Kancil and the Crocodiles

An early morning breeze skimmed across the river, carrying the sweet scent of ripe fruit from the far bank. The scent crept into a tiny nose that was sniffing hard, and an empty belly let out a long, loud rumble.

The owner of that nose was Kancil, a mouse deer no bigger than a rabbit, with four legs as thin as toothpicks. He stood almost hidden in the grass along the bank. Across the river, the trees hung heavy with fruit, and every one was ripe and waiting. But the water was too wide and too deep to risk wading across. All Kancil could do was stand there swallowing hard, his eyes fixed on the row of trees in the distance.

The Malay and Indonesian peoples have long told this tale. In all the riverside forests of Southeast Asia, no animal was quicker or cleverer than the little mouse deer named Kancil. But the river in front of Kancil that day was not a gentle one. Under its muddy water lay a whole band of crocodiles, and every one of them was hungry. They usually lay perfectly still, waiting for some small creature to come near the bank, and then they lunged.

Kancil watched the water for a long while, tilting his head this way and that. His two small ears stood straight up, as if he were listening to his own thoughts. Then a mischievous smile spread across his face. Kancil stepped right out to the water's edge, cleared his throat loudly and called down into the river.

"Greetings, my good crocodiles! I am a messenger of the King of the Forest. The king has sent me along every river to find out how many more guests he needs for a great feast he is about to hold. He wants to know whether this stretch of river has a full one hundred crocodiles. Only a full count will earn an invitation to the grand feast."

The moment they heard the word "feast," the surface of the river stirred everywhere. One crocodile after another raised its head, eyes shining, tail slapping the water with joy. There could be no greater honor than an invitation from the king. One old crocodile was not quite convinced and asked whether this was really true. Kancil only shrugged. If the crocodile did not believe him, so be it, he said, and that share of the feast would go to others instead. At that, the old crocodile hurried out to join the others at once, not daring to lag behind a moment longer.

Kancil put on a solemn face. He told the crocodiles to line up in one perfectly straight row, from this bank all the way to the far bank, so he could count them exactly. That way he would miss no one, and no one would lose a share. The crocodiles obeyed at once, each one pressed close behind the tail of the next. Their bodies formed a long line across the water. They waited in perfect silence to be called, like guests lined up to enter a great banquet.

Kancil sprang onto the first rough back and counted in a clear voice. "One." Then he leapt to the next back. "Two." On he went, jumping from one crocodile's back to another. His tiny feet touched down and sprang up again at once, as light as a leaf falling on water. At twenty, Kancil still wore the solemn air of a royal messenger. At fifty, a crocodile in the middle of the line grew impatient and called up to ask whether its turn had come. Kancil answered briefly that it was coming soon, and that it should lie still and keep the line straight. Then he bounded on without slowing for a single beat. By eighty, the line of crocodiles curved along a whole bend of the river. Suddenly a huge crocodile raised its head and blocked the way. In a low growl, it demanded proof that he really was a messenger. Kancil froze for exactly one heartbeat. Then he answered, cool as anything, that if it did not believe him, it could lie still and wait its turn and see. If it was slow and missed its share of the feast, it would have no one to blame but itself. Hearing this, the huge crocodile quickly lowered its head and lay perfectly quiet, afraid of being struck off the guest list. Kancil let out a breath of relief and bounded on at once, without showing the slightest flicker of worry. He kept leaping at an even pace, as if he were strolling along a familiar path.

At the hundredth crocodile, Kancil's feet left the last back and landed straight on dry ground. Soft grass lay underfoot now, not a slippery ridge of scales. Kancil stood still and took a deep breath. His heart was still racing from crossing that whole long line of crocodiles. Only then did he look up at the ripe fruit he had been craving since early morning. Now it hung right above his head.

Kancil turned around, stood up tall on the grassy bank and let out a bright laugh that rang across the whole river. "Thank you very much, good crocodiles," he called down. "The truth is, no king sent me to count anyone, and there is no feast at all. I only needed a bridge to cross the river, and you lined yourselves up so neatly to make one for me."

The crocodiles lay stunned for several beats before they understood what had just happened. Then the whole stretch of river burst into an uproar. Every crocodile thrashed the water and roared in fury at being tricked so thoroughly. But the line had broken apart, and each crocodile swam about wildly on its own. None of them formed a bridge anymore. The whole band could only watch the tiny shadow of Kancil slipping away behind the bushes. Not one of them could catch up with him, and not one could touch a single hair on his coat.

On the bank, Kancil strolled without a care into the grove and picked the very ripest fruit. It was as sweet as the scent had promised that morning. Far off on the river, the sulky splashing of the crocodiles rose once or twice more, then faded away. Kancil lay stretched out on the grass, chewing, his belly full and round. Yet his little ears still stood up, listening. It was the age-old habit of one who always stays exactly one step ahead of every bigger animal in the forest.