An Unauthorized Lion King Story "Jungle Flame" -------------- Written By --------------- Adrian M. Rossi Edited By ------------ Joe McCauley (c) 1996 Adrian M. Rossi First, before the story begins, I want to try and cover all my bases by making several things clear so I don't get my butt sued by Walt Disney (like they don't have enough money already). This story is based on the `The Lion King', a movie produced (c) 1994 by Walt Disney Company. I'm not taking credit in any way so, Walt Disney, please don't sue me. All the characters represented in the story, except for Kublia, including Timon, Pumbaa, Mufasa, Simba, Nala, Shenzi, Ed, Banzai, Scar, Zazu and Rafiki, are all the property of (c) 1994 Walt Disney Company. I'm not taking credit for the characters either, but wouldn't it be hard to write a Lion King story without using them? Several instances of scenery in the story, including Pride Rock, Rafiki's tree, the Pridelands, the desert that Simba has to cross before reaching the jungle that exiles himself to, are all creations of (c) 1994 Walt Disney Company. So, once again, please don't sue me. `Jungle Flame' is *not* shareware, meaning you can't pass it off as your own. You can read, copy or distribute `Jungle Flame' at your discretion, as long as it is not modified from its original form. If you're thinking to use or change the contents in some way, pretty please, with sugar on top, ask for the permission of the author first! And now, with all of that legal riff-raff out of the way, down to the story. In brief, this story occurs after Rafiki has discovered that Simba might be alive, after Scar locks up Zazu in the bone cage, and just before Nala arrives in the jungle to chase Pumbaa around. The story speculates on what might have happened in this brief time-span before Simba returns to the Pridelands. Finally, I would like to thank Joe McCauley for his excellent editing of this story. I very much doubt that it would have made it into this version without his help. I certainly hope that you enjoy this story as much as I enjoyed writing it! * * * * * * Tyger tyger, burning bright In the forests of the night; What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry? When the stars threw down their spears And water'd heaven with their tears: Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb, make thee? William Blake * * * * * * "Ingonayama nengw'enamabala..." ("Here is a lion and a tiger...") From the opening score of the Lion King * * * * * * ************************* CHAPTER ONE: Fire in the Jungle ************************* Simba moaned quietly as he tossed and turned on the bed of green grass, caught in the grip of a nightmarish dream from which he could not escape. Simba was a small cub once again, standing on the edge of the cliff, staring downwards in horrified shock at herd of wildebeest milling on the valley floor beneath him. The cub saw his father leap magnificently from the crush of bodies below, dig his claws into the hard stone, and begin his way up the cliff face. Mufasa almost slipped at one point, causing Simba to flinch in momentary terror, but the cub slowly relaxed again as his father steadily made his way up. As his father passed out of sight, the cub proceeded to move up a rocky path lining the side of the valley, so that he could get a better view of his dad's progress. As he moved, Simba wondered what his father would have to say about his latest adventure. But he couldn't possibly be in trouble, didn't his dad get Uncle Scar to tell him to wait in the valley for a surprise? Strange, Simba thought to himself as he made his way up the difficult path, he thought he could hear his dad talking to someone. But, with the hooves of the wildebeest thundering below, he couldn't be sure. He stopped, face pouting in disappointment, as he glanced over the side of the cliff. He was at a higher point, but he still couldn't see his father. He began to turn away, thinking that he could follow the path up the top of the cliff. There he would meet his father, after his dad pulled himself over the edge, and receive the inevitable scolding that must follow. A thunderous roar split the air, startling the cub, and as Simba turned instinctively towards the sound, he gasped in horror at what he was seeing. For a moment, as the thought crystallized in his mind, time seemed to stand still. Falling. His father was falling! "Dad!" he screamed helplessly, tracking the descent of his father's body with stunned eyes. Mufasa plummeted towards the press of bodies below, and when his dad disappeared into the cloud of dust being raised by the hooves of the wildebeest, all the young Simba could say was--- "NO!" Simba roared, coming awake all of a sudden. He was panting ferociously, his body drenched in a cold sweat. It had been a dream, his mind slowly comprehended, and he glanced around in relief at the familiar scenery of the jungle. Dreams had been had been bothering him persistently of late, and the nights when he would wake up in a cold sweat were becoming more and more common. He could sleep fine during the day, when his attention was often caught up in some inane activity his friends were concocting, but at night, when everything was quiet and there was nothing to do, a disturbing dream came to him when he closed his eyes. As always, it was the same Dream. Sucking