High above the rushing waters of the great Ganges River, where the earth of ancient India rises up in banks of warm red clay, there stood a magnificent wild fig tree.
Its roots drank deep from the river's cold, dark heart, winding through the soil like sleeping dragons, while its branches stretched so wide and high, they seemed to hold up the pale blue sky itself.
The leaves of this tree were broad and glossy, whispering secrets to one another whenever the warm southern breeze swept across the valley.
And in the very crown of this great tree, where the air was sweet and the sun shone brightest, lived a monkey.
Now, this was not just any monkey. He was small, with fur the color of wet river sand, and eyes that sparkled like polished obsidian.
He was quick-witted, endlessly curious, and possessed an extraordinary appreciation for his home. The fig tree was his palace, his playground, and his pantry.
Every summer, the tree bore fruit that was the envy of the forest. Figs that grew plump, soft, and deep purple, bursting with a nectar as sweet as wild flower honey.
The monkey spent his days swinging from branch to branch, picking the ripest fruits, and looking down at the wide, shimmering world below.
This story comes to us from the ancient Jataka Tales, a collection of beautiful and wise birth stories from India that have been told for thousands of years.
In these tales, which trace the many lives of the Buddha before he attained enlightenment, we find that wisdom does not always belong to the biggest or the strongest creatures.
Often, it belongs to the small, the patient, and the clever. And like all great stories that have traveled through the centuries, this one has been told in many ways, by many voices, around many fires.
This is the story of how a small monkey learned the true value of his wits.
From his high perch, the monkey could see the river stretching out like a silver ribbon, winding through jungles and plains until it vanished into the distant haze.
He could see the elephants bathing in the shallows, spraying fountains of glittering water into the air, and the bright blue kingfishers darting like arrows after tiny fish.
But most of all, he watched the crocodiles. They were massive creatures, with bodies like fallen logs and hides of rough, dark armor.
They spent their days floating lazily in the currents or basking on the sunny sandbars, their jaws propped open to let the little birds pick their teeth clean.
To the monkey, they seemed like ancient, slow-moving stones, belonging entirely to a world of mud and deep water that he had no desire to visit.
He was a creature of the air and the branches. They were creatures of the depths.
But one afternoon, during the hottest part of the dry season, a particularly large crocodile swam slow circles near the roots of the fig tree.
This crocodile was old, with a pale underbelly and a long, scarred snout. He was not a cruel creature, nor was he particularly clever.
He was simply tired, hungry, and looking for a quiet place to escape the fierce heat of the sun.
Finding the deep, cool shade cast by the monkey's fig tree, the crocodile drifted close to the bank, rested his heavy chin on a smooth red stone, and let out a long, rumbling sigh of satisfaction.
The monkey, peering down through the thick green leaves, watched the giant beast. At first, he kept his distance, holding tightly to a sturdy vine, ready to spring into the highest branches at the slightest movement.
But the crocodile remained perfectly still, his yellow eyes half closed, looking thoroughly peaceful.
"Hello down there, river dweller," the monkey called out, his voice squeaking slightly with a mixture of bravery and caution.
The crocodile opened one large, heavy eye and looked up into the canopy. It took him a moment to find the small, furry face peering down at him.
"Hello, tree dweller," the crocodile rumbled, his voice deep and gravelly, like stones rolling in the current. "Your tree throws a very fine shade. It is the coolest spot on the entire river."
"It is the best tree in the world," the monkey replied proudly, gaining confidence. "And it is not just the shade that is wonderful. Look at this."
With a nimble flick of his wrist, the monkey plucked a massive, perfectly ripe fig from the branch beside him. It was heavy with juice, its purple skin split slightly to reveal the golden pulp inside.
He leaned down and dropped it. The fig fell through the leaves, whistling softly, and landed with a gentle plop, right on the flat space of rock just inches from the crocodile's nose.
The crocodile sniffed it curiously. He was a fish eater by nature, but the scent of the fruit was intoxicating, warm, sweet, and rich.
He opened his great jaws, swept the fig into his mouth with his long tongue, and bit down. A look of pure delight spread across the crocodile's ancient face.
He closed his eyes and chewed slowly, savoring the taste. "By the river," he whispered, "I have lived for a hundred years, and I have never tasted anything so sweet. It is like eating the sunshine itself."
