The Fox and the River

In winter,
the river froze.

A young deer
stepped onto the ice.

It gave way.

The deer fell through
and struggled in the water.

A fox stood on the bank.

He watched for a while.

Then he stepped forward
and jumped in.

The water was bitterly cold.

He swam toward the deer,
circled behind it,
and caught hold of its fur.

Slowly,
he pulled it toward the shore.

The current pressed against them,
pulling them down.

He did not loosen his grip.

After a long while,
they reached the bank.

The deer was trembling.

The fox was trembling
too.

The fox stood still.
He said nothing.

He had only meant to help.

The deer looked at him—
at his teeth—
and stepped back.

“What were you doing?”

The fox did not answer.

After a while,
the deer ran into the forest.

In the days that followed,
rumors started.

“He pulls animals out of the water
because they’re easier to eat on land.”

“He waits until they’re too weak to move,
then takes his time.”

The fox heard.

He did not go after the deer.

He did not explain.

When spring came,
the ice began to break.

The river ran swift and cold.

One day,
the fox returned to the bank.

A goat had slipped.

Its front legs were in the water,
its body sliding downward.

The fox stopped
and hesitated.

The wind was strong.

After a while,
he turned away,
dragged over a huge fallen branch,
and set it by the water.

The goat caught hold of it
and pulled itself up.

The fox did not come closer.

He stood there,
then walked away.

The river kept flowing.