" he asked.
"Something strong enough to wake the dead," a familiar voice responded.
Bruce reacted by dropping the glass he had in his hand, and he turned around slowly to see a familiar face - one that had been buried the previous day. He moved his head up and down and took in the image that was before him. "Quatermain," he managed to squeak out.
"The very same. Do I have to reapply as a member after I've died, or am I still welcome?"
"A...a...always w...welcome," Bruce said as he took another glass and then seemed at a loss what to do with it.
"That's comforting. They say you're a member for life, but they don't say what happens after that."
"Are y...you a ghost?" Bruce asked.
"Ghosts don't drink, and I'll take a Scotch if you can find one."
"Coming right up." Bruce tried to calm his nerves as he used both hands to lift the tumbler and pour the drink. He managed to just spill a little as he pushed it toward the somewhat dusty visitor.
"Down the hatch!" Allan said as he tossed the drink down and set the glass on the counter.
"I thought you d...died."
"I did. I guess that witch doctor was the real thing; he said 'Africa would never allow me to die' and I seem to be alive again. A little worse for wear, I have to admit, but I've still managed to dust myself off - mostly - and make it back indoors," he said as he beat his shoulders and some more dust flew off. He winced as the knife wound that had killed him gave a jolt of pain into his back. "Is my room still there?"
"We, ah, haven't touched it."
"Good. I'll need some hot water for a bath and something with meat in it to eat. Don't get the two confused. Got it?"
"Yes."
Allan waved his hand. "Then get it, man!" Bruce stumbled off, looking back a few times, to arrange for the items while Allan made his way into the parlor and attempted to catch up on news. The older and more stoic patrons accepted him readily without question and filled him in on the latest local happenings. It took a bit, but he found out that he had been buried the day before and his companions were long gone. By that time, a steward approached nervously and informed him that his bath and meal were ready.
Allan excused himself and retired to his room to refresh himself. He looked at his bed and laughed; he felt tired, but it was a weariness that no nap would cure. As the steward left, he almost walked into John Higens as the man was about to enter Allan's room. "Good to have you back," John told his fellow explorer; both had seen an adventure or two in their time, and he didn't entirely believe the story of Allan's death - chalking it up to another exaggeration already told by the locals. "You might be able to catch up with your companions if you hurry; encore performance and all that." It was left unsaid that Allan would have no trouble finding whoever he wanted to find.
"No, they are on their own now; they think me dead, and I would keep it that way. Saving the world is for the young; let the cubs find their way in their fashion while I tend to what must be done for me. Encores should be on a voluntary basis only." Searching through a drawer, he found the spare pair of glasses for which he had been looking.
"That Reed fellow that recruited you seemed to think that you were eminently qualified."
"My reputation was qualified; my body was just along for the ride and did it's best to stay out of the way. No, Higens, I am off for a last adventure."
"Jolly good - care for some company?"
Allan smiled. "On any other adventure I could ask no better companion; but this needs be done alone."
"Very well, if you insist. How long will you be gone?"
Allan dropped the smile as he cleaned his glasses and put them on his face. "As long as it takes. I make ready today and leave tomorrow morning at first light; right now a bath calls. If you find yourself in the dining hall for supper this evening I would enjoy your company."
"I look forward to it," John said, holding back the laugh that he normally would emitted; there was something serious about Allan that said gaiety was inappropriate. Instead, he nodded and closed the door behind him as he departed. Allan sighed and stripped before entering the bath for a hot soak; it was a decadence that he admitted enjoying to very few.
The next morning, Bruce hailed John when the latter walked through the parlor on the way to breakfast. "I was a bit surprised you and Quatermain retired early last night. Will you two gentlemen be traveling today?"
"I shall be here the entire day," John said in response. "Mr. Quatermain has already departed, probably before you were awake."
"Early to bed, early to rise, eh?"
"A man goes when it is his time to leave; Allan said it was time."