The monkey laughed, a bright, bubbling sound that echoed through the branches. "I have thousands of them up here. If you like them, you are welcome to share."
And so, on that warm afternoon, beneath the shade of the ancient fig tree, an unlikely friendship began.
The end. As the dry season wore on, a daily rhythm established itself between the tree and the river.
Every afternoon, when the sun reached its zenith and the air became so hot that even the birds stopped singing, the crocodile would swim upstream to the roots of the fig tree.
He no longer looked like a dangerous predator to the monkey. He looked like an old, reliable friend.
And the monkey would be waiting. He would spend his mornings searching the highest, sunniest branches for the very best fruits, gathering them in a neat pile on a low, flat bow.
When the crocodile's dark snout appeared in the water, the monkey would call out a cheerful greeting and begin dropping the figs one by one.
The crocodile became very adept at catching them. He would tilt his head back, open his massive jaws, and catch the sweet purple fruits mid-air with surprising grace.
Afterward, they would talk. They talked about many things. The monkey told the crocodile about the life of the canopy, about the families of green parrots that bickered in the tree tops, the honeybees that built their golden combs in the hollows of the trunk, and the terrifying shadow of the hawk that occasionally swept across the sky.
He described what the river looked like from 30 feet in the air, how it seemed to curve and bend like a great silver snake journeying to the edge of the world.
In turn, the crocodile told the monkey about the secrets of the deep water. He spoke of the cool, dark currents that ran along the riverbed, where the sun never reached, of the ancient sunken trees where the giant catfish hid, and of the great floods that came during the monsoon, when the river would rise so high it drowned the banks and turned the forest into a watery world.
"It must be wonderful to swim so freely," the monkey said one day, looking wistfully at the cool, shimmering water. "To go wherever the current takes you, without ever having to worry about falling."
"It is a good life," the crocodile agreed, resting his chin on the muddy bank. "But it is a cold life sometimes. Up here, in your tree, there is warmth, and there is your kindness. You are a true friend, little monkey."
The monkey felt a warm glow in his chest. He reached down and dropped another fig, the largest and sweetest one he had found that morning.
"A friend is someone who shares what they have," the monkey said simply. "I have more figs than I could ever eat, and you have a great appreciation for them. It is a perfect arrangement."
One evening, as the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple and dusty gold, the crocodile looked up at the monkey with a thoughtful expression.
"My friend," the crocodile said, "I have a wife who lives in the quiet, muddy marshes downstream. We have a cozy home in the reeds, but she rarely gets to see the beautiful parts of the river, and she has certainly never tasted anything like these figs. I wonder, would it be trouble if I took some home to her?"
"Trouble? Of course not!" the monkey cried. He immediately set to work, scrambling through the branches, picking the firmest, sweetest figs that would survive a journey down the river.
He placed them carefully into a large, hollowed out gourd that had fallen from a nearby vine, securing them so they would not spill.
"Take these to her with my compliments," the monkey said, lowering the gourd down to the crocodile using a long, sturdy vine. "Tell her they are a gift from the monkey of the fig tree."
The crocodile took the gourd gently in his jaws, careful not to crush it. "You are as generous as you are clever," he rumbled around the vine. "My wife will be overjoyed."
With a slow sweep of his powerful tail, the crocodile turned and swam downstream, leaving a long V-shaped ripple in the darkening water.
The monkey watched him go, feeling a deep sense of contentment. He had a beautiful home, plenty of food, and now, a friend with whom he could share his abundance.
He curled up in his nest of leaves, listening to the gentle lap of the river against the bank, and drifted off to sleep, dreaming of sweet fruit and quiet waters.
But downstream, in the dark, tangled marshes, where the reeds grew thick and the water was black and still, a different kind of conversation was about to take place.
The crocodile's wife was older than her husband, and her scales were the color of stagnant pond water. She spent most of her days half submerged in the thick, black mud of the marsh, watching the world with cold, calculating eyes.
She was not a creature of warmth or gratitude. She was a creature of appetite.
When the crocodile returned that evening, carrying the gourd of figs, she crawled out of the mud to meet him, her heavy tail leaving a deep groove in the clay.
"What is this?" she hissed, her voice like dry leaves scraping across stone. "You are late, husband. The fish have already gone to the deep pools, and I am hungry."
