Story: “Stolen Cries: A Mother’s Fight to Protect Her Baby from a Rogue Monkey”
The midday sun filtered through the jungle canopy, casting dappled shadows onto the forest floor. The air was thick with heat, buzzing with insects and the distant calls of birds. In the heart of the clearing, a mother monkey sat perched on a wide branch, cradling her infant close to her chest. She swayed gently as the baby suckled, its small hands gripping her fur, eyes closed in perfect safety.
Her name was Sena, a young but fiercely protective mother, part of a mid-sized troop that had made its home near the riverbanks. Her baby, Tamo, was just over a week old—a tiny bundle of fragile life, still too small to cling on his own for long. Every moment, Sena kept him in her arms, never letting him leave her sight.
But not every gaze in the jungle was kind.
From a nearby tree, hidden among the vines and thick foliage, another set of eyes watched. Riku, an older female with no baby of her own, stared at Sena with narrowed eyes. Her face was tense, jaw clenched. Riku had lost her own infant months before—a tragedy that had left her scarred and restless. Since then, she had grown distant from the troop, often seen alone, lurking at the edges during feeding and grooming sessions.
But lately, something in her behavior had changed.
Sena had noticed it—the strange way Riku watched her and Tamo. The way she moved closer whenever the baby cried. The way her hand sometimes reached out just a little too far. Sena’s instincts screamed at her to be careful, but the troop leaders hadn’t interfered. They saw no danger. Riku was grieving, they said—not dangerous.
They were wrong.
That afternoon, as the troop scattered through the trees to forage, Sena stayed back in the low branches with Tamo. He had just fallen asleep, warm and still in her arms. She sat quietly, eyes half-lidded, rocking gently. For a moment, peace settled in the air.
Then came the rustle.
Soft. Quick. Wrong.
Sena’s eyes snapped open. She looked up—and before she could react, Riku leapt from the tree above, landing just feet away on the same branch.
Sena snarled instinctively, baring her teeth, pulling Tamo tighter. But Riku didn’t stop. Her eyes were wild, filled with something not quite anger—but something just as dangerous. Obsession.
“I just want to hold him,” Riku hissed softly, her hand reaching out.
“No,” Sena growled, her voice sharp, her body braced.
But Riku lunged.
In a blur of fur and shrieks, she grabbed for the baby. Tamo let out a high-pitched scream, jolted awake by the sudden movement. Sena twisted her body, shielding him with her entire frame, clawing at Riku’s face.
The branch shook violently as the two females fought. Sena kicked, bit, and screamed louder than she ever had. Tamo clung to her chest, wailing in pure terror.
Riku clawed at Sena’s arms, trying to pry the baby away. She wasn’t trying to hurt him—just take him. She didn’t understand that the baby didn’t want her. That he was not hers to hold. That love couldn’t be forced.
Sena shrieked again, calling for help.
And this time, the forest answered.
From the trees above, two older males descended with force, led by the troop’s dominant male, Boja. They barked and screeched, baring teeth and rushing toward the fight. Riku saw them and froze. The moment of hesitation was all Sena needed—she struck Riku across the face with a powerful blow, knocking her off balance.
Riku fell from the branch, catching herself just before hitting the ground. She looked up, panting, eyes wide with panic. Boja screamed at her, his body puffed, ready to attack. Riku didn’t wait. She turned and vanished into the underbrush, running deeper into the jungle, away from the troop.
Sena stayed on the branch, shaking, heart pounding. She cradled Tamo, who sobbed against her chest, his tiny fingers gripping her fur in sheer panic. Blood trickled from a scratch on Sena’s shoulder, but she didn’t care. All that mattered was her baby was still with her—still breathing, still alive.
The others gathered slowly, drawn by the noise. Mothers and juveniles circled around her, eyes filled with shock and concern. Boja sniffed her wounds, then gave a gentle grunt. The troop would watch more closely now. Riku had crossed a line no monkey should.
Later that evening, as the sun dipped behind the trees and the forest cooled, Sena sat quietly at the edge of the sleeping nest. Tamo was calm now, curled against her, thumb in his mouth, his breaths soft and slow. His earlier cries had shaken every mother in the troop. For a baby to cry in fear—not hunger, not need, but pure terror—was something every mother knew deep in her bones.
And for Sena, it was a cry she would never forget.
She had almost lost him. Not to a predator. Not to the elements. But to another mother’s broken heart.
Somewhere deep in the jungle, Riku sat alone, rocking back and forth on a mossy stone, whispering to herself. Her arms were empty. Her eyes wide. And her heart full of a pain that had twisted into something dark.
In the animal world, grief does not disappear. It mutates. Sometimes into silence. Sometimes into violence.
But that night, beneath the stars, Sena kept her baby close—held not just by arms, but by a fierce, unbreakable love.
And no one would ever take him again.
