Story: “Tears in the Canopy: Baby Monkey Cries Out for a Lost Mother”
The sky was still painted with the pale gray of early morning when the forest began to stir. Birds called out their songs from the high trees, insects hummed in the grass, and branches creaked gently in the breeze. But beneath that peaceful surface, hidden in a crook of a tree where the branches formed a tight cradle, came a sound not of morning joy—but of despair.
A baby monkey, no more than a few weeks old, clung to the bark with tiny trembling fingers. His fur was damp from the morning dew, but his eyes were wet for another reason entirely—fear. Trembling, he let out a high-pitched cry that echoed through the jungle, piercing and desperate. Over and over again, he wailed, his voice rising and falling like a song of sorrow.
Where was she?
The baby had not seen his mother for hours. She had disappeared after a sudden screech rang through the trees the night before—followed by a violent rustle of leaves and then silence. He had waited, thinking she would return. He curled up in the same spot she’d left him, just as she taught him. But now, sunlight filtered through the trees, and she was still gone.
He began to cry harder. His tiny chest heaved with each sob, his throat sore from calling. He didn’t know what had happened. All he knew was the crushing emptiness in his world. No soft hands to lift him. No warm body to curl into. No calming chirps to soothe his trembling heart.
The forest was not kind to the small or the scared.
Nearby, other animals heard his cries—birds looked down from their nests, lizards paused mid-scurry, and even a few monkeys from another troop looked toward the sound. But none came close. None helped. Fear was contagious in the wild. A crying baby could mean danger lurked nearby.
The baby monkey tried to stand, to move, to search—but his legs were too weak. His belly growled from hunger. His mouth was dry. He gripped the tree tighter and let out another scream, hoping somehow it would reach the ears of the one who had always come before. But only the wind answered.
A sharp crack of a twig below made him freeze. His tiny heart beat so hard he could barely breathe. Was it her?
No. It was a snake—long and silent, slithering beneath the tree, tongue flicking in the air. The baby shrank deeper into the crook, his breath caught in his throat. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. The snake passed without seeing him. But the terror stayed.
He cried again, softer now—more a whimper than a scream. Exhaustion began to settle in. His head drooped. His hands slipped slightly. He was too weak to hold on much longer. And still, no one came.
High above, an eagle soared, its shadow moving across the leaves. The baby saw it and clutched the bark tighter. Every sound became a threat. Every movement a danger. He was too young to know how to survive. Too fragile to fight.
And yet, somehow, he held on.
Minutes passed. Then an hour. The baby monkey no longer cried with volume—but with silence. His face was wet, his eyes dull, his limbs limp. He barely noticed the rustle in the leaves nearby.
But someone did come.
A forest ranger, an older man named Dara, was walking the area. He had heard the crying during his early patrol but thought it was just normal monkey noise. Still, something about it had stayed in his mind—the pitch, the repetition, the fear behind it. So he’d followed the sound deeper into the woods.
And now, as he moved through the underbrush, he spotted a tiny shape above him.
He looked up.
There, in the tree’s crook, was the baby monkey—so small, so broken, barely holding on. His eyes met Dara’s. For a moment, they stared at one another. One old soul, one newborn. And in that moment, something passed between them—an understanding.
“You poor thing,” Dara whispered.
He climbed carefully, gently reaching the spot where the baby was perched. He moved slowly, speaking softly, his hands sure and calm. The baby flinched at first, unsure. But when Dara touched him—warm, firm, and kind—he melted.
The moment Dara pulled him close, the baby monkey let out one last sob—a soft, pitiful cry—and then collapsed against the ranger’s chest, clinging like his life depended on it.
Because it did.
Back at the ranger’s camp, Dara wrapped the monkey in a towel and fed him a sugar-water mix, the safest thing he had until he could get help. The baby was too tired to suckle properly, so Dara dripped the liquid drop by drop into his mouth. Slowly, strength began to return. A flick of the tail. A faint twitch of the ears.
He stayed with Dara that night, curled in a basket lined with cloth. He stirred in his sleep, crying out in dreams. The ranger kept a hand nearby, gently stroking his back each time he whimpered.
By morning, the baby monkey had a name—Kiri, meaning “mountain” in the old tongue. Not because he was strong yet, but because he had survived the worst night of his life, and in doing so, had taken his first step toward growing strong.
The forest was wide, and dangers would always exist. But for now, Kiri was safe.
And his cries of fear had been heard—just in time.