"Fortune, adventure or women?" Bruce asked, fishing for information. In his casual exposure to the explorers' conversation, it usually boiled down to those three things; it never hurt to dig a little for details that he could judiciously distribute later during his duties.
"Let's just say a woman's bosom is involved, and leave it at that." John winked and strode off, leaving the barman to think he understood.
Allan had the woman's bosom in sight many days later, but it was no ordinary bosom. It was a geographic bosom that he had traveled before; known by others as Sheba's Breasts. North of the Kalukawe River and great desert, he had traveled through them on the way to King Solomon's legendary mines. Now, he sought the chief witch doctor who was said to inhabit the mound he had not visited his first time through. Armed with the knowledge of his previous journey and traveling light, he made the treacherous crossing of the desert with steadfast determination.
Arriving at the base of the mound, he turned his camels loose and began his ascent, with a slow and steady pace up the mound. He kept his eyes open, and soon he found a path made by human feet; it seemed as though the last set traveled up, so he followed the trail in that direction. It wound around and up the mound until it reached high enough that small patches of snow could be found in the deeper recesses of the rock. A little bit further up, a side path led off; checking the tracks, Allan followed the new path until he came to the terminus - not a cave, but an alcove of sorts. Underneath, a man dressed much like a witch doctor stared at him and spoke a greeting. Allan recognized the dialect as one of the Bantu languages.
"Hello," he spoke back as he sat upon a low rock near the man. "I am..."
"Macumazahn." The man called Allan by his name given to him by the native Africans - 'Watcher-by-night'.
"Yes," Allan confirmed. "You were expecting me?"
"The signs say that you would come. They not say why. I am Othamb'na."
So even the wise man on the mountain didn't know everything, he thought to himself. "I have come to lose my blessing."
Othamb'na continued to stare at him as though to see into his soul. "You wish to give back your gift of us."
"I am grateful for that gift; I would not be here now if I did not have it. But..." he said, trailing off. Othamb'na did not pick up the sentence so Allan had to continue. "I love Africa, her lands and her people. But the world is changing, and soon Africa with it. Soon there will be no place in the world for one such as I; it will have as little use for me as I have for it. I fear that time will be soon."
"The tiger's time is nearing the end," the witch doctor surmised.
"Yes," Allan said with relief. Maybe the man did understand. "But if I cannot die, I will continue past my time. I have lost many family and friends; I will lose them all if I am to remain long enough. Please - I think I have earned my rest."
Othamb'na closed his eyes; Allan believed he could see a tear run down the man's face. "A gift is not gift if it causes suffering to a person. We did not understand the what of happening from the gift. We are made sad." He looked towards the sky and spoke in a sing-song style, pausing several times as if to listen and then starting up again. Allan waited until at last the man turned his gaze towards him again. "Africa will now allow you to die. Go in peace, Macumazahn. When you die again, you will meet your son."
"And peace to you, Othamb'na." Allan stood up and stretched. The burden of immortality no longer on him, he felt both younger and older than before. He bowed to Othamb'na in departure and retraced his steps to the main trail. Glancing at the sky, he looked around and determined which direction was north. It would not be an easy trip, but he should be able to make it to the Kukuanas before the last of his supplies gave out. He had never returned to visit Ignosi, the rightful heir he had restored to the throne; with luck and skill, he could make it - fate would decide the matter. With his senses heightened anew, he set out to the north.
The End
A/N: A visually interesting movie, and challenging concept to bring these literary characters together to fight an evil in an alternate history universe. Having read King Solomon's Mines most recently before watching the movie when it came out, I gravitated to that character - and wasn't particularly happy when he died. But when I watched the movie again recently, I caught more of the sadness that Quatermain had for his past life that I missed the first time. So with that in mind (and the ending of the movie) I wanted to have something that would bring him some eventual peace. This was the result.
Additional note - a week after I finished this story, I see in the news that Sean Connery has passed away the previous day. It's not the first time it's happened, but I think it's the first time it happened when I had the character WANTING to die in the story. Weird.