The Lion King Live Action Novelization Page 5
Mufasa’s chest rose and fell, lifting Simba up and down in a rhythmic sway, lulling him and comforting him. All the earlier fear and sadness faded as he and his father silently lay there, enjoying each other’s company. Simba’s paw curled and uncurled in his father’s thick mane and he sighed happily. “Dad,” he said softly, lifting his head up, “we’re pals, right?”
“Right,” Mufasa said with a nod, the deep rumble of his voice shaking Simba.
“And we’ll always be together, right?”
To Simba’s surprise, his father didn’t answer right away. His mouth turned down, not in anger, but in thought. He sighed. Finally, he turned his head so he could look Simba in the eyes as he spoke. “Simba,” he said seriously. “Let me tell you something my father told me: ‘Look at the stars.’”
Flipping over onto his back, still on his father’s chest, Simba looked up. The stars filled the sky, creating a sparkling blanket. In contrast, the savannah looked even darker, cast in deep shadows but seemingly still. But Simba knew hidden among the tall grasses and up in the high trees, animals that came out at night lay and lurked.
“The great kings of the past look down on us from those stars,” Mufasa said, his eyes trained on the sky.
Simba looked up, straining to see the kings in the stars. But all he saw were twinkling lights and the moon. No kings. “Really?” he asked uncertainly.
“Yes,” Mufasa said. “So, whenever you feel alone, just remember that those kings will always be up there to guide you.” He paused before adding, “And so will I.”
“But I can’t see them, Dad,” Simba said softly. And so will I. Why had his dad said that? Mufasa’s voice had sounded so sad that Simba felt suddenly sad himself, like there was something he didn’t know that his father did.
His father gave him a gentle nudge with his nose. “Keep looking, Son,” he said. “Keep looking.”
Together, father and son lifted their heads and looked up to the sky. Simba wasn’t sure what his father was talking about—and he still only saw stars—but it didn’t matter. He trusted his dad. And, more importantly, he loved his dad. And the reason they were lying under the stars together didn’t matter. What mattered was that they were together. And they would be together forever.
Shenzi was angry. How dare Mufasa just storm in and act like she should bow to him! It was his son who had trespassed to begin with. As queen, she had every right to punish the young cub as she saw fit—even if that meant making him a snack. And yet, here she was, licking a new wound on her leg while Mufasa and Simba pranced back to the Pride Lands. Her eyes narrowed as she gave her leg an angry lick. It just wasn’t right.
Shenzi lifted her eyes to look around her lair. The cave was the largest of all the dens and offered room for at least half a dozen hyenas. She usually had visitors at any given time, and that number always included Kamari and Azizi, her main minions. The pair were currently sitting on the floor below the ledge Shenzi reclined on, snapping at each other and complaining. She half-listened, their words becoming white noise as she went back to taking care of her wound. Kamari and Azizi were strong hunters, but neither was particularly bright, and Shenzi had learned long ago it was better to ignore them than engage with them.
“Next time Mufasa comes here,” Kamari said, “I’m going to teach him a lesson he’ll never forget.”
Azizi cocked his head. “Come on, Kamari. What could you possibly teach him? He’s a king—very wise,” he said, once again completely missing the mark.
Kamari let out a sigh. “I wasn’t actually going to teach him anything,” he said.
Still not getting what his friend meant, Azizi smiled. “You could teach him how we chase the sick and injured,” he suggested helpfully.
“What I meant was,” Kamari said, his words clipped and his claws digging into the dirt as he tried not to scream in frustration, “he will pay for what he’s done to us.”
Azizi’s eyes widened in comprehension and he began to nod. Then he smiled widely and let out a happy little cackle. “Then you’re in luck! Because there he is!”
Shenzi’s head snapped up and her hackles rose. Following Azizi’s gaze, she saw the faint outline of a lion moving toward them through the darkness of the cave entrance. Slowly, Shenzi got to her feet and began to make her way toward the opening. The sun outside somehow made the cave seem even darker, and the shadow of the lion took shape as he came closer. Shenzi’s eyes narrowed and her lips pulled back. The lion walked slowly and casually, as if he didn’t have a care in the world that he was walking into a den full of hungry, angry hyenas.