"Look, my dear," the crocodile said proudly, setting the gourd down before her. "I have brought you a treasure, a gift from my friend, the clever monkey who lives in the great fig tree upstream."
He nudged the gourd open, revealing the plump, purple figs. They were slightly bruised from the journey, but their sweet, rich aroma immediately filled the damp air of the marsh.
The wife sniffed them suspiciously. "Fruit?" she muttered. "We are crocodiles. We eat meat, we eat fish. Why do you bring me things that grow on trees?"
"Just taste one," the crocodile pleaded. "Please, they are like nothing else in the world."
Reluctantly, the wife picked up a fig with her heavy jaws and crushed it. The sweet, golden syrup burst over her tongue. Her cold eyes widened.
She swallowed, and for a long moment, she said nothing. Then, she quickly devoured another, and another, until the gourd was completely empty.
"Well," the crocodile asked, smiling as much as a crocodile can, "are they not wonderful?"
The wife licked her lips, her mind spinning with a dark and greedy thought. "They are indeed wonderful," she said, slowly, her voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper.
"They are incredibly sweet. And tell me, husband, does this monkey eat these fruits every single day?"
"Oh, yes," the crocodile replied, pleased by her interest. "He eats nothing else. He lives in the very top of the tree where the best fruits grow. He is filled with their sweetness."
The wife's eyes gleamed with a sudden, terrible light. She crawled closer to her husband, her breath smelling of old mud.
"If that monkey eats nothing but those honey sweet figs day after day, year after year, just think how sweet his own heart must be. It must be softer than the ripest fruit, sweeter than the finest nectar."
The crocodile blinked, not quite understanding. "His heart? Well, yes, I suppose he has a very kind heart. He gave these to you after all."
"I do not mean his kindness, you foolish creature!" she snapped, striking the mud with her tail. "I mean his physical heart, the organ that beats inside his chest. I want to eat it!"
The crocodile recoiled, his tail splashing the water in shock. "What? No! You cannot mean that! The monkey is my friend. He shares his food with us. He is kind and gentle. I will not harm him!"
"I must have it!" the wife insisted, her voice turning sharp and demanding. "I feel a great weakness in my bones. I am sick, husband, and I know that nothing can cure me except the sweet, tender heart of that fig-eating monkey. If you do not bring it to me, I will surely waste away and die!"
"But he is my friend!" the crocodile cried, his heavy heart sinking. "How can I betray him? How can I look him in the eye and then take his life? Ask me for anything else! I will catch you the largest fish in the river! I will hunt the fat deer that come to drink at dawn! But do not ask me to kill the monkey!"
But the wife knew her husband's weaknesses. She knew he was good-natured, but she also knew he was weak-willed and hated conflict above all things.
She turned her back on him and crawled into the deepest, darkest corner of the muddy bank. "Then you do not love me!" she hissed, burying herself in the cold mud. "You care more for a little furry stranger in a tree than you do for your own wife! Leave me here to die! Go back to your friend and your sweet fruits, and let the river take me!"
For three days, the crocodile's wife refused to eat. She lay in the mud, groaning and sighing, pretending to grow weaker with each passing hour.
The crocodile swam in anxious circles around her, his mind torn by a terrible conflict.
On one hand, there was his friend, the monkey, who had brought joy and sweetness into his dull, watery life, a friend who trusted him completely.
On the other hand, there was his wife, who he loved, and who was also his only family.
On the other hand, there was his wife, the companion of his long years, who lay dying, or so he believed, in the mud. He could not bear her anger, and he could not bear the thought of losing her.
He was a creature of simple thoughts, and the pressure was too much for his heavy brain to bear.
Finally, on the fourth morning, the crocodile stopped his swimming. He let out a long, sorrowful sigh that bubbled up through the swamp water.
"Very well," he whispered, his voice heavy with shame. "I will bring you the monkey's heart."
The sun was high and hot when the crocodile swam back upstream toward the fig tree. But he did not swim with his usual easy, lazy stroke.
His movements were slow and heavy, and he kept his head low in the water, as if trying to hide from the very sun that warmed him. The guilt in his chest felt like a great, jagged stone, weighing him down.
As he neared the red clay bank, he saw the monkey waiting for him, sitting on a low branch that overhung the water. The monkey waved a furry arm and held up a cluster of beautiful, dark figs.
