NEUNUNDZWANZIG (I just realized the chapter numbers were off by one…oops! Gotta fix that sometime soon.)

Der Held der Löwen

Hermann walked back to Pride Rock at Simba's side, slowly making his way toward a hero's welcome in his familiar, calculated three-step. Before he was ever able to take his first step up, he could hear the reception that awaited him, the never-ending chorus of hoorays and bravos that bounced endlessly off cave walls and rock faces before making its way to his ears. It was the first time that night that a loud noise of any kind had not come from a gun barrel, much to Hermann's satisfaction: as he had no way of protecting his ears, and the gunshots were amplified even more from bouncing off the rocks, he was secretly enjoying the relative silence of being alone in the night (even if he had just inadvertently been a part of a de facto coroner's report on Simba's father).

Both he and Simba could hear the rising crescendo of noise before they ever took their first step onto the first rock. As they got closer yet, Hermann could make out individual voices for a few seconds at a time, but it didn't take long for his beleaguered hearing to meld all the sounds into one incongruous hum. Still, he didn't think much of his temporary disability: Hermann supposed that if he could live for twelve years with a crippled leg, and if Beethoven could compose entire symphonies while completely deaf, a little hearing loss wasn't much to complain about in the grand scheme of things…especially if it was for a good cause.

"Do you want to go in first, or should I?" Hermann asked when he arrived at the mouth of the cave, unsure as to just what would constitute proper protocol. After all, even though he had been appointed to an official position and was set to formally join the pride in a matter of days, he was still significantly outranked.

"Why don't we go in together, side by side?" Simba offered. "I'm not going to stand in the way of you getting the congratulations you deserve."

"I think I can live with that. OK, here we go, eins, zwei, drei…" It was the second time Hermann had stood outside the cave and given himself a quick three-count since arriving in Africa. Unlike the first time, however, he knew exactly what awaited him inside. No sooner than he had stepped through the entrance, he was completely enveloped by two prides, two cubs, and another cheering human. As shot as his hearing was, Hermann could hear words in the unending cacophony that surrounded him:

"You did it! We're free!"

"He's a hero!"

"She's gone for good!"

"Bravo!"

"Gut gemacht!"

Hermann quickly held up his hand before what little remained of his hearing disappeared. "Ruhig, bitte! Quiet down; let me speak!" The noise died away, and those who had previously been cheering adopted faces of concern. Hermann's tone had not seemed celebratory, and they wondered if he was still fretting over the result of his final shot that night.

"Can everyone hear me?" Hermann asked. "Good." His deadpan, disconcerting expression suddenly gave way to exuberance. "Tonight, the final score stands as follows: Deutschland 1, Zira 0!" The cheering immediately resumed, at an even louder volume than before. Hermann was having a ball in the madness of it all until a spinning Stuttgart Football club pennant caught him squarely across the face. "Ow!" he shouted at the culprit, who had chosen to ignore the impact, act oblivious, and continue twirling the banner over his head. "What the hell was that for?"

"What was what for?" Markos shouted back, still feigning innocence.

"You know damn well what! Watch where you're swinging that thing!"

"Can't hear you!" Markos grinned and pointed to his ear. "Olé, olé olé olé…"

"Am I supposed to believe that? Get back here before I clock you over the head!"

Hermann's rebuke fell on deaf ears, as the intended recipient, pennant still in hand, had started jumping around the room and asking cheering lionesses (in German) if they knew what crowd surfing was and whether or not they'd be interested in trying it out. "We're not at a school party or a football match!" Hermann tried shouting after his friend again, with similarly unsuccessful results. "Behave yourself!"

"Let him have his fun," Simba gently suggested. "What's the worst he can do?"

"Remember how I said the only difference between drunk Markos and sober Markos was how he gets even more tone deaf when he's been drinking?" Hermann said.

"Sure, I remember."

"I think you're about to get a poignant reminder of that fact. "Markos, no, don't do it! Stop!"

Simba scarcely had enough time to look behind him in the direction of Hermann's light before one hundred and fifty pounds landed stomach-first on his back, fists raised in the air and still swinging the soccer flag around. Hermann, to say the least, was utterly and completely horrified.

"Get off him! Get down this instant!"

"Olé, olé olé olé…we're number one! We're number one! We're number—whoa!"

Thud

Markos wound up on his back, looking up at Hermann and Simba while sporting an understandably sheepish grin."Uh, sorry," he said in accented English. Simba was going to tell him to think nothing of it, but Hermann spoke first:

"You moron…what were you thinking, exactly, if at all? And now look what you've done; Kopa's taken after your fine example." Hermann saw that Kopa had perched himself on his father's back, waiting excitedly for someone to throw a twirl-worthy object his way. "Do us a favor, the next time you get the urge to do something that monumentally stupid, wrap that ridiculous banner over your face and smother yourself instead."

