Behind him, he heard Pumbaa’s concerned voice. “He’s so sad,” the warthog said. “We have to help him, Timon!” Simba heard hoofbeats and then Pumbaa appeared next to him. “Hey, kid, what’s eating ya?”
Before Simba could even answer, Timon piped up. “Nothing,” he said. “He’s the top of the food chain!” He paused and looked expectantly at the lion and the warthog. Both of them looked back blankly. “Get it?” he pressed. Nothing. “Food chain?” Still nothing. Shrugging, Timon moved on. “So, where ya from?”
“Who cares?” Simba snapped. “I can’t go home.” He was surprised by the defeat he heard in his own voice. But it was the truth. What good would it do to tell Timon and Pumbaa about his old life? It was a life he could never get back.
Timon cocked his head. “So if you can’t go home,” he said, another thought coming to mind, “does that mean someone from home will come looking for you? And by someone, I mean a large hairy beast?”
“Nobody will ever look for me,” Simba said softly.
To his surprise, Pumbaa seemed thrilled by that answer. “No family!” he cried. “So, you’re an outcast!”
Timon was pleased, too. “That’s great! So are we!” Clapping his hands, he gave Simba a huge smile. For the first time since Simba had opened his eyes, the meerkat seemed to relax. In fact, as Simba watched, Timon settled down on the ground near the muddy puddle and put his hands behind his head. “Tell us about it, kid. We love a good outcast story.”
Pumbaa plopped himself down, too. “Those stories always make me cry,” he said. “Especially if the outcast falls in a hole and has to eat his own foot.”
Simba looked back and forth between the odd pair. Were they serious? It was hard to tell. But even if they were, it wasn’t like he was going to just tell them everything that had happened.
“Let me guess,” Timon said. “You were too small?”
Simba shook his head.
“Too slow?” Timon asked.
Simba shook his head again.
“Anxious? Aggressive? Envious?”
Still, Simba just shook his head. But the meerkat’s incessant questions had made him smile—slightly. For one brief moment, he almost felt like laughing. But then Pumbaa spoke, and the feeling vanished.
“I also like the ones when the outcast accidentally eats a relative,” the warthog said, tears welling up in his eyes at the mere mention of it.
Simba’s heart began to thud in his chest. Did they know somehow? Had word already gotten out from the Pride Lands about what he had done? Were they just trying to get him to admit it so they had confirmation that he was a killer? As Timon continued to list reasons why Simba might be an outcast, the young lion realized he was being paranoid. The pair didn’t know anything. They were just being silly and guessing. But silly or not, they were reminding him of everything he had lost. Slowly, he began to back away. He didn’t want to be there anymore.
“I did something terrible,” he said, cutting Timon off. “I don’t want to talk about it. Leave me alone.”
Turning, he began to walk away. But the combination of the lack of food, his broken heart—which was still racing—and the hot sun was just too much for him. His vision grew blurry and then, with a thunk, he fell over onto the hard ground. He lay there, panting heavily as Timon and Pumba raced over.
“Kid!” Pumbaa said, sliding to a stop next to him. Worry was etched on his face as he looked down at Simba. He lowered his head and gently nudged Simba with the tip of one of his tusks. When Simba didn’t move, Pumbaa once again lowered his head, only this time, Timon lent a hand, too, and together they got Simba back on his feet. Simba sighed deeply. “There must be something we can do?” Pumbaa pleaded, clearly not happy to see the lion cub so unhappy.
Simba shook his head. The old him would have said thank you. He probably would have even had fun telling the warthog and the meerkat all about his crazy adventures and what kind of king he would be someday. But now all he could think about was what had happened. All he could see was his father’s lifeless body, and all he could imagine was the look of disappointment on his mother’s and Nala’s faces. “Not unless you can change the past,” he finally said.
“Nobody can change the past,” Timon pointed out. “But the future—that’s our specialty.”
Despite himself, Simba looked up, intrigued. “You can change the future?” he asked.
Pumbaa nodded. “We’d be happy to change yours!” he exclaimed. “It’s easy!”
Simba didn’t understand. “How can you change something that hasn’t happened?”
