The Snake on the Bridge

The old rope bridge crossed the river high above the rocks. The monkey wanted to reach the fruit trees on the far side, but a snake lay across the middle of the bridge, blocking the way.

“Stop,” the snake said. “If you come closer, I will bite you.” “And I am poisonous.” “One bite, and you will not see the morning.”

The monkey held the rope and did not move. He was careful, as he always was. He looked at the snake’s colours — brown and dull, like the colours of many snakes, harmless and deadly alike.

“You might be poisonous,” the monkey said slowly. “Or you might not be.” “How do I know?”

“You should not take the risk,” the snake said. “If you are wrong, you die.” “Is the fruit worth your life?”

It was a good argument. The monkey thought about it. The bridge was narrow. If the snake was telling the truth, one step forward could be his last. But the monkey had crossed many rivers, and he had met many liars.

“Here is the problem with your story,” the monkey said. “A poisonous snake does not warn its food.” “It waits, it hides, and it strikes.” “You are warning me because you cannot strike.” “You’re too cold and too slow up here in the wind.” “You can’t catch me, so you are trying to frighten me instead.”

The snake said nothing.

The monkey took one step forward. The snake pulled back. He took another. The snake slid to the side, fast now, and dropped down into the green below.

The monkey crossed the bridge and ate his fill of fruit. A warning, he thought, is sometimes just an animal that has run out of teeth.