Shenzi began to shake her head. She knew Mufasa. This lion wasn’t him. There was something slinky in the way he moved, his head down and the mane thin. Mufasa’s walk was commanding; his head was always high. Behind the lion, hyenas began to emerge from their dens, their teeth bared, growling and hissing as they began to surround him.
Finally, the lion walked out of the shadows. Shenzi raised an eyebrow. As she had suspected, it was not Mufasa. Instead, it was his brother, Scar. She cocked her head, keeping her distance as she waited to see what he had to say. But she wasn’t a fool. She signaled to the hyenas to be ready. If he made a move toward her, he would become the snack Simba should have been.
“You fools have stripped your land of every living thing,” Scar began, looking around at the dark cave full of the remains of earlier meals. “And yet, I send two little cubs your way—and they come back alive.”
Kamari shrugged. “I guess we’ll have to eat you instead.”
Scar didn’t even flinch. “Why eat one meal—when you can be feasting the rest of your lives?”
The moment Scar had started to speak, Shenzi had been irritated. He was no better than his brother—coming in and making fun of their home and mocking their abilities to hunt. But a feast for the rest of their lives? That had her intrigued. “What could you possibly offer us?” she asked suspiciously.
Turning, Scar met her gaze and nodded. “A place where you can fill your bellies,” he answered. “Where everything the light touches is yours for the kill.”
Shenzi let out a laugh. So that was what he was offering? “The Pride Lands are not yours to give,” she pointed out. “The king controls those hunting grounds.” And they all knew Mufasa was not to be messed with—that his lands were off-limits to their kind.
“That’s why we’re going to kill him.”
The laughter died in Shenzi’s throat. Beside her, Kamari and Azizi murmured nervously. “Do not take me for a fool,” she finally said. “Lions and hyenas have fought since the beginning of time. You would never take our side!”
Scar shrugged, not quick to argue. “My kind may hate you,” he said in agreement. “But I see greed as a virtue. I call it ambition. When I am king, the mighty will be free to take whatever they want.”
Shaking her head, Shenzi turned and walked back to her ledge. Scar might have grand plans and dreams of being a king, but Mufasa was too powerful. They could never challenge him. They may have him beat in terms of numbers, but he had the lionesses. The hyenas would never make it to the Pride Lands before they were attacked and turned back. Scar was foolish to even think of taking down his brother. Over her shoulder, she said just that.
“My brother has something he never had before,” Scar responded. “A weakness. Something that clouds his judgment…”
Shenzi stopped, the pain in her leg throbbing. She looked down at the fresh wound. Scar was right. Mufasa did have a weakness, something that made him act impulsively and put himself in danger unnecessarily. “Simba,” she said, turning around and making her way closer to Scar.
He nodded. “Indeed.”
A slow smile spread over Shenzi’s face. Perhaps Scar wasn’t that crazy after all. Perhaps there was a way to get the Pride Lands—and never go hungry again. “What do you need from us?” she asked as the hyenas around her yipped in agreement.
“Just one thing,” Scar answered, his own evil smile mirroring he
rs. “Be prepared.”
Simba yawned. He and his dad had not gotten home until late, and by the time he’d had a quick bath and gotten something to eat, he had barely been able to keep his eyes open. He’d fallen asleep before his head hit his paws and the morning had arrived far too quickly.
Now he lay in the sunshine, away from the other cubs, listening to the murmurs of his mother and the other lionesses as they talked quietly. Simba heard his name and his ears perked up as he tried to make out what the female lions were saying. He got only bits and pieces, but it was enough to know Sarabi had filled them in on his Elephant Graveyard adventure.
Feeling a few of the lionesses’ eyes focused on him, Simba got to his feet and made his way down the rocks toward the flat ground below. He could rest there for a bit, without the judgmental glances to make him feel even worse than he already did. But to his surprise, he ran into his uncle. Scar was standing outside his cave, as though he had been waiting for Simba. Catching his nephew’s eye, he gestured for Simba to follow.