Thrilled to be asked a question he could answer—and sound smart doing so—Timon held up a finger. Always the showman, he waited for a long moment before answering. “Well, to change the future,” he said, “you gotta put the past behind you.” Taking his finger, he pointed it behind him.
“Way behind,” Pumbaa agreed. “I put mine behind that rock. Or was it that rock?” The warthog, distracted for a moment, began to sniff around a pile of rocks that all looked exactly the same.
Simba watched, a bemused expression beginning to spread over his face. Timon was ridiculous. There was no way to change the future, no matter what he said. And Pumbaa was just plain silly. Still…he couldn’t help listening as Timon went on. Forgetting his past? Being able to move on? It sounded better than where he was now, that was for sure.
“Look, kid,” Timon went on. “Bad things happen—and you can’t do anything about it, right?”
“Right,” Simba agreed.
To Simba’s surprise, Timon shook his head. “Wrong!” he shouted. “When the world turns its back on you, you turn your back on the world!” His voice grew louder as he got caught up in the moment. Simba listened with growing interest as Timon and Pumbaa explained what he had to do as an outcast. They had a plan, he quickly learned, that included leaving the past behind him, embracing his future, and forgetting any wrongs.
When they paused, Simba narrowed his eyes. “That’s not what I was taught,” he said, thinking about the Circle of Life his father had described to him. How everything was connected, nothing was forgotten, and everything was important. It was the exact opposite of what Timon and Pumbaa were saying.
Timon shook his head. “Maybe,” he suggested, “you need a new lesson. Repeat after me: hakuna matata.”
“What?” Simba asked.
“It means no worries,” Pumbaa explained, as though that made everything clearer.
Right. No worries, Simba thought as Pumbaa and Timon continued to ramble on. That sounds fantastic. But how can anyone live without worries?
Apparently, Timon and Pumbaa could. And they quickly told him just how. Their life, they informed him, hadn’t always been so footloose and fancy-free. They hadn’t always lived without worries. In fact, Pumbaa had spent his youth being the “stinky warthog” who’d had no friends—at least not any who would stand downwind.
As they continued to talk, Simba’s mind began to race. They were right. He couldn’t change the past. What had happened had happened. But maybe, just maybe, he could make his future better…even if it meant living out in the desert and not in the Pride Lands. He might never get to be king of the Pride Lands, but maybe he could become a master of not worrying.
Simba was still thinking about what his new future might be when Timon and Pumbaa finally stopped talking and realized he hadn’t run away. And that it was time to head home. Jumping on Pumbaa’s back, Timon gestured for Simba to follow.
Turning, the warthog began to trot off along a path only he seemed to see. Simba tried to keep up, but he was still tired and the ground was still hard, so he was slower than normal. He nearly fell flat on his face several times before Pumbaa noticed he was lagging and stopped to let him catch up.
For the rest of the journey, Pumbaa kept to a slow trot. Simba, no longer forced to focus exclusively on staying upright, took the opportunity to check out the changing landscape. After a while, the desert ground began to soften and he sp
otted a few shrubs, then a few more. Soon the ground became lush and green and the shrubs gave way to taller trees. And then, up ahead, Simba saw a wall of green. He shook his head, not sure it wasn’t just a mirage or a trick of his overheated brain and hungry stomach. But when his vision cleared, the wall of green was still there.
A moment later, Pumbaa pushed right through the trees and into the lush jungle beyond. As Simba followed, his eyes grew wide. He had never seen so many colors before in his life. Bright greens. Vibrant oranges. Pops of purple and ribbons of red. The Pride Lands were beautiful but they were sparse, the colors always muted, even in the wettest of seasons when the green grasses were at their brightest. But this place? This place looked like it was never dull. It was a paradise.
“Welcome to our humble home,” Timon said, gesturing around him.
“You live here?” Simba said, shocked and awed.
Timon nodded. “We live wherever we want,” he corrected.
“Do as we please,” Pumbaa added.
