The Lion King Live Action Novelization Page 7

  Scar watched as the sun slowly inched over the distant horizon. As the beams touched the savannah, the grasses erupted in golds and oranges, as if on fire. It was a beautiful start to the day. A day he had been waiting for…for a long, long time.

  Turning his back to the sunrise, Scar looked out over the gathered lions. They stared at him, suspicion in their eyes. A few of them were perceptive enough to look frightened, sensing that something wasn’t right. His earlier arrival at the top of Pride Rock had been met with confusion. He never ventured above his den. Without saying a word to the other lionesses, he had made his way to Sarabi—and broken the news of Mufasa’s death.

  It had been a wonderful moment. Just as he had always imagined. Watching as Sarabi’s eyes filled with understanding and then devastation, listening as the other lionesses lifted their heads and roared in grief. Through it all, Scar had stayed silent, waiting for his moment.

  And now, the time had come. “Mufasa’s death is a terrible tragedy,” he began, addressing the pride. “The greatest leader the pride has ever known. To lose a brother—such a deep personal loss. And little Simba…” His voice trailed off as he pretended to be overcome with emotion. No, he was overcome—just not with sadness. When Shenzi had informed him that Simba had tumbled off the cliff, his plan had been made complete. What he felt now was simple—it was happiness. Or at least his version of happiness.

  Taking a deep breath, Scar looked at Sarabi as he continued. “Simba—who had barely begun to live. A cub whose blood held our future.” He shook his head. “It’s almost too much to endure. I only wish I had gotten to the gorge in time—been there to save them.” Turning his back on the lionesses, he began to walk toward the summit of Pride Rock. Oh, I am good, he thought as he hung his head and kept his steps slow and heavy, as though the burden of what he was about to do weighed on him. Who wouldn’t believe this performance? Mufasa might have gotten the muscles, but I got the acting chops.

  As he reached the top of the rock, he turned. Behind him the sun lifted completely above the horizon. “So, it is with a heavy heart that I must assume the throne,” Scar went on, trying to keep his voice solemn. The lionesses began to murmur, and Scar saw Sarabi step forward, shaking her head. She could shake her head all she wanted. She had no choice. She would have to follow him. Unless…

  “Mufasa and Simba are gone,” he repeated. “Which means I am your king! But I must admit—I cannot bear this burden alone. After all, there is no king without his queen.” He paused, waiting for Sarabi to acquiesce. To his annoyance, she snarled, shaking her head. He frowned but didn’t push her. She would say yes. She would have to—after she saw what he had in mind. But until that time, he had one more trick up his sleeve. “And I will need some help to ensure the safety of the pride!”

  Looking beyond the lionesses, Scar nodded. A moment later, Shenzi, followed by her pack, began to slink onto Pride Rock. The lionesses snarled, pushing their cubs behind them as the hyenas continued to creep up and over the rocks, invading every nook and cranny of the lions’ home. “And so, from the ashes of this tragedy, we shall welcome the dawning of a new era,” Scar announced. “A great and glorious future!”

  Sarabi watched as the hyenas slowly surrounded her home. Their mangy, matted fur was dull and lifeless, and their evil cackles made her skin crawl. They didn’t belong on Pride Rock. And as she lifted her head to look at Scar, she knew that neither did he. This was wrong. All of it was so wrong.

  Mufasa was gone. Simba was gone. Her whole world was gone. And now, to make it worse, Scar was going to let the hyenas take over the Pride Lands. Signaling to the other lionesses, she turned and walked back into the den, her mind racing, her heart broken. She glanced at the spot where she and Mufasa and Simba had always slept, wanting nothing more than to lie down, close her eyes, and wake up from this terrible nightmare. But she knew that wouldn’t happen. She would never again feel Mufasa’s warmth next to her. She would never again hold Simba in her paws or hear his happy little laugh. He would never wake them up to see the sunrise or play hide-and-seek with Nala and the other cubs. Scar had been right about one thing—Simba’s life had been ended too soon. He was supposed to be there, with her. And so was Mufasa.