"You are late today, my friend," the monkey called out cheerfully. "The sun has already begun to bake the clay. I was worried the river currents had carried you away."
The crocodile forced himself to look up. He tried to make his voice sound warm and friendly, but it came out hollow and strained.
"Hello, little monkey. No, the currents did not carry me away. I was delayed. My wife was speaking of you."
"Oh?" The monkey swung down to a lower vine, his eyes bright with curiosity. "Did she like the figs?"
"She loved them," the crocodile said, the lie tasting like bitter ash in his mouth. "In fact, she said she has never tasted anything so wonderful. But she also said that it is a shame for you to live on nothing but figs, when there is so much other magnificent fruit along the river."
The monkey tilted his head. "Other fruit? What do you mean? My fig tree is the best in the forest."
"Ah, yes, it is the best fig tree," the crocodile said, leaning closer to the bank, his eyes glittering with a false brightness. "But across the river, on the great island in the middle of the channel, there is a grove of wild mangoes and rose apples. The mangoes are as large as your head, dripping with golden juice that tastes like honey and ginger. And the rose apples are so crisp and sweet that one bite makes you feel as if you are flying. My wife says it is a pity that a clever monkey like you should never taste them."
The monkey's mouth began to water. He had heard stories of the mangoes on the island from the birds, but the river was too wide and the currents too swift for any monkey to cross.
"That sounds like a paradise," the monkey sighed, looking out over the broad, shimmering expanse of the Ganges. "But the island is far, and the water is deep. I cannot swim, and I have no wings. I must content myself with my figs."
"But that is why I am here," the crocodile said, taking a step closer to the bank, his long snout resting on the red clay. "We are friends, are we not? I am the strongest swimmer in this part of the river. If you wish to visit the island, you have only to climb onto my back. I will carry you across the deep water, and you may eat your fill of the mangoes and rose apples."
The monkey looked at the wide river. The water was deep and dark, swirling with treacherous currents. The thought of leaving his tree made his stomach flutter with fear.
But then he looked at the crocodile. This was his friend. They had shared meals and stories for months. The crocodile had always been gentle and kind. Why should he fear?
"Are you sure it is no trouble?" the monkey asked, his excitement beginning to overcome his caution.
"No trouble at all," the crocodile rumbled, though his heart gave a painful thud against his ribs. "It would be my great pleasure to show you the riches of the river."
The monkey hesitated for only a second more. Then, with a bright laugh, he let go of his vine and dropped down onto the muddy bank. He scrambled up the crocodile's tail, his small, warm paws finding purchase on the rough, ridged scales of the giant beast's back.
He sat down just behind the crocodile's heavy shoulders, holding tightly to the thick scales of his neck. "I am ready!" the monkey cried, his heart beating with the thrill of adventure. "Let us go to the island of mangoes!"
"Hold on tight," the crocodile said quietly. With a powerful shove of his hind legs, the crocodile pushed off from the red clay bank. The cool water rose up around them, and with a sweep of his massive tail, they glided out into the deep, wide river.
At first, the journey was a delight. The monkey had never experienced anything like it. The wind rushed through his fur, carrying the cool, damp scent of the river. The water slipped past them in smooth, silver sheets, and from his position on the crocodile's back, the monkey felt as if he were riding a great, living boat.
"This is wonderful!" the monkey shouted over the sound of the rushing water. "Look how small my fig tree looks from here! And the bank is so far away!"
The crocodile did not answer. He simply kept swimming, his powerful tail sweeping left and right, driving them further and further into the middle of the river.
As they reached the center of the channel, where the water was deepest and the currents were strongest, the environment began to change. The gentle ripples turned into swirling eddies, and the water took on a dark, heavy hue, almost black in the shadows of the current.
The monkey looked back toward his shore, but the red clay bank was now just a distant line of color. He looked ahead, but the island was still far away, surrounded by white, frothing water.
Suddenly, the crocodile began to sink. It was not a sudden plunge, but a slow, deliberate submerging. The cool river water rose up over the crocodile's sides, wetting the monkey's feet. Then it rose to his knees, and then to his chest.
The monkey gasped, his fingers digging frantically into the rough scales of the crocodile's neck. "Hey!" the monkey cried, his voice tight with sudden fear. "What are you doing? You are going too deep! The water is freezing, and I cannot swim! Keep your back above the water!"