Simba smiled. The jungle was beautiful. Maybe there was something to the hakuna matata mentality after all. If they got to live here…
Simba was still smiling as Pumbaa led him into a clearing. A giant tree dominated one side, its thick roots rising out of the ground, its long branches and heavy leaves providing a natural shelter. As Simba glanced around, he spotted a few animals loitering near the tree.
“Everyone,” Timon shouted. “This is Simba!”
Immediately, the animals ducked out of sight. “Guys,” Pumbaa called, “come out and say hello!” One by one, the small animals began to emerge from their hiding spots. They all looked terrified.
“We’re all going to die!” an elephant shrew shouted in a squeaky voice. His long thin nose twitched wildly, and his eyes were so wide they were disproportionate to the rest of his small rodent body.
A honey badger, popping out from a hole in the ground, pointed at Simba. “That’s a lion,” he said, sneering and revealing his sharp teeth. But his voice shook and Simba could see that the white strip of fur on his otherwise black body was trembling.
“True,” Pumbaa said, shrugging. “But it’s a little lion.”
Just then, a small dung beetle strolled by, pushing a dark round ball in front of him. The animals all crinkled their noses at the unpleasant scent of the dung beetle’s “prize.”
“Get out of here with that thing!” the honey badger snarled, forgetting to be concerned about Simba.
“I told you guys—it’s just mud!” the dung beetle cried. “Well, mostly.”
The other animals shook their heads. Simba tried not to smile as he heard them mumbling to themselves about the dung beetle and the ball in front of him. Noticing the lion was smiling, the other animals backed up nervously. The smile, while innocent, revealed a few too many of Simba’s teeth.
“What about food?” a bush baby asked. Seeing Simba’s teeth had made everyone think the same thing. “Have you thought about feeding that thing?”
At the mention of food, Simba’s stomach let out a loud growl. “I’m starved,” he said. “I could eat a whole zebra.”
The clearing went silent. Even the dung beetle stopped rolling his ball. The animals froze. Simba watched, confused. Finally, Timon cleared his throat. “Uh, we’re fresh out of zebra,” he said, gesturing around the zebra-less clearing.
Simba’s stomach let out another growl. He wasn’t going to be picky. He just wanted something to eat, even if it wasn’t his favorite. “Any antelope?” he asked hopefully.
Apparently, that was not the right request. Timon and Pumbaa both began to shake their heads while the smaller animals circled together defensively. “Listen, kid,” Timon said. “If you want to live with us, you got to eat like us.”
“And most importantly,” the elephant shrew added in a small squeak, “not eat us!”
Gesturing for Simba to follow, Timon led him over to a fallen log. The wood was rotten in places and covered in moss in others. It had clearly been lying there on the clearing floor for a long time. “This looks like a good spot to rustle up some grub,” Timon said confidently.
Simba looked down at the tree and then up at Pumbaa, who was standing next to him. He cocked his head. This looked like a good place to get food? It didn’t look large enough to be hiding a zebra or an antelope—or even a small topi.
Catching Simba’s look of bewilderment, Pumbaa lowered his head and hooked his tusks under the log. Then, with a grunt, he lifted it up. Simba took a startled step backward as he caught sight of thousands of insects squirming in the damp, dark ground. Some were pale, their bodies plump and slimy. Others were segmented, with hard shells and lots of feet. A few appeared to have wings, and Simba was pretty sure he saw a couple that had pincers. “Ew,” he said, crinkling his nose in disgust. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to one of the rounder, plumper bugs.
“A grub,” the honey badger answered. “What’s it look like?”
“Gross,” Simba answered. Really, really gross, he added silently.
To his surprise, Timon reached into the pile of bugs and picked up one of the round ones. Then, as Simba watched in horror, he popped it into his mouth. Simba swallowed back a wave of nausea.
“Mmm!” Timon said as he chewed. “Tastes like chicken.”
Pumbaa grabbed his own food—a long worm that wriggled and squirmed—and slurped it up. “Slimy, yet satisfying.”
One by one, the other animals joined in the feast. As Timon and Pumbaa continued to munch on their grubs of choice, the bush baby picked up one of the hard-shelled bugs and the honey badger scooped up a whole collection. They munched and crunched happily, unaware that the whole time, Simba was trying hard not to throw up. And to think he used to be picky about antelope. Compared to this, that seemed like the tastiest thing in the world!
