Copyright © 2019 Disney Enterprises, Inc.
All rights reserved. Published by Disney Press, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney Press, 1200 Grand Central Avenue, Glendale, California 91201.
ISBN 978-1-368-04413-4
disneybooks.com
https://movies.disney.com/the-lion-king-2019
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
To Jonathan Kast.
Your memory and love live on.
—E.R.
IN the moments before the sun rose over the horizon, the African plain was hushed. No birds sang. No animals called. The only sounds were the soft whisper of the breeze as it blew through the long grasses, still green in the early spring, and the distant thunder of the water cascading over Victoria Falls into the frothy pools below.
But as the sun’s light began to break over the savannah, life began to stir.
It was slow at first, barely noticeable. A soft mew rising from the meerkat den. A rustle of feathers as the marabou storks lifted their long black wings and stretched their necks. Then faster and faster the sounds grew louder, merging into the song of the savannah. Cheetah mothers coaxed their young out into the sunlight with gentle nudges to their cubs’ sides and quick licks to say hello. A pair of topis tapped their horns in greeting and then turned toward the grasslands, eager for their first meal of the day. Their brown bodies, marked with swaths of black, glimmered in the sun as it rose higher and higher.
Over the open plains, a herd of elephants began to march toward the watering hole, their long trunks swinging, the pads of their large feet leaving deep impressions on the dry ground. Near the top of a hill, a mother giraffe appeared, her baby following close behind, its head swiveling back and forth as it scanned the landscape for friends—and predators. Below, on a plain still covered with a thin layer of morning mist, a herd of gazelles leapt and played, the young ones jumping over brush with abandon and then spooking as an even larger herd of zebras passed by.
Even the smallest of life had awoken. On tree branches, ants began to march out of their holes and head to ground, careful to stay out of the way of the hungry guinea fowl. Tiny birds flew from branch to branch, the boldest occasionally swooping down to catch a ride on a passing elephant.
As all the animals of the savannah continued to wake, the sound grew to a crescendo until finally it broke with a loud trumpet from an elephant. But beneath the peace was a growing sense of excitement that every animal—from the largest to the smallest—felt. It was why, in almost perfect synchrony and complete harmony, they began to make their way to Pride Rock. The heart of their part of the savannah, Pride Rock was where Mufasa, the giant lion who had led the land for years, and his pride of lions lived. And on this day, he would introduce his kingdom to his son. It was a tradition that had been upheld for generations. Mufasa’s family was well respected. He was a fierce and mighty lion, but he was kind, and he treated everyone—from the ants to the antelope—as important. In return, he had earned the respect of every animal family in the Pride Lands. And now they would show their respect by greeting his new son.
The sun had fully risen in the sky by the time all the animals arrived at Pride Rock. A hush fell over them as they raised their heads to look at the large rock jutting out over the savannah. It dominated the landscape, casting those nearest to it in shadow. For years, it had been the symbol of their kingdom, a natural amphitheater and gathering place. In the wet season it provided shelter, and in the dry season it was a refuge from the brutal sun. But most importantly, it was where Mufasa and his queen, Sarabi, lived with their pride of lions. Now it was a stage, and everyone was eager for the show to begin.
As they waited inside the cave tucked in the back of Pride Rock, Mufasa looked down at his queen. Beside her, their young son, Simba, slept peacefully, unaware of what was in store. His light brown body was relaxed, his sides rising evenly as he breathed in and out. Lowering her head, Sarabi gently nuzzled the young cub. Simba’s eyes slowly opened. At the comforting sight of his mother and father, he let out a big yawn and then stretched. Mufasa smiled proudly, watching him. He had done many great things in his life, but the thing he was most proud of was this—his son, his queen, and the life he had created for them.
Hearing footsteps, Mufasa turned and his grin grew wider. His old friend and confidant Rafiki had arrived. Although the mandrill was a bit grizzled and bent, his eyes were still bright. He leaned on his wooden staff a little more than he once had, but his steps were still light. It had been Rafiki who’d introduced Mufasa to the kingdom when he was just a cub, as he would do now with Simba. Approaching each other, the two old friends exchanged a hug and then Mufasa stepped aside. It was time for the ceremony to begin.
Simba watched curiously as the monkey stepped in front of him. Seeing his wooden stick, the cub playfully tried to bat at it, missing and causing the adults around him to laugh. Rafiki nodded, pleased. It was a good sign for all of Pride Rock if Simba was curious and alert. Raising the stick above Simba, Rafiki shook it, causing red dirt to fall over the cub’s head—and making the young cub sneeze.
Satisfied, Rafiki leaned down and carefully picked up Simba. Cradling him in one arm, he turned and slowly began to make his way out of the cave. Behind him, Mufasa and Sarabi followed, their bodies pressed close together. As they came out onto the rock, the sun went behind a cloud, as if not wanting to take away from the moment. Below, the animals leaned forward in anticipation. Step by step, Rafiki made his way toward the edge of Pride Rock until at last he stopped, mere inches from the steep drop. As the gathered animals watched from below, Rafiki lifted Simba up, up, up—until finally, he had raised baby Simba for all to see.