Now Simba found himself walking along the floor of the deep canyon that cut through the heart of the Pride Lands. Beside him, Scar slunk along, his lean body the same tan color as the canyon walls. Simba wasn’t sure why his uncle had come to him—until Scar said, “I heard you had quite the adventure yesterday.” As he spoke, he turned and looked down at Simba. Simba’s shoulders sank. Apparently, it wasn’t just the lionesses who knew. Even his uncle had heard about the run-in with the hyenas.
Simba nodded. “My dad was pretty upset with me,” he said. Actually, he was furious with me, Simba added silently. But I don’t need to tell Scar that. Unless he already knows. Which he probably does. Not for the first time, Simba wished the network of the Pride Lands wasn’t quite so quick to spread news. It was hard to do anything without everyone knowing. He felt bad enough that he had disappointed his father, but in a way, he felt as though he had disappointed the animals of the Pride Lands, too.
But to his surprise, Scar didn’t say anything about what had happened. Instead, he offered a way to make things better. “I think I know a way for you to make it up to him,” he said as they continued to walk through the canyon. High above, birds flew through the air, small dots on the breeze. Gusts of sand billowed over the ridge, an indication of a passing animal. Otherwise, it was peaceful. Simba looked up at his uncle curiously. What did he mean? As if reading his thoughts, Scar continued. “A gift that will make him forget it ever happened.”
Simba cocked his head. “But he’s the king,” he pointed out. “What could I give him?”
“Your roar,” Scar replied without hesitation.
“My roar?” Simba repeated.
Scar nodded. Then, to prove his point, he jumped at a small tree, startling a few birds. As they flew into the sky, their squawks bounced off the walls of the canyon, making it sound as if there were hundreds, not a mere dozen of them. Scar looked over at Simba. “Did you hear that?” he said. “This gorge is where all the lions come to find their roar.”
Simba’s eyes grew wide. Find his roar? That sounded amazing. He had a flash of the weak attempt he had made back at the Elephant Graveyard. It had truly been pitiful. If he could make his roar bigger, it would go a long way toward impressing his dad. But then his eyes narrowed. He had never heard of lions coming to the gorge to practice their roars before. “All lions?” Simba asked. “Even my dad?”
“Even Mufasa,” Scar said. “He came here when he was your age—refused to leave until his roar could be heard above the rim!”
Simba craned his head and looked all the way up at the ridge, high, high above. The birds Scar had startled were still flying to reach it. “All the way up there?” he asked. It seemed impossible.
But Scar apparently disagreed. “That’s when you know you’ve found it,” he said. “With a little practice, you’ll never be called a cub again.”
Never be called a cub again. That would be a great gift to give his dad. If he could show him that he had learned his lesson and found his own roar, Mufasa would have to be proud of him. Excited, he began to bounce up and down on his paws. He was going to do this! “Here I go!” he shouted. “Watch this!” Taking a deep breath, he rushed forward and then stopped short. Raising his head, he let out a roar. The small sound bounced off the canyon walls once, twice, and then stopped. Simba’s excitement faded slightly at his first failed attempt.
“You’ll get it, Simba,” Scar said, giving him an encouraging nudge. “It just takes time. I’ll check on you later.”
As his uncle turned to go, Simba called after him. “Dad will be so proud, won’t he?”
Scar stopped and looked over his shoulder. “It’s a gift he’ll never forget,” he said. Then, with another wave good-bye, he turned once more and began to walk away.
Simba watched him go. There had been something odd in the way his uncle looked at him that made his tummy feel funny. Almost like Scar knew something Simba didn’t. Then Simba shrugged. It was probably nothing. After all, he had barely spent any time with his uncle. He didn’t know him well enough to know if he was acting funny. And Scar had given him a great idea for a gift.
