The crocodile waited beneath the muddy river’s surface, its eyes just breaking the waterline like two floating stones. It had been still for so long that even the dragonflies ignored it. Above, on a low-hanging fig branch, the monkey watched the river with forced calm, his tail wrapped tight around the bark.
The crocodile smiled—or at least, what passed for a smile.
For days, the monkey had crossed this river to steal figs from the far bank. For days, the crocodile had memorized his habits: the pause before the jump, the splash, the quick swim. Today would be no different. Or so the crocodile thought.
The monkey leapt.
Water exploded around him, and instantly the crocodile surged forward, jaws opening wide. But instead of panicking, the monkey did something strange. Mid-swim, he screamed—not in fear, but in rage—and slapped the water hard with both hands.
The sound echoed like a gunshot.
Startled, the crocodile hesitated for a split second. That was all the monkey needed. He dove straight down, grabbing a thick reed growing from the riverbed. With a violent yank, he ripped it free, sending clouds of mud into the water.
Blinded and confused, the crocodile snapped wildly.
Then the monkey struck.
Using the reed like a whip, he lashed the crocodile’s eyes again and again, shrieking as he did. The crocodile thrashed, retreating deeper into the river, pain and shock overwhelming its hunger.
The monkey burst from the water, soaked and shaking, scrambling up the opposite bank. He didn’t look back.
From that day on, the crocodile still waited beneath the surface—but the monkey never crossed the river again. Some lessons, once learned, are learned in terror.