"That's a fine way to talk to the guy who saved your life, now, isn't it? And there's nothing ridiculous about the Stuttgart Football Club!"

"Just answer me one question: are there any more shampoo bottles filled with vodka that you didn't tell me about?"

"Nope, not a drop. Those two bottles we had this afternoon were the last of my reserves. We're officially and unavoidably dry from here on out."

"It's true," Kopa interrupted, reminding everyone else that as far as he was concerned, speaking in German was no longer an effective way to keep a conversation on the down-low. "He's only had water to drink; he said so himself."

"Of course he said so," Hermann answered. "Deepest apologies, Simba; if I'd known earlier that he was actually going to do that—

"I'm not hurt, he's not hurt, so no harm done," Simba said. "Let's not waste any more time arguing; we should be celebrating, shouldn't we? Tell you what, since you're our guests of honor, why don't you tell me how you normally celebrate at home?"

"Lots of food, a big group of friends…and beer, of course, but I think it's best if we leave that part off for tonight. Just so you-know-who over there doesn't get any more bright ideas."

"Well we've got plenty of food, haven't we? All we need is a fire."

Hermann nodded. "Markos, go take three of your closest friends and get as much wood as you can find and bring back. I want a conflagration big enough for the satellites to pick up."

"Why don't you go get it?"

"Markos, firewood! Now!"

"But I—

"Don't make me start referring to you as 'it' again. This is your punishment for that ridiculous swan dive, now go."

Hermann thought he heard another "mein Führer" comment as Markos slunk off to look for deadwood. The frenzy of the celebration had since died down a bit as the participants made their way outside in anticipation of the festivities to come. Even though he had been enjoying himself, Hermann was glad to have at least a temporary respite and time for his ears to recover. As soon as Markos got back and the bonfire started burning, he figured, everything would turn straight back into barely-controlled, victory-inspired mayhem, minus only the flying soccer balls and copious amounts of alcohol normally found on such occasions outside the stadium in Stuttgart.

Hermann had every intention of staying outside, enjoying the night sky as he waited for Markos to return, but he had only spent a few moments stargazing when someone called his name from back inside the cave. What he saw when he returned was a rather poignant reminder of the events he had been hoping to completely forget about: a few of the Outlander lionesses, plus Nala, looking at tiny cub curled up in the corner.

"Something's not quite right with him," Simba whispered. "What do you think?"

"Skinny and shaking all over for some reason—he's probably scared to death."

"Can you look him over?"

"Of course I can, but frankly I don't think there's anything physically wrong with him; he could use a few pounds, but more likely than not he's just frightened out of his mind because I...never mind, no use going down that road again. Tell you what, why don't you try and talk to him first; he'll probably be more comfortable speaking to you than to me."

Simba took a few steps forward, only to see the cub only shrink away. Hermann shrugged his shoulders and tried walking over himself, but it was no use at all: every time someone tried to get even the slightest bit closer, the youngster pressed himself further into the corner; he would have gone right through the wall and out the other side, given the chance. "Where are you from? What's your name?" Hermann asked as un-threateningly as he could, only to be met with complete silence.

Hermann tried another approach: "Simba, ask me where I'm from."

"Why?" Simba replied.

"Just humor me…ask me where I come from."

"OK then, where do you come from, Hermann?"

"Funny you should ask. I happen to come from Stuttgart, Baden-Württemburg, Germany." Hermann turned to speak to the cub again. "See how easy that was? Now it's your turn; where is it you're from?" Like the first attempt, he didn't get an answer, just a continued thousand-yard stare.

"Is it my accent that's frightening you? You don't have to worry about me; I know I sound a bit…intimidating…but that's just how I talk." Whatever you do, not a word of German, he thought, the kid's already freaked out enough by my English. "Can you tell me your name?"

"I don't have one…"

Hermann turned himself back around, no easy feat considering the state of his right leg. "I think this is a bit out of my league," he confessed. "Who was closest to him besides his mother?"

"Nobody was," a lioness answered. "His mother never paid a moment of attention to him, and she didn't let anyone else get anywhere near him. He may as well have grown up alone; he wasn't even allowed enough to eat, not before, not ever. Maybe that was supposed to be some way of toughening him up…I don't know. At first, he tried to stay with us, but he was always found and taken back, and finally he just…"

"He just what?"

