Faced with a tyrant lion taxing the forest, the smallest creature arrives late with a story that ends in a well. Strategy sometimes wears a timid face.
The lion believed in simple arithmetic: each day, one animal would volunteer to be eaten, and in return the forest would be left unshredded. It worked the way many bad systems do—just enough to continue, cruel enough to be considered nature. When the lot fell to a rabbit, the forest lowered its eyes. The rabbit, however, lifted his to the sky, then to a puddle, then to an idea. He set out late, padded softly, and arrived at the lion’s den when the shadows leaned long. The lion roared about schedules and respect. “I was delayed,” the rabbit panted, “by another lion who claimed he owned you. He ate my companions and dared you to a duel.”
Pride can be harnessed like a strong ox if you know where to hook the yoke. The lion bounded after the rabbit to the well the little one had scouted—the old stone throat that drank sky all day. “He lives down there,” whispered the rabbit. The lion peered into the circle and saw his own anger staring back. He roared; the reflection roared. He leaped; the reflection leaped. The well accepted both with equal indifference. The sound that followed was not a roar but a lesson landing.
The forest did not erupt into cheers. It exhaled, then returned to the work of being a place where many kinds of breath can continue. The rabbit nibbled clover and shook a little with the aftershock of bravery. He had not become larger; the problem had become smaller, and that was enough. From then on, when elders taught the young about strength, they included the weight a story can move when rolled to the rim of a well.