Stalking over to the tree now empty of birds, Simba spotted a small chameleon, its scaly skin not quite the same color as the tree it was trying to hide on. Creeping closer, with his belly nearly touching the ground, he kept his eyes on the chameleon. Inch by inch, he moved until his paws touched the top of one of the tree’s roots. Then he lifted his head and let out a roar.
The chameleon didn’t react. He just kept walking on his way.
Simba’s eyes narrowed. So the chameleon wasn’t scared. Well, he would show him what a real lion sounded like. Once more, he took a deep breath, and then, with all the strength his body could muster—he roared.
The sound echoed up and around the walls of the gorge, bouncing between the flat surfaces of the rust-colored rocks. Simba smiled as he watched the chameleon stop in his tracks and heard his own roar echoing back to him. “See?” Simba said proudly. “That scared you!” He roared again.
This time, the chameleon turned a startling shade of green and ran down the tree, ducking under a rock at the base of the trunk. Watching him, Simba felt a sudden sense of unease. His roar hadn’t been that big. The chameleon shouldn’t have been scared back to its original color. Unless…
Suddenly, he realized that he could no longer hear his own roar bouncing between the canyon walls. It had been drowned out by something much louder. Something that sounded like thunder, only louder than any thunder he had ever heard before. Simba lifted his head to see if storm clouds were on the horizon, and his eyes grew wide. The sky at the top of the gorge had grown dark. But not from clouds.
A herd of wildebeests had appeared at the top of the ridge. As Simba watched, hundreds of the heavy animals spilled over the ridge and began to wildly gallop down into the gorge. Big and small alike, the wildebeests careened out of control, their bellows drowned out by the sound of their own pounding hooves. From where Simba stood, it looked as if they had become one single giant mass. A giant mass of dust and noise and deadly hooves—all coming right toward him.
Simba turned—and ran for his life.
Mufasa stood still, his eyes scanning the horizon. His patrol had been quiet so far. An angry elephant and a dispute between two meerkat families over feeding grounds had kept him occupied for a short time. Otherwise, the savannah had been peaceful, and Mufasa had found himself taking the time to enjoy the sun on his coat and the quiet that was such a rarity for him. He smiled as his mind wandered to thoughts of Simba. His son had been so upset after his run-in with the hyenas, as had Mufasa. But that night, as he’d shown his son the same patterns in the sky that his own father had shown him years ago, any lingering bad feelings faded.
Suddenly, as he sensed movement in the distance, Mufasa’s head snapped up. The smile vanished and his eyes narrowed as he saw a cloud of dust rising from the canyon that cut through the center of the Pride Lands.
“Sire,” Zazu said. “The herd is on the move.”
Mufasa nodded. “I know…” he answered. But it was strange. The herd had only just moved to their summer feeding grounds a few days ago. It was unlikely they would be turning back already. Unless…
As if on cue, Scar burst through the thick grass, running straight toward them at his fastest speed. Skidding to a stop, he gulped in deep breaths, his eyes panicked. “Mufasa!” he cried. “Quick! Stampede! In the gorge.” He paused. It was only a moment, but in that moment, Mufasa felt his heart stop. For there was something in his brother’s eyes that sent fear through him like a spear. And then, Scar spoke. “Simba’s down there!”
“Simba?” Mufasa repeated, the fear solidifying.
Not waiting for confirmation, Mufasa turned and took off in the direction of the gorge. Above him, Zazu’s wide wings flapped wildly as he, too, set off to find Simba. They had to get to him—before it was too late.
Simba ran. He ran as fast as he could. But it wasn’t fast enough. As a full-grown lion he might have stood a chance of getting out of the way of a herd of charging wildebeests, but he wasn’t fully grown. He was just a cub. Just a cub with a tiny roar and an uncanny ability to get in trouble.
His little paws flew over the shaking ground as he rounded a curve in the canyon. Dust clouded the air and all he could hear was the sound of the wildebeests growing closer and closer. As one rocketed by, narrowly missing him, Simba spotted a tree branch overhead. The branch was dead, long since removed from whatever tree it had belonged to, but in that moment, it was an escape. With one final burst of energy, Simba leapt onto it, scurrying up and holding on for dear life.