The Doves Who Flew Together

High above a great forest lived a flock of doves. They had soft grey wings and gentle cooing voices, and their king was a wise old dove named Citragrīva, which means “Speckled Neck”, because of the pretty spots around his throat.

One morning, the doves were flying over the forest looking for breakfast. Suddenly the youngest dove called out, “Look! Down there! Rice! Lots and lots of rice!”

There, on a patch of grass beneath a tree, someone had scattered handfuls of shining white rice.

“Rice, in the middle of the forest?” said Citragrīva slowly. “Who would leave rice here? Something about this doesn’t feel right.”

But the doves were hungry, and the rice looked so good. “Please, Your Majesty! Just a little!” And down they swooped, whoosh, every one of them, and began to peck.

Peck, peck, peck…

WHUMP!

A huge net dropped out of the tree and landed right on top of them. A hunter had hidden it there, and the rice was his trap.

The doves flapped and fluttered and squawked. “Help! We’re trapped! The hunter is coming!” They pulled this way and that way, and the more they struggled, the more tangled they became.

Far away, they could see the hunter running towards them, with a big bag over his shoulder.

Then a calm voice rose above the noise.

“Friends,” said Citragrīva. “Stop. Listen to me.”

The doves went quiet.

“If each of us pulls a different way, this net will hold us forever. But one net is not so heavy, and we are many. When I count to three, we will all flap our wings, at the same time, upwards. Ready? One… two… THREE!”

Flap. Flap. FLAP!

Slowly, the net lifted off the ground. Then a little higher. Then up past the bushes, up past the treetops, up into the wide blue sky, with all the doves still inside it, flapping in time.

Down below, the hunter stopped and stared, his mouth wide open. He ran after them for a while, but how can anyone catch a net that flies? At last he sat down on a rock and scratched his head.

“Now what?” puffed the youngest dove. “We’re flying, but we’re still stuck in the net!”

“I have a very old friend,” said Citragrīva, “who lives near the river. Follow me.”

They flew and flew until they came to a little hole at the foot of a tree. “Hiraṇyaka!” called the king. “Old friend, it’s me!”

Out popped a small brown mouse with bright eyes and long whiskers. “Citragrīva! What on earth… why are you all wrapped up in a net?”

The king explained. “Can you help us?”

“Can I help?” The mouse grinned, showing two very sharp teeth. “This is exactly what these teeth are for!”

He hurried straight to the king and began to nibble the strings around him.

“Wait, my friend,” said Citragrīva gently. “Please free my flock first. Then me.”

Hiraṇyaka stopped. “But you’re the king! What if my teeth get tired before I reach you?”

“That is exactly why,” said the king. “They trusted me and flew where I told them. If anyone stays trapped, it should be me, not them.”

The little mouse looked at his friend for a long moment. “You really are a king,” he said softly.

Then he set to work. Nibble, nibble, snip. One dove was free. Nibble, nibble, snip. Another. One by one, all through the afternoon, until every single dove was out. And last of all, snip!, the king himself.

The doves rose into the air, cooing and turning circles of joy. “Thank you, Hiraṇyaka! Thank you!”

That evening, they all flew home together, as the sun set over the forest. And whenever the doves saw rice lying somewhere strange after that, they remembered their king’s words, and they stopped to think first.

The end.