Instantly, the gathered animals erupted in noise: Elephants trumpeted. Zebras stomped their feet. Storks flapped their wings, and the cheetahs let out their own cries. Then the sun burst through the clouds, a beam of light falling right down onto the head of Simba—the future king.
The animals dropped their heads, bowing in respect.
Simba, still hanging from Rafiki’s arms, looked down upon it all, unaware of the greatness of this moment. This was the way of life on Pride Rock. It was how it had always been and how it should always be. It was the Circle of Life, the way of the savannah. Through times of hardship and times of ease, the animals relied on one another and on the order of life to keep them going. Now it was Simba’s turn to join that circle.
And while he didn’t know it yet, someday it would be up to him to take his father’s place and complete the circle—when he was king.
While nearly every animal in the savannah had come to greet their future king, there was someone missing. Someone whose presence, while not miss
ed by others, was keenly felt by Mufasa. His brother, Scar, had missed the event.
Staring at the spot that had been kept open for him, Mufasa sighed. Once again, his brother had disappointed him. He had hoped that just this once Scar would step up, prove that he was above petty jealousies. But his hopes had been in vain. Scar had acted as he always had: bitter and resentful, angry to the core.
As Mufasa followed Rafiki and Sarabi back into the cave, his eyes wandered down to the shadows beneath Pride Rock, where Scar made his home. Anger began to replace the disappointment he felt. Yes, Scar had been born second; that was not Mufasa’s fault. Yet, somehow, he had become the villain in the story of Scar’s life. Mufasa knew the younger lion blamed him for his lower position. Scar was a fool and a bitter lion, content to slink about stirring discontent among the young lions and mocking and disrespecting his brother at every turn. Like he had done that day.
Nodding at his majordomo, a hornbill named Zazu, Mufasa signaled him over. Making sure not to bother Sarabi or Simba, who was in the middle of a bath, Mufasa whispered his directions to Zazu. “Go and tell Scar I’m not pleased,” he said, his deep voice commanding even in whisper. “I’ll be down shortly to hear what his excuse is…this time.” His orders given, he turned his attention back to his family. He wanted to spend a few more minutes enjoying them—not as a king, but as a father. Then he would go talk to Scar—not as his brother, but as his king.
Inside his cave, Scar sat in the shadows. He could hear the muffled sounds of celebration drifting in from outside. The cave shook as the animals paraded around Pride Rock, trumpeting and roaring in excitement over the presentation of beloved little Simba. Scar’s eyes narrowed, and he swiped a paw angrily at the ground in front of him. Was it too much to ask for them to be just a tad quieter? So much fuss for such a tiny cub. It was disgusting and just like his big brother. The mighty king loved a good show.
Trying to tune out the noise, Scar focused on a much more pressing task—his afternoon snack. Lowering himself into a crouch, he shifted farther back into the shadows and waited. Within moments, the cave grew eerily quiet, as though Scar had stopped breathing and moving altogether. Out on the savannah, the skill would have made him a mighty hunter. But the scar on his eye had made him ineffectual to his father, so he had never been brought along on hunts, never shown the way of the hunter. Inside his cave, however, he was the mightiest of warriors. No one judged his weak appearance: his ribs always protruding no matter how much he ate; his mane mangy and thin; his coat mottled and turning prematurely gray; his mismatched eyes—one bright, the other clouded and scarred. No, inside his cave, he was the king.
And he was about to get a meal.
A mouse, lulled into a false sense of security by the quiet, scampered out into the center of the cave. He lifted his nose to the air and his whiskers twitched, his little eyes darting back and forth. Convinced he was well and truly alone, he scurried forward, his nose pressed to the ground as he searched for a crumb. Focused on his task, the little mouse didn’t notice as a shadow rose up on the cave wall behind him.
Slowly, Scar got to his feet, his hackles raising and his eyes narrowing as he fixed on his prey. This was his favorite part. The moment before he pounced—when he was steps ahead of his victim. Mufasa had always been the brawnier of the two, but Scar—he was the brainier. And he loved a good game of cat and mouse. Inching forward, he was soundless, the pads of his giant paws barely touching the cold hard ground of the cave. When he was almost on top of the mouse, he lifted one paw up. It hung in the air above the mouse for a second and then slammed down, trapping the creature against the wall.
A sneer of pleasure came over Scar’s face. Behind his paw he could feel the mouse frantically trying to escape. But there was nowhere to go. Lifting his paw, he brought his nose down right in front of the frightened creature. “Life’s not fair, is it, my little friend?” he said. He was so close to the mouse that his breath made the small animal’s fur move. “While some are born to feast, others spend their lives in the dark—begging for scraps. The way I see it, you and I are exactly the same.” He lowered his head still closer, silently laughing at the irony of comparing himself to a mouse. But it was true. They were the same. They were both stuck in their situations. And while he may have been born into the proudest of families, Scar was seen as no mightier than a mouse. Sighing, he went on. “We both want to find a way out.…”
Lifting the mouse up by his tail, Scar let him squirm for a moment. He would never grow tired of the pleasure it gave him to make the weak suffer. And why should he? He was the weak one in his family. And look at what they had done to him: cast him aside, treated him like dirt while they showered Mufasa with praise and attention. Scar would never be king. That much was a given, especially now that the little brat had been born. But it didn’t mean he couldn’t find some source of joy—even if it came in the form of hurting creatures too small to fight back.