in deep breaths of the jungle air, Simba slowly calmed down and tried to banish the images from his mind. But the guilt remained, lodged and twisting painfully in his soul, and he gritted his teeth at the sensation. The pain burned just as much as it did when he had been a young cub, newly arrived in the jungle. Three long years had passed since, and now he was almost full grown, thinking himself older and wiser in the ways of the world. But the pain of the mistake that ended his youth still haunted him, still hovered in the back of his mind whenever he tried to find happiness in his new home. He wondered, for the thousandth time, if he should tell Timon and Pumbaa. Then, just as quickly, he rejected the idea. The burden he carried was his alone. Anyway, he thought, it wouldn't make a difference if he told them or not. They had asked him about his past on numerous occasions, to which he had given an ambiguous answer. Eventually, as time went by, the questions had stopped altogether as they realized his need for privacy. Simba rose, still panting lightly, and stared upwards toward the sky. The points of light that he instinctively sought were there waiting for him, and they blazed in all of their unfathomable glory, bathing the jungle in gentle starlight. "Father?" he whispered hopefully toward the stars, trying to search for something inspiring, something unusual. Perhaps tonight was the night. But, as he expected, nothing happened. The stars never wavered in their radiance, twinkling faintly in the purple-black haze of the nighttime sky. He held his stare for a moment longer, then slowly looked away and sighed in shame. The promise that his father had once given him, so very long ago, burned in his mind, but it had been his fault, so why would his father wish to speak to the one responsible for his death? * * * * * * "Huh?!" the light-sleeping meerkat was instantly awake. Awareness flooded his sleepy brain like a cold splash of water in the face, and Timon's heart began to race in fright as he recognized the familiar anxiety seizing his body. His instincts were warning him that something was watching him, but as to what the "something" was, the frantic Timon wasn't sure. He glanced nervously around at the trees shrouded in darkness, half-expecting a nasty predator suddenly to jump out at him from the shadows. "Pumbaa!" he whispered urgently to the sleeping warthog, jumping to his feet onto the warthog's furry stomach. The warthog snorted and shifted irritably, refusing to wake up. Frowning, Timon turned to the warthog's face and said, "Pumbaa?" Predictably, his warthog companion hadn't even twitched an ear, despite their obvious danger, hopelessly lost in whatever ridiculous dreams warthogs dreamt. Timon sighed. If it wasn't for him, the warthog would have been eaten by a nameless Very Hungry Hairy Black Thing a long time ago. It showed how good a friend he was--- "Hey, Pumbaa!" he repeated, jumping onto the warthog's enormous nose with nimble feet. He pulled at the flexible appendage, trying to rouse the lout. Finally, at his wit's end, Timon shouted in frustration, "Pumbaa, WAKE UP!" "Huh?" the warthog exclaimed as he suddenly came awake, and as his head lifted, the surprised Timon was tumbled off his perch. Blinking his eyes sleepily, the warthog asked in a loud, confused voice. "What's wrong, Timon?" "Sh!" the meerkat slapped a hand on the warthog's mouth, glancing nervously around into the shadows behind him, and Pumbaa obediently fell silent. "I thought I heard something---" "What did you hear, Timon?" Pumbaa whispered back, his eyes reflecting the fear in Timon's face. "I don't know, but whatever it is---" Timon stopped and looked about. "Timon, I think we're being stalked by a predator---" Pumbaa began, also nervously looking about. "Hush, my porcine pal!" Timon held up a hand, not listening to his friend. "Don't talk while I'm thinking!" "What are you thinking about, Timon?" "Where's a lion when you need one?" The meerkat was muttering to himself. He turned to the warthog. "Pumbaa, where's Simba?!" "Simba?" Pumbaa repeated the name, then shrugged. "I dunno, Timon, where do you think he is?" "That's what I'm asking you!" Timon snapped, then turned and peered into the shadows suspiciously. "You know, Pumbaa, I've just come to the conclusion that we're being stalked by a predator!" Pumbaa sighed. "But, not to worry," Timon went on, glancing at the warthog. "Because, my friend, I have a plan---" Timon broke off his speech, suddenly aware of a snapping of twigs and rustling of leaves in the undergrowth. Fear immobilizing their legs, which had suddenly turned to jello, the two clutched at one another. Pumbaa stared into the darkness frightfully while Timon closed his eyes, regretting at the end that should had eaten far fewer bugs for dinner than he had. A shadow moved out of the darkness, two yelow eyes hung glinting in the air, and the two involuntarily gasped in terror. "Hi, guys!" The familiar deep voice rolled out of the shadows, and a young lion strode out of the undergrowth. "Simba!" Pumbaa exhaled in obvious relief. "Simba? It's Simba?" Timon opened his eyes, saw the lion staring at him curiously, and began a sigh of relief. Suddenly, he stopped himself when he noticed that Pumbaa was watching him with narrowed eyes. He chuckled nervously, then