"He just gave up. I couldn't stand to watch it anymore; I've never seen anyone that cruel." Hermann's remaining guilt regarding the results of his final shot that night immediately evaporated: if the cub's mother had indeed been a parent in the biological sense only, her death would most likely be entirely insignificant as far as her son was concerned. With her now gone, he might finally be able to get the attention he deserved and had spent days longing for, but not unless someone was able to break the ice.

"So what do we do now?" Hermann said to nobody specific.

"Perhaps you and everyone else should go outside for a bit, and leave him with me," Nala suggested. "I think he might be a bit more at ease if it's just me and him. Kopa, Vitani, you go with Hermann as well."

"Are you sure that's the best idea? Kopa's closer to his age, and I did study child psychology—once, for half of a semester. Under the direction of an incompetent student teacher…who was sacked later that year…for cooking up drugs in his room. Know what, on second thought, you're right. Maybe we should duck out for a while."

Ten minutes later

"Where are you from, mein Kind?" Hermann momentarily forgot his "no German" rule.

"From back there, where the others came from. Are you hiding something behind your back?"

"No, there's absolutely nothing there but air," Hermann said as he brought both hands to the front and turned them palms-outward; for once, there really was nothing concealed in a closed fist or a pants pocket. He had always rested his hands, when empty, behind his back since before he could remember, but he suddenly came to the realization that doing so might be better off avoided, especially since he was already quite skilled at hiding things in his hands in perfect plain sight. "See, nothing in the hands, nothing around the back"—he turned all his back pockets out, an ever-reliable hiding spot for odd objects here and there—"nothing up the pants cuffs, and nothing inside the shirt." Hermann shook each of his feet a few times and un-tucked his shirt, even though it went against his ingrained inclinations to stay well dressed in front of new acquaintances, so that anything underneath would have had to fall out, and then sat down. "The only thing I've got that you can't see is my watch, and that never comes off. So tell me a bit about yourself; how long has it been since you last ate anything?"

The cub looked at Nala, waiting for her to tell him if it was OK to answer. "Go ahead," she said, "you can tell him."

"Three days, I think."

"Does anything hurt? Any sort of pain that's bothering you?" Hermann had to check himself before he asked the rest of the questions he normally asked patients, remembering that lion cubs wouldn't be taking prescription medication (or feeling any side effects from them), pre-authorizing insurance co-pays at the front reception, or seeking his advice through another physician's referral.

"No, I'm just hungry...and tired."

And probably scared as well, I would imagine, Hermann thought. "I don't need to see anything more," he said to Nala. "He needs a square meal, someplace secure to bed down, and someone to look after him…not anything I've got in my bag of tricks over there."

"Are you sure?" Nala asked.

"Quite," Hermann answered. "Apart from being skinny, there's nothing physically wrong with him. He's a frightened kid, that's all; he'll come around in due time. Am I remembering correctly that you said he didn't have a name?"

"I didn't say that; he did."

"Well he's got to have a name, doesn't he? Even the local crocodile—who, needless to say, gave us a serious helping hand tonight—has a name around here. Why don't we ask him if there's something he prefers?"

"Is there something you'd like us to call you?" Nala asked the cub. "You'll need a name, now that you're staying here with us."

"I don't know," he responded, "uh, what's your name?"

"My name? It's—

"Not you; him."

"Me?" Hermann asked. "I didn't tell you before?"

"No. You didn't."

"All right then…my full name is Hermann Wolfgang Sterlitz, but there's no need to ever use—

"That's really long."

"Indeed it is. That's why I'm just called Hermann except in certain circumstances."

"What was the middle part? The one that sounded like volf-something."

"You mean 'Wolfgang'? That is my second name; it doesn't run in the family, so to speak, but my first name does. My father is Hermann Dietrich, you see, and I'm—

"I like the way it sounds. Wolfgang…Wolf-gang…Wo-lf-ga-ng..." Uh-oh, Hermann thought, I think I know where this is going.

"Is that what you'd like to be called?" Nala asked. "Do you want that to be your name?"

"I think so, if it's OK with him." The cub looked up at Hermann expectantly.

"No problems at all, right, Hermann?" Nala said with a stern face.

"I guess if there's no other—

"No problems, right?" She silently mouthed the words 'say yes'.

"Uh, right, no problems. So then, uh, Wolfgang, would you like to come outside with us? We're going to have ourselves a bit of a celebration, but we can fix you a warm spot to sleep and some food if you're too tired to stay up. I think I'll set Markos doing that as soon as he gets back, just to keep him from giving us a repeat performance of thirty minutes ago.

"I thought I was going to sleep outside, alone. I get to stay inside?"

"Yes, why wouldn't you be allowed to stay with everyone else?"

