The morning forest was supposed to be peaceful, but instead it held a quiet, terrible danger. On a bed of dried leaves under a tangled branch, two newborn twin monkeys, barely an hour old, lay trembling side by side. Their tiny bodies were still wet from birth, their eyes sealed shut, their breaths thin and fragile.
Their mother, Rina, had gone only a short distance to drink from a small pool after the exhausting delivery. She intended to be gone for moments. But in the wild, even a moment can be catastrophic.
As the twins—Lilo and Lani—slept unprotected, a few red forest ants crawled near them. Then more. And more. Until the ground around their tiny forms came alive with movement.
Drawn by the smell of blood, milk, and warmth, the ants swarmed with terrifying speed.
Within seconds, the insects climbed over the babies’ legs. Their tails. Their soft faces. Their necks. The twins squirmed weakly, but they were too young to cry loudly, too small to fight back.
A tiny whimper escaped Lilo.
A faint, broken squeak came from Lani.
Their bodies jerked in pain as the ants began to bite.
Still, the forest remained silent.
At the water pool, Rina lifted her head. Something felt wrong—an instinct older than fear itself. She froze, ears twitching, listening.
A faint cry.
Another.
Then a tiny, desperate scream.
Her heart dropped.
Rina sprinted through the undergrowth, branches cutting her sides as she raced back to her newborns. Panic surged through her chest. Every second felt like the world was collapsing.
When she reached the nesting spot, the sight stabbed her heart like a blade.
Her twins were covered—blanketed—in ants, the insects crawling over their fur, their closed eyes, their tiny fingers. Their bodies convulsed in helpless pain.
Rina cried out—a sharp, trembling scream that tore through the entire forest.
She grabbed both infants at once, pulling them to her chest. Ants climbed onto her arms, biting into her skin, but she didn’t stop. She shook herself violently, brushed the babies with frantic hands, licked their faces, tails, and bellies to remove every ant she could reach.
But the ants kept coming.
The ground around them was alive with red.
Rina could not do this alone.
Her cries for help echoed through the trees, and the troop heard her. Three monkeys rushed toward the sound—Mira, the gentle older female; Toko, the alert young male; and Sava, the troop’s quiet guardian.
Toko slapped the ground around the nest, scattering ants outward.
Mira used broad leaves to brush the remaining ants from the babies’ legs and stomachs.
Sava climbed into a low branch above them, keeping watch for any approaching danger.
As they worked together, Rina continued licking her twins, shaking, whimpering, terrified she would lose them.
Slowly—painfully slowly—the ants finally thinned.
The twins stopped thrashing.
Their cries softened, though they were still trembling.
Their tiny bodies were red, swollen, covered in painful bites.
But they were alive.
Rina held Lilo and Lani close against her chest, curling her body around them protectively. Tears dripped from her cheeks into their soft fur as she rocked them gently.
The troop gathered tight around her, forming a warm circle—shielding the fragile infants from any further harm.
As the forest settled again, Rina whispered soft, trembling sounds to her twins, promising silently:
Nothing will ever hurt you again.
Not while I am still breathing.
