The Four Friends and the Hunter's Net

In a sun-warmed clearing at the edge of a forest, four friends lived together as easily as four fingers of one hand.

Mooshik the mouse was small and sharp-eyed. Kaag the crow was clever and quick. Mriga the deer was gentle and swift. Kachhap the turtle was slow, wise, and very, very loved.

Every evening, the four met by the pond. They drank cool water. They told stories. They laughed at Kaag's bad jokes. They listened to Kachhap's slow, sweet songs.

One morning, Mriga did not come.

The friends waited. The sun climbed. The shadows shortened. Still no Mriga.

"Something is wrong," said Mooshik. His whiskers trembled.

Kaag spread his glossy wings. "I will fly and find her."

He rose high. He circled the meadows. He saw, in the tall grass near the stream, a flash of soft brown — Mriga's coat — and around her, a tight, knotted net. A hunter's net.

He flew down. Mriga was lying on her side. Her thin legs were tangled. Her great soft eyes were wet with fear.

"Kaag," she whispered, "the hunter will be back at sunset. Please. Tell the others."

Kaag flew to the pond. He told Mooshik and Kachhap.

"I will go at once," said Mooshik. "My teeth can cut any rope."

"And I," said Kachhap.

The others turned and looked at him.

"Old friend," Kaag said gently, "the hunter is fast. You are not. If he comes back while you are there, he will take you too. Please. Stay here. Keep our pond safe."

Kachhap shook his wrinkled head. "Mriga is my friend. I will not sit by the pond while she lies in a net."

He began to walk. One slow step. Another slow step. The others looked at each other. They knew there was no use arguing with Kachhap when his heart had spoken.

Kaag flew. Mooshik ran on his tiny feet. They reached Mriga long before Kachhap.

Mooshik set to work at once. His small sharp teeth bit through one cord, then another. He worked the way a mother works on a knot in her child's hair — patiently, without stopping.

Kaag stood guard, his black eyes watching the trees.

Knot by knot, the net loosened. By the time the sun touched the tops of the trees, the last cord fell away. Mriga rose, trembling, on her thin legs.

"Quickly," said Kaag. "Into the forest. The hunter is near."

Just then, the bushes rustled. The friends froze.

It was not the hunter. It was Kachhap, panting, his slow legs shaking with effort, his old shell muddy from the long path.

"Friends —" he began, breathless.

And then, from the other side of the clearing, footsteps. Heavy. Quick. Real.

The hunter.

Mriga bounded into the trees. Kaag launched himself into the sky. Mooshik darted into a hole at the base of a tree.

Only Kachhap was left.

He pulled his head and legs into his shell. His old heart beat fast against the bone.

The hunter came into the clearing. He saw the empty, cut net. He saw the small wet tracks of a deer. He cursed.

Then he saw Kachhap.

"Well," said the hunter, "I will not go home empty-handed."

He picked up Kachhap and tied him to his belt and turned to walk back to his village.

From the trees, Mriga watched. Her soft eyes filled with tears. Her dear friend was being carried away because he had come to save her.

"No," she whispered. "No, no, no."

She stepped out of the trees.

She walked, slowly, on her shaking legs, into the open meadow, in full view of the hunter.

She stopped. She lay down. She let her head drop, as if she were too weak to run.

The hunter saw her. His eyes lit up.

"A wounded deer," he muttered. "Far more meat than a turtle."

He set Kachhap down beside a tree. He pulled out his hunting knife and walked, quick and quiet, toward Mriga.

The moment he stepped away, Kaag dove from the sky.

He landed beside Kachhap. With his strong beak, he tugged at the rope binding the turtle to the tree. Mooshik came running. His small teeth bit through the knot in three quick movements.

"Go, dear friend," Kaag whispered. "Slowly. Into the long grass."

Kachhap began to move. Step by step. Step by step.

Mriga waited until Kachhap was hidden. Then, when the hunter was three steps away from her, she sprang to her feet and leapt — over a fallen log, into the trees, and was gone.

The hunter stood alone in the empty meadow. His net cut. His deer gone. His turtle gone. The wind moved through the grass and seemed to laugh at him softly. He went home with nothing.

That night, the four friends gathered by the pond again. The moon was bright on the water.

Kachhap was tired. He was scratched. His shell was muddy. But his eyes were full of a slow, deep light.

Mooshik climbed onto his shell and curled there.

"You should have stayed by the pond," Kaag scolded gently.

"No," said Kachhap. "Some places we are not meant to stay. When a friend is in a net, the pond can wait."

Mriga lowered her head and pressed her soft cheek against Kachhap's old shell.

"We are four because of you," she whispered.

The pond rippled softly. Somewhere in the trees, a small bird began a quiet evening song. The friends sat together for a long time, not saying anything, only being together — which was, after all, what they had always wanted.