  Her heart heavy with grief, she turned and looked at the other lionesses. She could see the fear in their eyes and wanted to offer them comfort, but she could barely comfort herself. She was numb. She had been numb ever since Scar had stalked into the den and told her what had happened. He had acted as though he was upset, but Sarabi doubted it. There had been no love lost between the brothers. Sarabi had tried to get Mufasa to talk to her about why, but he had always changed the subject, pursuing topics like the weather or the state of the pride. She had never pressed the issue, but now she wished she had. It would be good to know more about Scar—now that he was their leader.

  What are we going to do? she thought as a few of the youngest cubs, blissfully unaware of all that had happened, began to wrestle. We can’t let the hyenas take over. They’ll destroy everything…they’ll destroy everyone.

  “Sarabi?”

  Looking down, Sarabi saw Nala standing in front of her. Tears filled the young cub’s eyes, and Sarabi’s heart broke anew. She realized she wasn’t the only one to have lost Simba. Poor Nala had lost her best friend.

  “Sarabi, what did Scar mean it is a ‘new era’?” Nala asked. “Are the hyenas staying?”

  Sighing, Sarabi lowered her head and rested it gently on Nala’s. The movement, one that she had done hundreds of times with Simba, sent an ache through Sarabi. She inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of the den and the watering hole lingering on Nala’s fur, the smell so close to Simba’s. So close, yet so different.

  Just like everything now.

  “I honestly don’t know, Nala,” Sarabi finally said, lifting her head. She stood and walked back to the entrance of the den. Outside, the hyenas were helping themselves to the food from the lionesses’ last hunt. She heard their nips and snarls as they fought one another for the few remaining bites. The lions never nipped or snarled. They killed what they needed and shared equally. “I think Scar believes we can live with the hyenas,” she went on. “But lions and hyenas have never been able to live peacefully.…”

  “Mufasa would never have let this happen,” Nala said softly. “I miss him.”

  “I do, too, young one. I miss him so very much.”

  “What are we going to do?” Nala pressed. Behind her, a few of the older cubs had moved closer, interested to hear what Sarabi said.

  Looking at their faces, Sarabi saw Simba in each. She couldn’t let them down. She needed them to have something to believe in. It was what Mufasa would have wanted and what Simba would have deserved. Lifting her head, she gave a determined nod. “We,” she said boldly, “are going to stay strong. We are not going to let the hyenas take over. That’s what Scar wants, but it won’t happen.” She paused. She didn’t trust Scar. She hadn’t trusted the look in his eyes when he had told her Mufasa and Simba were gone. He had seemed almost eager to tell her. And then he had made the comment about her being his queen. She would never be his queen. Mufasa would remain in her heart for the rest of her life.

  While his words might have sounded sincere and his declaration of a glorious future might have sounded promising, Sarabi knew better. The hyenas moving onto Pride Rock was just the beginning. Things would get worse. And it was her job, as the pride’s queen, to keep calm and protect the lions—as best she could.

  “I don’t know what will happen,” Sarabi finally said. “But I promise you, I will do my best to help us. Let the hyenas think they’ve won. Let Scar believe we will go along with his ‘future.’ But we will know that isn’t the truth. We must keep our heads up, our ears open.” She looked over at the older lionesses. “When he asks us to hunt, don’t always succeed. Better we starve than feed those mangy hyenas. Never go anywhere alone. We need each other—the pride—now more than ever.” The other lionesses began to murmur in ag
reement. Sarabi smiled gently at them. They had all suffered a loss. Yet they were still there, still strong. Looking once more out of the den, she gave another determined nod. “I promise you. Pride Rock will always be our home.…”

  At least I hope so, she thought as she stared out at the cloudless blue sky, so strangely peaceful when inside she felt so stormy. Because after all that I’ve lost today, I can’t lose my home, too.

  Every bone in Simba’s body hurt. His head pounded, and his eyes were swollen shut. The side of his body lying against the hard desert ground burned, as did the opposite side exposed to the sun.

  He had been lying there for what felt like days. After his fall from the cliff, he had just turned and run blindly. His only goal: to get as far from the hyenas and the Pride Lands as possible.

