High on a clifftop, a troop of monkeys lived in a mango grove. Every morning the old king would say, "Little ones eat first — then the rest of us." But one small monkey never listened. "Nobody can jump like me!"
One noon — a smell of burning! Red fire came racing from tree to tree, crackling and roaring. The monkeys shrieked in fear. But the king kept his voice steady. "Don't panic! Everyone to the edge of the canyon — little ones first!"
At the canyon's edge they all stopped short. Ahead, a gap so wide there was no leaping it. Fire behind, empty air in front. Even the boldest jumper of them all began to shake. "Even… even I could never jump that far."
The old king tied a vine round his waist and leaped with every last bit of his strength — whoosh! His hands caught the far branch; his feet clung to this one. He stretched his own body tight across the canyon — a living bridge. "Come — step onto my back and cross!"
One by one the monkeys climbed onto the king's back. Patter, patter, patter — little feet went racing across to the safe side. The king's arms burned and his back sagged under the weight, but he gritted his teeth and held fast.
Last of all came the little boaster. The moment he set foot on the king's back, he saw it — the trembling hands, the shut eyes, the sweat on the old brow, and not one word of complaint. "Go on, child," the king said softly. "Don't be afraid — I've got you."
By first light they were all in the far woods — every one of them safe. The little monkey wrapped the worn-out king's swollen hands in soft young leaves, then bowed his head. "The one who carries everyone across on his own back — he is the real king."