with a fake grin said, "Pumbaa, I was just pulling your tail! I knew that it was Simba all along! I know things like these!" "Oh, I'm sure you did, Timon!" The warthog sarcastically agreed, falling on his back and relaxing. "Still," The meerkat turned to Simba. "I thought I heard something!" "Oh, you heard something alright, Timon. " Simba nodded. "It must have been me you heard." "Speaking of you, Simba," Timon said, jumping off the warthog to land on the ground, tiny hands on his hips. Pumbaa looked wordlessly on. "Aren't you supposed to be here, protecting us?" "Well, yeah, Timon," Simba replied. "But---" "We're supposed to be together, y'know? One for all, and all for one, like the Three Musketeers---" "Simba, what's a musketeer?" Pumbaa suddenly asked. The lion shrugged. "I don't know!" The warthog turned to the meerkat. "Timon, what's a---" "Quiet, Pumbaa, you ask too many questions!" Timon snapped, then spoke to Simba. "Simba, you're a lion, am I right?" "Well, yeah---" "And lions have territories that they protect against all nasty creatures?" "If you say so, Timon---" Simba began doubtfully. "Since we are currently in what we call "your territory", aren't you supposed to be protecting us?!" "Well, I'm sorry, Timon!" Simba apologized, rolling his eyes as he lowered himself to the ground. Then he said, as a way of explaining. "I had another bad dream." Timon sighed, threw his arms up, and rolled his eyes to the sky. "The same one, Simba?" Pumbaa asked, frowning sympathetically. "Yeah," Simba confirmed, twitching his tail. "For some reason, I've been seeing it a lot more often in the last couple of weeks. I'm not really sure why." "You know something, Simba?" the warthog said, looking thoughtfully at the lion. "You should eat some organic green objects that grow on the branches of trees in a half-circular shape in numerous quantities---" Simba gaped open-jawed at the warthog, not understanding. "I believe you are referring to leaves, Pumbaa?!" Timon frowned. "Yeah! Yeah!" Pumbaa nodded at Timon, then went on. "But you have to take these leaves from the martuypain tree." "M---muh---marty---" Simba stumbled over the word. "Martuypain tree." Pumbaa repeated, handling the word with ease. "Martuypain leaves?!" Simba exclaimed, a confused look on his face. "Yup!" the warthog replied, nodding enthusiastically. " Eat a few, and you'll sleep like a cub! No dreams, no worries!" "Oh, really?" Simba said, interested. "How did you know that?" "Because my uncle Boris told me and, uh," The warthog hesitated, lifting a hoof to his mouth. "Though you should be careful not to eat too many, because my uncle did that once and he---" "Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Timon waved his hands in the air, interrupting the warthog. "Pumbaa, we want to help Simba *out* of a hole, not *into* one!" The meerkat turned to the lion, who was watching the two with a bemused expression. "Simba, let's talk about it, and maybe that'll help---" the meerkat saw a stubborn look suddenly form on Simba's face, and he crossed his arms over his tiny furry chest. "Are you ever going to tell us about whatever you've been dreaming?!" "No," Simba replied, shaking his head, turning away from his friends. "I don't really want to talk about it." Timon rolled his eyes to Pumbaa, and sighing said. "Simba, if you don't talk about it, we can't help you, and if we can't help you, you're going to keep having these dreams---" "I wish I could tell you about them, but I'd much rather not---" "Ech!" the meerkat snorted in disgust, waving his arms in the air as he turned to Pumbaa. "I have a big day planned tomorrow Simba, I'm going back to sleep right now. I suggest that do the same!" "But what about his dreams, Timon?" Pumbaa asked his friend. "Dreams, schmeems!" Timon muttered to himself, curling himself up again on the warthog's rising stomach. "If he were a real lion, the terror of the jungle, then he wouldn't be bothered with such trivial nonsense. Go back to sleep, Simba!" The lion rose in silence, glancing reproachfully at the meerkat, then walked slowly away on padded feet, allowing the darkness of the night to swallow him up. "Gee, Timon," the warthog said with a worried expression. "Don't you think you were a bit hard on him?" "Hard on him, Pumbaa?" the meerkat replied, his eyes closing, hands folded on his stomach. "It's a little bit of something I call reverse psychology. You see, my friend, by encouraging Simba *not* to tell us about his problem, we are in fact making him want to tell us---" "What are you saying, Timon?!" The warthog was utterly bewildered. "Never mind, Pumbaa," Timon said. "Just trust me!" Pumbaa rumbled in caution, glancing at Timon with skeptical eyes, then settled down. "Now, speaking of dreams, I'm going to dream up something myself," Timon was muttering quietly to himself, already falling into a deep sleep. "And I'll dream of juicy grubs, ladybugs with the slightest bit of crunch, ants dipped in a delicate leaf sauce, and oh yes, can't forget those Macademian beetles---" * * * * * * The trio couldn't have known, but as they talked, they were being watched by a pair of gleaming amber eyes whose owner was one who wished to remain undetected and unseen. The huge cat sat concealed in the long shadows of the full moon, patiently waiting as he listened to the conversation. He