In a wide jungle, tall sal trees held up a roof of green leaves. Sunlight slipped through in thin golden lines. Parakeets called from the highest branches, monkeys shook ripe fruit to the ground, and a narrow stream hurried between dark stones.
Near the stream lived a striped squirrel named Pip.
Pip was smaller than the other squirrels, but she seemed to be everywhere. She knew which tree dropped fruit first, which hollow stayed dry in the rain, and which path the elephants used at dusk. She listened more than she spoke. She also disliked leaving a job unfinished.
Each morning Pip searched for seeds. She ate one, carried one to her hollow, and pressed one into the earth.
A young myna named Milo often watched her. Milo had a bright yellow beak and a question for everything.
“Why bury good food?” he asked.
“It may become something else,” Pip said.
“Or it may become nothing.”
“That too.”
The dry season made the ground hard. Pip scratched until her paws ached. When she found a stone, she pushed against it with her shoulder. Some stones rolled away. Others did not move at all.
Milo followed her from branch to branch.
“There is softer earth near the stream,” he called one morning.
Pip looked up. “Show me.”
Milo flew ahead. Beneath a fallen log, they found a patch of cool brown soil. Pip dug. Milo pulled away dry leaves with his beak. Together they planted three seeds before the sun stood above the trees.
After that, Milo stopped asking why Pip worked. He began asking where they should work next.
They planted beside the stream, along the elephant path, and in a clearing where an old tree had fallen. Pip dug the holes. Milo searched from the air for soft ground. When Pip grew tired, he told her stories about the things he had seen beyond the river.
Many seeds vanished. Beetles carried some away. Wild pigs uncovered others. A few simply rested beneath the soil and never woke.
One evening Pip sat beside a patch of bare earth.
“Perhaps you were right,” she said. “Perhaps we planted nothing.”
Milo tilted his head.
“We cannot see under the ground,” he said.
The first rain came that night.
For days, water drummed on the leaves and filled the stream. When the clouds moved on, Pip and Milo went to the fallen log.
Three green shoots stood in the soft earth.
Pip touched one with her nose.
“Small,” said Milo.
“For now,” said Pip.
They cleared away the weeds and continued planting.
Seasons passed. The shoots became saplings. The saplings became trees. Their roots held the soil when heavy rain came. Their branches gave nests to birds and shade to deer, hares, and tired monkeys. Fruit fell where there had once been only stones.
Through all those seasons, Pip and Milo still met beside the stream every morning.
One day a young squirrel found three seeds. She ate one and carried one toward her hollow. Then she stopped beside Pip.
“What should I do with the last one?” she asked.
Pip looked at Milo. Milo looked up at the green roof above them.
“Find some soft earth,” he said.
The young squirrel ran toward the stream.
Pip and Milo followed her beneath the trees.