But the crocodile did not rise. He sank a little lower, until the water was lapping at the monkey's chin. The monkey's heart began to hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird.
He looked around wildly, but there were no branches to grab, no vines to swing on, no solid earth beneath his feet. There was only the vast, cold, indifferent river, and the giant beast beneath him.
"Please!" the monkey pleaded, his clever mind racing, trying to understand what was happening. "Why are you doing this? We are friends!"
The crocodile stopped swimming. He floated there, in the very middle of the deep water, letting the current drift them slowly downstream. The guilt that had been weighing on his heart for days finally broke through his silence. He could not do this deed in cold blood without speaking. He was too weak to resist his wife, but he was also too honest to hide his betrayal.
"I am sorry, little monkey," the crocodile rumbled, his voice heavy and flat, muffled by the water. "But there is no island of mangoes. And I am not taking you to a feast."
The monkey froze, his small hands trembling against the crocodile's scales. "No. No island? Then why are we out here?"
"My wife is very sick," the crocodile confessed, his yellow eyes staring straight ahead into the dark water. "She tasted the figs I brought her, and she realized that your heart must be the sweetest, most delicious thing in the world. She told me that only your heart can cure her illness. If I do not bring it to her, she will die. I have no choice. I must drown you now and take your heart to her."
A cold jolt of pure terror went through the monkey. For a single, agonizing second, his mind went blank. He was trapped. He was on the back of a giant predator in the middle of a river he could not swim, with no one to help him. His friend, the friend he had trusted, the friend he had fed with his own hands, had lured him into a trap to kill him.
But the monkey was a creature of the Jataka. He was quick, he was observant, and most of all, he was clever. He knew that if he screamed, if he cried, or if he tried to scramble away, he would instantly drown. Fear would not save him. Only his wits could do that.
He took a deep, quiet breath, forcing the panic down into the depths of his stomach. When he spoke, his voice was not trembling or angry. It was calm, friendly, and filled with a strange, lighthearted amusement.
"Oh, my dear friend," the monkey laughed, shaking his head as if the crocodile had made a silly, childish mistake. "Is that all? Why didn't you tell me this before we left the shore?"
The crocodile blinked, thoroughly confused by the monkey's reaction. He had expected screams, tears, or desperate struggles. He had not expected laughter.
"What do you mean?" the crocodile asked, tilting his head slightly.
"Well," the monkey said, leaning forward and speaking in a confidential whisper, as if sharing a great secret. "You see, we monkeys are very different from you river dwellers. Our hearts are very delicate things. If we kept them inside our bodies while we jumped and swung through the high branches of the trees, they would get bumped and bruised all the time. They might even break."
The crocodile's ears, or the small slits where his ears were, strained to listen. "They would?"
"Oh, absolutely!" the monkey lied smoothly, his eyes bright and steady. "So, we never carry our hearts inside our bodies when we travel. Before we go anywhere, we take our hearts out and hang them safely on the branches of our home trees. My heart is hanging right now on the highest branch of my fig tree, keeping cool in the shade of the leaves."
The crocodile stopped sinking. He floated a little higher in the water, his simple mind trying to process this extraordinary information. "You, you left your heart in the tree?"
"Of course I did!" the monkey said, patting the crocodile's neck affectionately. "If you drown me now, you will carry my body to your wife, but there will be no heart inside me. She will get nothing, and you will have lost your best friend for nothing. It would be a terrible waste."
"But, but what should we do?" the crocodile asked, completely bewildered.
"It is simple!" the monkey cried, pointing back toward the distant shore. "We must turn around and go back to my fig tree. I will climb up, fetch my heart from the branch, and bring it down to you. Then we can go to your wife. She will have her cure, and everyone will be happy. But we must hurry before the sun gets too hot and dries my heart out!"
The crocodile was not clever. He did not understand the anatomy of monkeys, and he was so desperate to find a way out of his guilt that he wanted to believe his friend. The monkey's explanation sounded so reasonable, so simple, and so incredibly helpful.
"You would do that?" the crocodile asked, his voice filled with a sudden, pathetic hope. "You would give me your heart to save my wife?"