  So Simba had run. Soon the savannah grasses had given way to soft sand, which, in turn, had given way to an endless sea of brown dirt. The hard-packed ground, cracked from the unrelenting sun that beat down on it day after day, offered no protection for the young cub. He had gone without water or food, plodding forward slowly while his thoughts raced. Images of his father falling flashed through his mind. He saw Scar’s look of dismay and horror. His head thundered with the sound of the wildebeests. And through it all, moving in and out of his other visions, he imagined his mother. He pictured her eyes full of tears as she heard about Mufasa’s death and then imagined her anger when she realized he was the reason the king was gone. That thought alone was enough to keep Simba running. He could never return—not when he had let everyone down.

  But now he was pretty sure returning wouldn’t be an issue, since it seemed he would probably die out here. Over the pounding of his head and his own labored breathing he could make out the sound of buzzards flapping overhead. They always arrived when an animal was close to the end. The harbingers of death, as it were. The flapping came closer as the large birds descended, and then Simba heard a few of them land nearby. As they began to circle him, Simba tried to open his eyes, but the slightest movement sent pain screaming through his body and he finally gave up, letting his eyelids stay closed, blocking out the harsh sun and keeping him in the dark.

  Then, suddenly, he heard the buzzards’ wings begin to flap more frantically as they called out to each other. A moment later there was the unmistakable sound of hoofbeats and the ground under Simba shook. Just as a wave of exhaustion ushered him toward unconsciousness, Simba thought he heard a loud voice. The last thing he was aware of, before he slipped away, was someone shouting, “Bowling for buzzards!”

  Pumbaa took a step back. The warthog liked to get a running start when he was bowling for buzzards. Lowering his head, he let out a loud snort and waited for the birds to settle back down. It was far more fun to bowl if there were a lot of buzzards together. And if there was one thing Pumbaa liked, it was fun.

  In fact, both he and his best friend, Timon, loved fun more than just about anything. It was why they were such good friends even though he was a warthog and Timon was a meerkat. And, as Timon liked to point out, Pumbaa was the brawn while Timon was the brains. But despite the differences, they were best pals.

  Seeing that the time was right, Pumbaa pawed at the ground and once more charged at the buzzards. As he slammed into a handful, dust and feathers flew into the air, along with the remaining birds. Pumbaa let out another happy shout. “To think I woke up today with nothing to do,” he said. “And look at what I’ve accomplished.”

  Timon, who had been hiding on Pumbaa’s back to avoid the flying feathers and any unnecessary dirt, popped up. His big eyes, outlined with black, shifted nervously back and forth. He was always on the lookout for danger. That was the thing with meerkats. Unless they were safely underground, they were highly nervous creatures. And Timon was more nervous than most.

  He was also hungrier than most meerkats. Food was always on his mind. “Are there any eggs?” he asked eagerly, looking over at where a few of the birds were still lying in a state of shock. “Please tell me there’s an egg! If you scare ’em just right, the eggs come flying out.”

  Pumbaa shook his head. “No eggs this time.” But then he paused, cocking his head. Just beyond the buzzards, he saw something. He hadn’t noticed it before, being busy with buzzard bowling and all, but now he squinted his eyes, trying to make out what it was. Finally, he figured it out. “Look, Timon,” he said. “There’s a little yellow hair ball.”

  “I’ve always wanted a hair ball,” Timon said, eagerly clapping his hands together. Urging Pumbaa closer, Timon looked down at the hair ball. “And it’s just my size!”

  As they stared down at the hair ball, Pumbaa’s eyes narrowed. There was something…different…about it. He couldn’t quite put a finger on it. And then he figured it out. “Wait a second,” he said. “This hair ball has four legs and a tail.”

  Timon shrugged. “I don’t care,” he said. “I’m a naked meerkat. The nights are chilly. That fur is mine!”

  “Timon—I think it’s alive,” Pumbaa said, keeping his eyes trained on the hair ball. It did, in fact, appear that the hair ball was breathing.

  Shaking his head, Timon jumped off Pumbaa’s back and walked over to the hair ball. “Alive?” he repeated. “Why does everything have to be alive? Because if this hair ball is alive, it would be a—” Leaning down, Timon lifted the hair ball’s paw. Then he let out a scream. “LION! Run for your life, Pumbaa! RUN!” Quickly, he scrambled back up onto Pumbaa’s back and lowered himself out of sight.

