CHAPTER 38: AMONG THE DUNES

Beyond the gorge lay the thorns, and beyond the thorns lay the land where even thorns would not grow. It was the desert, the place of lost hope.

The wind blew slowly but steadily across the face of the dunes, carrying a light misting of sand with it as it blew into Simba’s face, making him squint, his eyes burning. There were no rich earthy smells of life--it was the sterile smell of solitude.

A faint whistling sound caught his ears, and as he topped a rise, he saw the skull of a small animal, bleached white in the sun and picked clean by vultures. No jackal would come to that forsaken place. Simba blinked at it for a moment, peering into the eyesockets, and seeing the clean white interior polished by the grit-laden wind. He could see himself lying there. Perhaps his turn would come over the next dune, or beyond that range....

He padded slowly down the soft face of the dune, floundering in the soft sand for a moment before regaining his footing. The hot wind gusted again, driving needles of grit into his face and bringing no relief from the heat. “I deserve it,” he thought. He couldn’t imagine what being trampled to death was like, but surely it had to be worse than lying on the sand to sleep and never wake up. “Dad, come for me when I die. I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

Simba shook his head and gasped, breathing rapidly. Struggling through the sand, he began to run, mindlessly fleeing the thoughts that tore at him, wishing he could only find a place to lay for a moment and rest. Heart pounding, he fled across the featureless face of the desert, just one more golden speck in that vast sea of sand.

The ground abruptly firmed beneath him, and he was scrambling across the hardpan, the bed of a long forgotten lake, now rough and unyielding in the sun’s merciless onslaught. He slowed, panting hoarsely, unable to continue at the rapid pace, padding slowly across the ground. The heat hammered at him from the firm sand, the imbedded salt deposits glittering like a spray of diamonds caught in the earth. The glare blinded him, and he slitted his eyes, paws quietly pat-a-pattering against the hardpan.

And then something glimmered far ahead.

Simba sat, shading his watering eyes with a forepaw as he fought to see, his thirst-swollen tongue hanging limply from his mouth. It shimmered invitingly, a quicksilver gleam at the edge of his vision.

Water. Oh gods, WATER!!

He rose and padded towards it rapidly, then began to trot. Soon he was running, his tired and dangerously overheated muscles running off some unknown inner reservoir, the sweat-matted fur on his forehead flying as he ran, oh gods it would taste so good, he wouldn’t even slow down, he would just sprint full tilt into it, splashing happily as he drank, he would roll in it, he would....

He slowed, his eyes gaping in disbelief as he saw the edge of the water begin to recede from him, the shoreline backing away as he came closer. Padding to a stop, he gaped at the glimmering lake ahead, wondering what was happening. His mouth fell open and he uttered a dull croak. “Uh?”

High above him, an answering croak returned from a soaring vulture. Its mate heard and responded. Soon they were joined by a third, and then others as the avian sentinels began to circle in cold anticipation.

Simba stood unaware of this, his mind trembling on the edge of awareness. He broke into a shambling run again, moaning as the waterline receded again...again...small islands of sand appeared in the water, slowly growing in size till there were only remnants of the sparkle that had deceived him.

The cub arrived on the spot where the beautiful lake had been to see only more sand. Dry, hot sand. He had discovered the how cruel the desert could be. His jaw began to tremble as tears came to his eyes.

Running was no use. Soon he would be back with his father. He stumbled on a few more steps, then toppled, the hard desert floor catching him with a dull thud. Simba laid on the sand, paws stirring weakly in restless motion as the heat drew at him. Tears cut clean courses through the dusty fur on his cheeks as he lay quiescent, unable to fight anymore, waiting for the end to come. “Mother!” he cried weakly. “Mother!”

A terrible weight clutched at his chest as he thought of her. He would never see her until her time came in the years to come. Nala was always such a good friend. Did she know he was dying? And after Scar told the pride of what he had done, would she even care? Sarafina was always so kind to him, like an aunt. And Uncle Scar--oh how disappointed he had looked! His brother lay dead. Simba’s father. Sarabi’s husband. “Mother!” He sobbed again.

A soft lioness voice called to him. “Take heart, my son.”

Against all hope, could his mother have heard him? He looked up and saw nearby a cloud white lioness on the sand. “Come to me. You are in need. I can help you.”

“I’m seeing things again! You’re not real!”

“If I’m not real, how do I do this?” She let out a puff of breath and in moments a cool breeze swept over Simba. It felt wonderful.”

Simba stared, awestruck. “You’re real! You’re really her! Minshasa!”

She smiled. “You know me? Then you must know I won’t hurt you.”

Simba struggled to his feet and stumbled over to her. He fell before her, face down. Tears began to run down his face. “Please help my dad! Do one of your miracles! He’s in the gorge back to the east! Please make him come back! He’s dead, and it’s all my fault!” He sobbed until he shook.

“Your father is with God. It is too late to help him.”

“Are you here to take me too?”

“Not this time.” She purred. “I am in my milk. You are a little old for this, but I think it would be all right this once.”

Simba dragged himself to her side. He snuggled up against her belly, nuzzling the soft fur in obvious embarrassment but desperate for sustenance. He fed slowly, feeling strength returning to his limbs, the trembling muscles relaxing at last. He lay quietly, eyes half closed, lulled by the sound of Minshasa’s breathing and the steady beat of her heart, the sounds evoking memories from far back in a haven of comfort, safety and love.

Presently, he looked up, milk running down his chin. Minshasa cleaned him off with her tongue, then began to groom him. He purred.

“What can I do, Minshasa? Where can I go?”

“Follow the setting sun. It will take you to a safe place.”

“But can’t I stay with you?”

“No, son.”

“Please?”

“No, Simba. Your destiny lies to the west.”

“You know who I am?”

“Yes, and what’s more, I know why you’re here.”

He looked down. “Oh.”

Tears streamed down her face. “Simba, my precious little boy!” She nuzzled him and he came and huddled against her comforting bulk, sobbing brokenly. “Poor little child! So much grief, so much pain!”

“All my fault!”

She began to groom him, her warm tongue washing away his tears in its rough caress. “Poor little Simba. So tired, little Simba. So tired.”

Simba yawned, barely able to keep his eyes open. “I am kind of tired.” He yawned again.

“So tired,” she repeated like a meditation. “So tired. Sleep now. Yes, sleep. Sleep soundly, and when you do, forget you saw me here. Forget, Simba. Forget everything but this: follow the setting sun. It will take you to a safe place.”

Simba surrendered to the enchantment, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep. Minshasa bent and gripped the cub in her jaws tenderly, lifting him easily enough. Turning, she trotted away westward, paws kicking up gentle spurts of sand as she moved. A few moments later, her outline shimmered slightly, and she became faintly translucent, Simba following suit. She began to pick up speed, paws moving rapidly over the ground, yet not disturbing the sand in the slightest. Minshasa ran steadily, tirelessly, heedless of the mortal constraints of fatigue and thirst as she flew across the desert surface. And the cub in her jaws slept soundly. Having been drawn into the twilight world between Ma’at and the spirit realm, he also felt no thirst or hunger, but passed the moments in the gentle cradle of sleep.