"What are friends for?" the monkey smiled, though his heart, which was, of course, beating furiously inside his chest, felt as if it might burst from tension. "Turn around, my friend. Let us get my heart."
With a great swirl of his tail, the crocodile turned in the deep water, leaving the dark currents behind, and began to swim back toward the shore.
But the crocodile swam faster than he ever had before. The guilt that had weighed him down was replaced by a foolish, eager relief. He believed he was saving his wife, keeping his friend's trust, and solving his problems all at once.
The monkey sat on his back, his small hands gripped tight, counting every wave, every ripple, and every yard of water that brought them closer to safety.
The red clay bank grew larger. The great green canopy of the fig tree loomed closer, its glossy leaves shining like welcoming hands in the afternoon sun.
The moment the crocodile's snout brushed against the soft mud of the bank, before the beast had even come to a complete stop, the monkey moved. He did not climb. He did not scramble. He sprang.
With all the strength in his small legs, the monkey launched himself into the air. He flew over the muddy shore, reached out with his long arms, and caught hold of the lowest hanging vine of his beloved fig tree.
With a triumphant screech, he swung himself upward, climbing hand over hand, higher and higher through the leaves, until he reached the very crown of the tree, far out of reach of any creature of the water.
He did not stop until he was safely nestled in the highest fork of the branches, where the bark was thick and the leaves were dense. Only then did he stop, sit down, and let out a long, shuddering breath. He was shaking from head to toe, but he was safe.
Below, the crocodile waited in the water, his head tilted up, his eyes searching the green leaves.
"My friend!" the crocodile called out, his voice echoing up into the canopy. "Have you found it? Have you brought your heart down yet? We must hurry! My wife is waiting!"
The monkey peered down through the leaves. The fear was gone now, replaced by a deep, burning anger, but also, by a profound sense of relief. He plucked a large, overripe fig, one that had gone soft and rotten in the sun, and held it out.
"Oh, you foolish, simple crocodile!" the monkey shouted down, his voice ringing clear and strong through the forest. "Look at me! Do you truly believe that any living creature can keep its heart hanging on a branch? My heart is right here, where it has always been, beating inside my chest!"
The crocodile stared, his jaw dropping open in slow, painful understanding. "But, but you said..."
"I said what I had to say to save my life from a traitor!" the monkey cried, throwing the rotten fig down with all his might. It landed with a wet, messy splat, right between the crocodile's eyes.
"You call yourself my friend?" the monkey continued, his voice softening, but remaining firm. "I gave you the sweetest fruits of my tree. I shared my stories with you. I trusted you with my life. And yet because of your own weakness, you were willing to drown me and take my life? You have no wisdom, crocodile, and you have no loyalty!"
The crocodile stood still in the water, the rotten fruit dripping down his snout. The truth of the monkey's words pierced through his thick hide, far deeper than any physical blow could have. He felt a deep, cold shame wash over him. He had lost his friend. He had lost his honor, and he had nothing to show for it but a dirty snout and a heavy heart.
"Go back to your wife in the mud," the monkey said quietly, turning his back on the river. "Tell her that the monkey's heart is too clever for her, and never come back to this tree again. Our friendship is at an end."
The crocodile stood silent for a long moment, looking up at the high, green branches of the tree that had once brought him so much warmth. But there was no sound from above, save for the whispering of the leaves in the wind.
Slowly, heavily, the crocodile turned and crawled back into the river. He sank beneath the surface, leaving only a few bubbles to show where he had been, and swam back to the dark, quiet marshes downstream.
The monkey sat in his tree, watching the silver river wind its way toward the horizon. He was alone again, but he was alive. He picked a fresh, sweet fig, took a bite, and let the warm sun dry his fur. He had lost a friend, but he had found something else, a deep, unshakable trust in his own quick mind.
And now, as the sun sets over the ancient land of India, and the river turns to a deep, quiet gold, we are left with a thought to hold close as the night comes on.
When someone you have trusted turns against you, it is easy to feel helpless, as if the deep water is rising up to drown you. But this ancient story reminds us that even in the most dangerous places, when the ground is gone from beneath our feet, we still carry our greatest strength within us.
And so, here is a question to keep, and to think about as you drift off to sleep. If trust is broken once, can it ever truly be rebuilt? Or is the clever monkey right to stay in the branches, knowing that some deep waters are simply too dangerous to cross again?