  But Pumbaa didn’t run. He didn’t back away at all. Instead, he just moved closer. Lowering his head, he smiled. “Timon, it’s just a little lion,” he said, his voice going all soft and gushy. “And he’s so cute—”

  Timon climbed down and narrowed his eyes. “Oh, yes, he’s just adorable,” he said, his voice full of sarcasm. “A five-hundred-pound monster who will drink my blood. We can call him”—he paused for dramatic effect—“PLEASE DON’T EAT ME!”

  Ignoring his friend, Pumbaa continued looking down at the lion. Then he glanced around, narrowing his eyes. They were in the middle of the desert, miles from anywhere a lion would usually wander. There was not another creature, let alone a lion, in sight. “He’s all alone,” Pumbaa said sadly. But then his face brightened as a wonderful idea came to him. “Can we keep him? I promise to walk him every day! And clean up his little mess—”

  Timon held up a finger, stopping Pumbaa mid-sentence. He had seen his friend get excited before. He had even let Pumbaa bring home a beetle once after the warthog begged and begged. But that hadn’t ended well. And he doubted this would, either. “You’ll be his little mess,” he pointed out. “He’ll eat you—then use me as a toothpick!”

  “Some of my best friends are carnivores,” Pumbaa pointed out. “And one day, when he’s big and strong, he’ll be on our side!”

  “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Timon retorted. “One day he’ll be on our side.” He began to laugh, his little belly heaving up and down. But suddenly, he stopped. His eyes widened. His nose twitched. Then he let out a shout. “I’ve got it!” he cried happily. “What if he’s on our side?” he asked, repeating what Pumbaa had said only moments before as if it were a wholly original idea he had just come up with. “Ya know, having a ferocious lion around might not be such a bad idea.”

  Pumbaa began to hop around in glee. Ignoring the fact that Timon had completely hijacked his idea (or perhaps just oblivious), he looked happily down at the lion. “So, we can keep him?” he asked excitedly.

  “Of course we’re keeping the hair ball!” Timon answered. “Who’s the brains of this operation?”

  Just then, the lion’s eyes fluttered open.

  Timon let out a squeak and jumped onto Pumbaa. He might be the brains, but he most definitely didn’t want to be the wake-up snack. It would be safer to wait up there and see what happened.…

  Simba heard voices. They sounded far away, like whoever was speaking was at the end of a long tunnel. A part of him
wanted to keep his eyes closed in the hopes they would just go away and leave him alone. But another part, mostly the empty-stomach part, didn’t agree.

  Slowly, Simba opened his eyes. At first, all he could see was the blinding light of the sun and then spots as he snapped them shut again. He waited for the spots to fade, bouncing around like small stars in a dark sky. Finally, he tried again. This time, he opened his eyes slowly, allowing them to adjust to the light.

  To his surprise, he found himself looking up at a meerkat and a warthog. They, in turn, were looking down at him. The meerkat seemed nervous, but the warthog looked thrilled to see him. Simba cocked his head. “Who…who are you?” he asked, his parched throat making the words sound scratchy.

  “We’re the guys who saved your life,” the meerkat answered. “Risked everything—fought off angry vultures!”

  “I’m Pumbaa,” the warthog said, shooting his friend a look Simba couldn’t quite read. “And this is Timon.”

  The meerkat nodded. “There were hundreds of them,” he went on, clearly fixated on the vultures. “It was horrible. No need to thank us.” He stopped and waited for the thanks he hadn’t asked for. When Simba didn’t say anything, Timon shrugged. “Did I mention we saved your life?”

  Simba sighed. Wish you hadn’t, he thought. Would have saved everyone a lot of trouble. Getting to his feet, he turned his back on Timon and Pumbaa and slowly began to walk away. Every step felt like he was walking over shards of glass and his stomach growled, his insides twisting in protest at the lack of food.

  “Hey!” shouted Timon. “Where you going?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Simba answered as he continued to walk. Seeing a small, dirty puddle of water, he lowered his head and took a few sips. The water was hot and full of grit but at least it curbed his thirst. All those times he had protested going all the way to the watering hole flashed through his mind. What he wouldn’t give to have the chance to go there now. To be back with his mother, or playing with Nala. His shoulders slumped and he stopped drinking. What was the point of thinking about any of it?