With renewed focus, Scar opened his mouth and began to lower the mouse down. He was just about to snap his jaws shut when he heard flapping wings. A moment later, the unmistakable sound of Zazu’s voice echoed throughout the cave.
“The king approaches!” the hornbill cried. “This is NOT a drill!”
At the word king, Scar’s grip on the mouse loosened. It was just for a moment, but it was all the mouse needed. Jumping free of Scar—and away from his still open mouth—the mouse sprinted toward the small hole through which he had come. Before Scar could even let out a growl of frustration, his snack had disappeared.
In its place stood Zazu.
Sitting down, Scar eyed the nervous bird. He hated Zazu—almost as much as he despised Mufasa. The bird felt that just because he was Mufasa’s trusted aide he could go anywhere and say anything. It was irritating. As was his habit of constantly being nervous and in a state of fear—not that anyone could touch the bird without punishment from the king.
Feeling the lion’s gaze on him, Zazu scanned the cave. His nose dipped down as he took in the dirty surroundings, the matted thin bed in the corner, and the remains of Scar’s last snack. Then he looked up at Scar. “His Majesty has requested an audience,” he announced. “Upon his entrance you will rise and genuflect.”
Scar ignored him, looking instead at the spot in the cave wall where the mouse had gone. “Zazu,” he said, dragging out the hornbill’s name and managing to sound completely put off, “you’ve made me lose my lunch.”
Zazu did not seem concerned. “You’ll answer to Mufasa for missing the ceremony this morning!”
Instantly, Scar was on his feet. He began to move toward the bird, his head lowered and his lips pulled back in a snarl. If Zazu thought he could just fly in and command him to bow and act sorry, he was a stupider bird than Scar had believed. As he got closer, he licked his lips hungrily.
“Scar—” Zazu said, beginning to back up. “Don’t look at me like that!”
“Are you hungry, Zazu?” Scar asked, not stopping. “Perhaps we could have a bite together?”
Hearing the hunger—and hatred—in Scar’s voice, Zazu lifted up off the floor of the cave. He could wait for Mufasa outside just as easily as inside. But before he could turn and fly away, Scar lunged forward, blocking the entrance to the den. His body shut out the sunshine and cast the entrance into shadow.
Zazu shivered. “You can’t eat me!” he said, trying to keep his voice from shaking—and failing.
In answer, Scar snapped his jaws. With a squawk, Zazu lifted into the air, barely avoiding having his beak bitten in half. Below him, Scar snapped again and again, the sound echoing and bouncing off the walls of the den.
“SCAR!” Backlit by the sun, Mufasa filled the entire entrance to the den. His massive mane looked the color of fire, but his eyes were cold as they stared down at Scar.
“Well, look who’s come down to mingle with the commoners,” Scar finally said, eyeing his brother and Zazu with disdain. He lifted a paw and began to groom himself.
“
Come out here!” Mufasa ordered. He knew exactly what Scar was doing. He was trying to act as though he didn’t have a care in the world. But Mufasa knew different. He knew Scar hadn’t shown because of one reason and one reason alone: jealousy. Stepping back, he waited for the other lion to follow him.
Slowly, Scar slunk out in the sunshine. He squinted, unaccustomed to the bright light. He began to walk around Mufasa, checking to be sure the king hadn’t brought anyone else along with him. But Mufasa was alone.
“Sarabi and I didn’t see you at the presentation of Simba,” Mufasa finally said. He lifted his head toward the top of Pride Rock, high above them. His body was relaxed but his tone made his displeasure clear. He didn’t bother to look at Scar, instead just waiting to hear the excuse.
Pausing in front of a large rock, Scar flicked out a long, sharp talon and began to run it over the hard surface. Zazu grimaced at the painful noise, but Mufasa didn’t flinch. “Was that today?” Scar said. “Must have slipped my mind.” He shrugged. “Of course, I meant no disrespect toward His Majesty. Or Sarabi. As you know, I have tremendous respect for the queen.…” His voice trailed off, his omission blatant.
Zazu’s head swiveled back and forth between the two brothers. It was never comfortable being in the same area as them, but now it was downright frightening. He could feel the rage practically boiling off Mufasa, and he could smell the indifference on Scar. Clearing his throat, the hornbill took a step forward. “As the king’s brother, you should have been first in line,” he pointed out, voicing what Mufasa had obviously been thinking.
Scar lifted an eyebrow, the movement pulling at his scar and making him look even meaner than usual. Was Zazu joking? Did he not see the irony in what he’d said? “I was first in line,” he reminded them. “Or don’t you remember. That is, until the precious prince arrived.” Tired of the conversation, Scar turned to walk away. He had more important things to do than be chastised by a bird and his birdbrained brother—like find his runaway lunch.
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