The Monkey and the Crocodile

Monkey’s home grew out over the river. Its highest branches caught the morning sun, and its lowest branch made a comfortable seat above the water.

When the jamun fruit ripened, Monkey knew which berries would be sweet. He chose the dark purple ones and left the pale ones for another day.

Below him, fish gathered where a little stream joined the river. Birds visited the upper branches. Monkey often had company, but he had never crossed to the other bank. It lay beyond a wide stretch of moving water, much farther than he could jump.

One hot afternoon, Crocodile rested in the shade beneath the tree. Monkey looked down at his long green back.

“Have you tried these?” he asked, holding up a jamun.

Crocodile shook his head.

Monkey dropped a ripe fruit. Crocodile caught it, tasted it and blinked. “That is sweeter than I expected.”

Monkey picked two more. They talked while the afternoon cooled. Crocodile described the deep pool around the bend, where the water stayed cool even at noon. Monkey told him about the kingfisher that always chose the same crooked branch. Before leaving, Crocodile thanked him for the fruit.

Crocodile returned the next day, and the next. Sometimes he brought news of rain upstream. Sometimes Monkey had found a nest tucked between two branches. They learned to recognize each other’s arrival before either spoke.

That morning Monkey had only three ripe jamuns left. He gave Crocodile one and placed the other two on a broad leaf beside him, planning to eat them before noon.

“There will be more tomorrow,” he said.

Crocodile carried his fruit home. Before sunset, someone in his family made a cruel request: bring the generous monkey, because they wanted his heart. Crocodile knew his friend would refuse to come if he heard the truth. For a long time, he floated without moving.

Later that same afternoon, Crocodile returned without asking for fruit.

“You have fed me so often,” he said. “Come and visit my family. We should offer you something too.”

Monkey looked across the river. “I cannot swim that far.”

“I can carry you. Sit on my back and hold firmly.”

Monkey hesitated at the end of his low branch. Crocodile had visited for many days. He had listened to Monkey’s stories and thanked him for every meal.

“All right,” Monkey said. “But bring me home before dark.”

Crocodile moved close to the bank. Monkey climbed down and carefully took his seat.

At first the journey felt easy. Crocodile moved smoothly, and Monkey watched ripples fan out behind them. From the water, his tree looked taller than ever.

Then the bank began to shrink. Monkey tightened his grip. There were no branches above him now, only open sky.

“Are we nearly there?” he asked.

“Not yet.”

Crocodile’s answer was short. He had stopped telling Monkey about the river.

Monkey noticed the silence, but he could not step off to ask about it. He kept both hands planted on the broad back and watched the current carry a leaf past them towards home.

At last Crocodile spoke. “This is not the visit I promised. My family wants your heart. They asked me to bring you.”

Monkey felt his stomach tighten. The bank was too far away. Jumping into the river would not help.

“You told me I would be your guest,” he said.

Crocodile did not answer.

Monkey wanted to shout, but first he needed to get back to his tree. He took one slow breath. Then another. He looked at the water, the distance and the creature carrying him. Crocodile was still listening. Perhaps there was something Monkey could say that would make him turn around.

“Oh,” Monkey said, making his voice sound puzzled. “Then we have forgotten something.”

“What?”

“My heart. I left it in the jamun tree. You should have told me what sort of visit this was.”

Of course his heart was beating inside him. He could feel it. This was a pretend story, and he needed Crocodile to believe it.

“Can you fetch it?” Crocodile asked.

“If you take me back to my branch.”

Crocodile considered that. Then his great tail pushed sideways, turning them towards the bank. Monkey held on while the current changed around them. He did not smile yet.

The jamun tree grew larger. Monkey could make out the crooked kingfisher branch and the same two jamuns he had left on the low branch that morning.

He measured the gap with his eyes. Too far.

Crocodile swam another stroke.

Still too far.

Monkey waited until they reached the shallow water beneath his low branch. Then he pressed his feet against Crocodile’s back, sprang towards the low branch and caught it with both hands.

He climbed without stopping. Only when a thick branch held him safely above the water did he look down. Crocodile waited below.

“Where is your heart?” he called.

Monkey laid one hand against his own chest.

“It has been with me all along,” Monkey said. “I made up that story so I could get home.”

Crocodile lowered his eyes. “Come down. We can forget about this.”

Monkey shook his head. “I will not ride with you again.”

“But we are friends.”

“You brought me into danger after promising to keep me safe.”

Crocodile waited. Monkey stayed on his branch. He did not have to climb down to finish the conversation.

At last Crocodile turned towards the deeper river. Monkey watched until he was well away. Then he loosened his aching fingers, one at a time, against the bark.

Evening birds came back to the tree. Monkey sat quietly while his breathing slowed. He listened to water touching the roots and felt the familiar branch beneath his feet.

The two jamuns he had left that morning were still there. He ate one, then the other. After the long scare, their bright sweetness felt like home.

A small bird landed nearby and examined a ripe berry. Monkey shifted aside to give it room. He could share his tree and still decide who came close to him.

As the sky darkened, he climbed to his sleeping place. This time he had no journey left to make. The end.