stood on a large granite boulder, one motionless shadow amongst many others, peering curiously into the valley below. His quarry was down there somewhere. He knew it. He knew it because he could almost feel the one he was Seeking, could almost hear its heart beating loudly in the silence of the night. After stretching tiredly, the old tiger crouched down to observe the valley floor beneath him with unflagging interest. The tiger's face, revealed by the light of the moon that cast its gentle rays all around him, had taken on a stern, uncompromising look as he brooded about the future. He was an old tiger, past twenty, but his great age had not dulled the intelligence that still gleamed brightly in the yellow-green eyes. The tawny coat of the tiger was ragged and worn, evidence of an extremely long life; the once fiery orange of his fur had turned almost completely white, emphasizing stripes of midnight black that marked face, legs, body and even tail. His limbs, powerful in his prime, had atrophied as he aged; but he still managed to move with a grace that came from great wisdom and a sureness of his place within the Circle of Life. The piercing gaze of the tiger rose above the indistinct black shapes of the trio of speakers, above the treetops, to the star-speckled night that dominated that skies. The full moon blazed in the nighttime sky like a silver coin, suspended high within the ghostly clouds. The tiger withdrew into himself, eyes staring into the infinite expanse of the cosmos with a dreamy, unfocused look, as if he were seeing another world to which others were blind. The tiger's breath frosted in the chilly air as he considered the full moon. How many such moons had he seen in his life? Reminded of his age, his mind went back through his memories to the earliest times of his life. Strange, he suddenly thought, remembering his years. He was the last of the generation of tigers that he had grown up with. He could still remember his siblings teasing him about his weakness, saying that he couldn't survive on his own, that he would amount to nothing. But Destiny had determined that it would be otherwise, for he was now a Seeker. Now, all of his cubhood friends, his family, even his mentor, everyone that he had known as a cub---were now gone. Strange that he, of all cats, should have outlasted them all. The tiger glanced thoughtfully toward Simba. What had happened before, would inevitably happen again. It was the way of things, the way of the wheel of time, the way of the Circle of Life. Destiny had played games with him, and he was of a mind that it was doing exactly the same thing with Simba. A few minutes ago, he had been Seeking, sensing the presence of the quarry that he sought when faint voices, carried to the tiger's sensitive ears on the wind, had alerted him. He had halted, not a muscle moving, ears tilted forward for maximum hearing, then changed the path of his search after a moment's inner consultation. Lowering himself to his belly, he had crept slowly and silently through the darkness and tangles of vines to the sound's source. "Ah!" the tiger had muttered in triumph after he lifted himself over the boulder, and glanced down over the ravine's edge. Though it was the blackest part of the night, barely illuminated by what little moonlight filtered down through the trees, the keen eyes could see all as though the dim moon were the sun. "There you are!" At the bottom, it saw, were three individuals. "A warthog, a meerkat, and a lion, talking to each other!" the tiger whispered in quiet surprise. "Fascinating!" The tiger had seen and heard more things than almost anyone else alive, and the things that surprised him now were very few; but even so the old tiger was deeply amazed. If he had been in such close proximity to such mouth-watering prey, he surely wouldn't have hesitated to do what was in his nature to do. But, as paradoxical as it seemed, the lion seemed to speak to them as if the trio were the very best of friends. Perhaps they even were. His attention returned to the lion and he rose to leave, and the tiger growled as a strange feeling swelled and rose inside him. It was the familiar feeling of the exhilaration and anticipation of the hunt, and the old tiger revelled in the sensation. His eyes glanced back toward the sleeping meerkat and warthog, then passed over them as if they didn't exist. He had wished to meet the lion alone, with the warthog and meerkat out of the way, and the lion's friends had solved his dilemma through their slothfulness. His eyes tracked the lion until he exited the clearing. The old tiger didn't worry that the lion was moving away from him. He would let him go, for the time being, since the old tiger knew the lion's aura. There was no place on earth that he could run that the old tiger couldn't follow him to. The old tiger rose, and moving on silent padded feet, skirted the edge of the ravine, slowly following without haste in the lion's wake. The wind of his passing rolled over the two sleeping friends, and they half-awoke, mumbling in trepidation, as if they were suddenly remembering millennia of primal instinct that told them to run whenever their ancient enemies, the carnivores, threatened them. Then, as the unnatural wind passed, they relaxed and quickly fell back into a deep, dreamless, fitful sleep.