Maybe this whole hakuna matata thing isn’t for me, Simba thought. He couldn’t imagine ever eating a single bug, let alone living off them. And while he liked Timon and Pumbaa, the other animals didn’t seem so warm and fuzzy. An image of the den on Pride Rock and of snuggling with his family flashed unexpectedly through his mind. He couldn’t imagine cuddling like that here, despite how beautiful the jungle was. Sadness began to creep back over him and he lowered his head, hoping no one would notice.
At that moment, Timon walked over, holding a huge leaf out in front of him. On it was a selection of bugs. “I’m telling ya, kid,” he said, as though he knew Simba was having doubts, “this is the great life. No rules, no responsibilities. And the best of all, no worries.” He lifted one of the plumpest bugs off the leaf and held it out to Simba. “Well, kid?”
Simba looked down at the bug, his mind racing. True, this was not Pride Rock. The bug was no antelope, and Timon and Pumbaa weren’t Nala or his mother. But no worries? No responsibilities? Getting to forget all the bad things he had just run from? That did sound good. So maybe his life was going to be different. But at least he had a place to call home now. And maybe, hopefully, even some friends.
Taking a deep breath, he nodded. “Oh, well,” he said, grabbing the bug. “Hakuna matata!” Opening his mouth and closing his eyes, he tossed the bug in. Then he began to chew. To his surprise, it wasn’t so bad. He began to smile. “Slimy,” he finally said, opening his eyes. “Yet satisfying.”
As Timon and Pumbaa let out cheers, Simba grabbed another bug from the pile. Yes, he thought as he continued to eat, this may not be what I imagined. But it is a heck of a lot better than being on my own. Plopping down on the warm ground in front of the log, he listened as the other animals chatted and laughed while Pumbaa passed gas and Timon told them about the vulture bowling and saving Simba. Their voices faded in and out as the sun shone down through the canopy of trees, dappling the ground with light. It was peaceful. Simba’s stomach was getting full and he was no longer as tired. In fact, for the first time since he had run from the Pride Lands, Simba felt something welling up in his chest that wasn’t grief or heartache. He felt hop
e.
Time passed as Simba learned to adjust to his new life in the jungle. Timon, always happy to be the expert, took on the role of teacher. At least one part of every day was spent wandering through the jungle as Timon pointed out the various bugs and plants that could be found around the clearing. Some were okay to eat, others not (something Simba found out the hard way).
The clearing, Simba soon found out, was near the edge of the deep jungle. The jungle itself went on for miles and miles and was full of amazing things. There was a huge waterfall that led to a deep pool, perfect for getting a drink or, if the occasion called for it—though it rarely did for his new friends—taking a bath. There were rivers that crisscrossed under the trees, and there was always ample shade. Used to sleeping tucked in the back of a dark den, it took some time for Simba to learn to sleep under the stars. But soon enough, he found the light comforting, the sounds of the jungle like a lullaby.
Pumbaa was in charge of Simba’s “training.” The warthog was a surprisingly stealthy hunter, despite his unfortunate habit of passing gas—loudly. As soon as Simba grew comfortable enough eating grubs, Pumbaa had him off learning to bowl for buzzards and snag the rare and delicious vulture egg.
“Stay low,” Pumbaa said as they hid behind a pile of rocks, staring at a particularly ugly group of vultures. They had spotted the birds circling from the edge of the jungle earlier that day. When enough time had passed, according to Pumbaa, for the birds to eat and grow lazy, they trotted out into the desert.
“I know how to hunt,” Simba whined. “Just let me do my thing. I’ll show you how to really hunt.” Before Pumbaa could stop him, he charged. Immediately, the birds took back to the air, and by the time he reached where they had been, they were once again circling.
Pumbaa trotted over, shaking his head. “You can’t just run at them,” he said, laughing. “They may be ugly, but they aren’t stupid. And they have wings.” Finding another pile of rocks downwind, he gestured for Simba to join him.
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