Simba pranced delightedly about the muddy path, splashing the water with his big paws and laughing at the pretty rainbows they made in the air, the droplets catching the light in an explosion of color before they fell back to earth.
Abruptly, another burst of color emerged before him. The cub’s face was mesmerized by the fluttering wings of the butterflies which leapt up from the jungle floor, swirling around him in a living carousel of glittering beauty. Entranced, he watched them flit about aimlessly, giggling at the sight of the tiny creatures. Playfully, he batted at one.
His paw flicked out with deadly accuracy, striking the insect and cuffing it to the earth in a crushing blow. Chagrined, Simba looked down worriedly as the insect struggled to move, but its wings were broken and it was now missing a couple of legs. Concerned, Simba got Pumbaa to look at it.
“What should I do?”
“Don’t eat it, kid. They’re bitter.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean—it’s going to die. I broke its wings. Is there something I can do to fix it? Can YOU fix it?”
Pumbaa stepped forward, crushing it with his hoof. “That’s all I can do. It would have suffered.”
Simba looked horrified. “Pumbaa,” he asked, very disturbed, “when you hurt something--by accident for instance--does God punish you if you’re really, really sorry?”
“I guess it depends on how bad you hurt them, and how sorry you really are.”
“What if you hurt them really bad? You know, like maybe they died or something? But it was an accident and you were really sorry?”
Pumbaa looked at him suspiciously. “Hey, little guy, this friend that did the hurting—did you know him well?”
Simba’s whiskers trembled slightly. “Uh, no. I was just wondering.”
“Well that’s good. But the way I see it, this person you don’t know should apologize for what it is they did. And if that person was a lot like you—you know, nice and kind and thoughtful—I think God would not hold it against them.”
“Yeah.” He nuzzled Pumbaa, then goaded the warthog into a wrestling match.
As the day wore on, however, Simba found many moments to reflect on the conversation. Deeply troubled, he padded quietly away from Timon and Pumbaa that evening as the stars began to emerge into the sky. He made his way quietly to his favorite spot; atop a rotted tree stump near a muddy washout.
The cub padded slowly through the dead undergrowth, broken stalks and twigs showing clearly that he had passed this way before many times. He leapt lightly to the top of the stump and craned his head up to look at the reason he came here so often. A small break in the triple canopy foliage overhead offered an unobstructed view of a swath of stars that he had come to know well.
Pumbaa eased through the buses to the opening the cub had made and peered through, wondering why Simba wandered off to this desolate clearing. As he caught sight of the cub, he drew back, embarrassed; Simba’s face was stricken as he searched the heavens above.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” He opened his mouth again, but all that emerged was a choked sob.
Timon clambered up Pumbaa’s back to perch atop his head. “Well? What’s he doing-” His jaw shut with a snap as he saw Simba hunched on the stump, head buried under his forepaws and bawling hoarsely. “Aw, jeez...” He slid down Pumbaa’s snout, preparing to run over to the cub, when Pumbaa flicked his head, sending the meerkat sailing back behind to land on his broad back. “Whattya doin’?”
“No. Let the little guy alone.” Tears ran down Pumbaa’s cheeks. “He’s a little guy with a big problem.”