"I've only ever slept by myself before; mother didn't let anyone else come near me. You aren't going to take me back…there…are you? It's so cold and scary and dark…"

Hermann saw the shivering start back up again. "No, of course I'm not going to take you back!" he said. "I can explain everything to you at length tomorrow morning, in as much detail as you desire, but for now, all you need to know is that you've got a new life from here on: no more rocks, no more going hungry, no more being cold and afraid. Maybe I can even get the old singing voice in tune for you; mind you, I'll need to prepare properly, over the course of about thirty minutes with a fine bottle of Remy Martin—properly warm and in a snifter, of course, not in a room-temperature rocks glass—and something to check my pitches against." Nala smiled and rolled her eyes. "OK fine, no cognac, no tuner. Some work environment this is!"

"You talk really funny, mister. Can you not make your w sounds?" Wolfgang, feeling just a bit prouder than before having finally acquired a name of his own, couldn't keep his laughter from escaping, possibly because it was the first time he had actually laughed in weeks. To his surprise, nobody scolded him for it.

"Welcome to 'Understanding the German Accent 101', son…if you're going to have a German name, you'd better learn to get used to the accent as well." Hermann said it all with a smile so that he couldn't possibly be misconstrued as cross. "Now why don't you head on outside and reconnect with your family; they've been asking after you."

"You mean I'm allowed to see them?"

"You are, for as much time as you want. And go and have some fun while you're at it; buddy up with Kopa, he'll show you the ropes."

"What does he look like?"

"He has a brown tuft of hair on his head and wears a football jersey from time to time when the mood strikes him. And he knows basic German. Trust me, he's pretty easy to pick out of a crowd." A lion cub named Wolfgang, Hermann said to himself as he watched Nala step back outside with the cub in tow. Every single time I think I've gone and seen it all, I'm proven resolutely wrong about half a second later.

The rest of the night went exactly according to expectations. Grilled meat was served for the two men, while the lions ate theirs raw, all swapping stories and learning each others' names. Toasts were offered—with water, of course—welcomes exchanged, and for the first time that Hermann could remember in his life, his favorite German bar songs were performed with all participants stone-cold sober. Once the last chorus of Prost, Prost, Kamerad had concluded, the celebrants made their way inside, Kopa having been persuaded for this night at least to give up his spot.

Much to Hermann's enjoyment, Wolfgang's first experience being reassuringly tucked into the warm security of a sleeping bag, coupled with the sudden realization that he truly wasn't going to be harmed or spend the night shivering in the wind, was a near replica of Kopa's premiere encounter with the same piece of human camping equipment. "I'm going to sort out who gets the second bed," Hermann said to the cub as the rest of the pride began to lay down for the night. "You should shut your eyes and get some rest; it's been a long day for all of us. Damn this ringing in my ears, I wonder if I'll ever get rid of it…" He started to hobble away.

"Wait, mister, where are you going? Come back."

"You don't have to call me 'mister' anything; just call me 'Hermann', the same as you'd speak to anyone else here. What's bothering you…are you cold? I can give you my sweater if you need another layer."

"No, I'm not cold; I just—I can't sleep. I've never been able to fall asleep on my own."

"Then how did you sleep back in the Outlands?"

"I had a friend; he would come visit me at night and tell me little stories. Mother knew about him, but she couldn't keep him away. She didn't even want to get near him."

"Why not? What was she so hung up on?"

"Have you ever seen an angry porcupine?"

"Seen it, no; know about it, yes. So it's a story you want, is it? I think I've got a few of those on tap. What if I tell you a bit about how your name became so famous; would you like to hear that one?"

"OK!"

"All right…in the year 1756, in Salzburg, Austria—

"What's a Salzburg?"

"It's a city in Europe."

"'Europe'?"

"Oy gevalt…I think this might work a bit better if you just close your eyes and listen as opposed to over-thinking. It'll help you get to sleep faster as well; like I've always told my patients, it doesn't do any good trying to fall asleep with your eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling. Shall I start again?"

"Please. I promise I won't interrupt."

"Right. In the year 1756, in the city of Salzburg, Austria, a boy who would eventually compose over six hundred catalogued works, six hundred and twenty-six, to be exact, was born under the name of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. At only five years of age, he had already become proficient in piano and violin…"

The fire outside burned on for hours, fueled by the breeze and the ample supply of remaining wood. Pride Rock had not fallen or switched hands, and its defenders had not been broken; the spot designated earlier in the day as an unofficial twelve-hour German outpost had begun and ended its protective tenure under the same appellation. Hermann Wolfgang Sterlitz, MD had won the night.