Simba stirred in the cool morning air, feeling with a paw for his mother’s comforting presence. He opened an eye and glanced around. The awful truth dawned upon him that for the first time in his life, he was completely alone. As far as he could see all around was featureless sand.
He rose, stretching, and groomed himself in the pre-dawn quiet, the slight rasp of his tongue the only sound in the stillness. Holding forth with an enormous yawn, he began padding slowly across the dunes, his tiny paws leaving a pockmarked trail in the pristine sand as he walked slowly but steadily, face turned towards the darkened western sky, the gentle breezes of twilight ruffling his fur and tickling his whiskers with cool fingers.
But the cool did not last long. His shadow sprang into abrupt relief in front of him, harsh and outlined in red. He glanced over his shoulder to see the sun heaving its crimson bulk above the horizon. The temperature began to climb steadily as it rose higher in the sky, the cold dry winds becoming hot dry winds, the rays of the sun beginning to pierce him with anger and spite.
On the second day of Simba’s journey, he fought new enemies. Tiredness, hunger, thirst, hopelessness. The one thought that kept him going was his faith that friends lay to the west.
Panting in the dry air drained moisture from him. A sweat that did not cool him matted his fur and burned his eyes. He longed to feel firm earth beneath his feet again. The soft give of the sand made walking more difficult. His small feet scrabbled for purchase on even the smallest of dunes, and he had to struggle up one side, then slip down the other. He had daydreams about soft fragrant grass wet with morning dew, and stopping by the cistern to drink the cold, fresh water that collected from the rain.
His gait became unsteady. He stumbled along, unsure why there should be anything better to the west than there was to the south or north. He couldn’t go east--that he could NEVER do. The east was where his heart lay. The most desirable and inaccessible of things. His mother’s soft fur, and Aunt Uzuri’s quiet voice that said so much in so little. Perhaps someone was eating fresh meat. His stomach began to knot up and growl. Overhead the sun stared with its one hateful eye, willing the life from him step by step. Each breath sucked precious moisture from his small body. In the sky, vultures circled slowly, meeting his gaze with undisguised eagerness as he fought to remain standing. He stared at one, and watched its image separate into two, then slowly recombine as he fought to keep his fragile grasp on consciousness. The image separated again. He felt his legs collapse and the shock hitting the ground. “Aiheu,” he moaned, the sand rasping dryly against his cheek in a deadly caress. “Help me, Aiheu. I think I’m dying.”
He put his paw across his face and surrendered. Everything went dark....