The Church of the Blinding White Light of Stupidity

The Monkey Trap

The girl sat in front of her fathers hut, carefully weaving the vine fibers into a basket. In and out, she threaded the stems past each other, forming the tight bottom.
"Pay attention to what you are doing, you lazy girl!" The old man shouted as he swatted at her head with the back of his hand "Always day-dreaming about the city! I will take you there and sell you someday! Worthless child!"
She ducked, her hands never missing a stitch, and held her breath, awaiting another swipe from her father. The packed earth was hard against her butt, causing her legs to fall asleep but the threat of his punch kept her from shifting to relive the numbness. The tingling would stop eventually, to be replaced by no sensation at all. Better that than the sting of his hand.

She first noticed the boy when his father stopped to buy some of the dried monkey meat her father offered in the lean-to along the trail to the city. Tall and straight, his dark eyes matched the color of his hair, brown on the border of black. Dressed in a starched white shirt, black slacks and real, closed toe shoes, he stood out among the villagers in their coarse woven wool. The pale red dust of the road stained his pants to the knee and large rings of sweat spread from under his arms. A native of the city, he had never been this far into the mountains.
While his father dickered for lunch, he allowed his gaze to wander to the small woman weaving a monkey basket in front of the doorway to the hovel. A tiny, dark gem, her startling blue eyes met his and swiftly dropped then darted towards her father, looking to see if he had seen. Those eyes, set in that broad brown face, captivated him. Concentrating on her work, she whetted her lips, her tongue flicking in time with her dancing fingers. She had finished the bottom of the basket and had begun forming the sides, leaving wide gaps between the stems.
He walked directly through the shop and approached the girl.
"What are you making?"
She stopped, shocked that he would talk to her, her jaw open and twitching as she tried to answer. "Ah... it is a monkey basket." she stammered. He was so beautiful, smooth skin and straight white teeth, smelling like water flowers.
"What is it for?" At close range, he could see the scars on her hands from too many years of basket making, the tips of her fingers bloody and raw from a childhood of pushing the rough fibers back-and forth.
"We use them to catch the monkeys."
"A monkey couldn't fit in that basket!"
She could not stop herself from laughing at his foolishness. "No, no need for the whole monkey to get inside, only his hand." She reached behind the door and pulled out a finished basket. Tightly woven across the bottom and then up the neck-like opening, the weave is open around the middle "You see, we put a piece of fruit, a mango or banana, into the basket and tie it in a tree. The monkeys come by and see the fruit. They put their hand in the opening and grab the fruit and when they try to remove the fruit..." He had reached into the basket and formed his hand into a fist. Attempting to pull his hand out he found the neck too tight.
"Ah, you have found the secret of the trap."
"Why do they not just let go of the fruit and escape?" He rubbed at the skin of his wrist where the new basket had scraped it.
"Because the monkey is the greediest animal in the forest. He will not let go of the prize for fear that one of the other monkeys will steal it." The girl smiled, showing small white teeth.
"But he cannot eat the fruit, he cannot even get it out of the basket!" Thinking that the peasant girl was making fun of him, the boy became irate. She admired the fire in his eyes.
"Yes, that is true, but he does not believe it to be so. He keeps trying to find a way to get the fruit out, without letting it go." Shaking the confusion off his face, he set his jaw stubbornly and squared his shoulders.
" The hunters come up and club the monkeys and then have to pry the fruit out of their hands to get them out of the trap." She finished.
He looked at the stick of meat his father had handed him and winced. "That is silly. All he has to do is let go and he is free to gather all the other fruit. Why would he hold on like that?"
She smiled sadly, "The fruit in his hand is real, all the other fruit is not."
The city father called to his son and the boy returned to his side. Stopping to check the packs of meat, the beautiful boy turned and waved to the peasant girl, then ran to catch his father.
As they walked down the path towards the city, the girl returned to her weaving, sore fingers picking up speed.