The Jackal Between the Rams

One warm afternoon, the holy man Godly rested beneath a broad tree beside a riverside meadow. He was traveling to a nearby village with his new disciple, June. Before washing at the river, Godly had asked June to guard a folded robe that held his small purse of savings.

The meadow seemed peaceful, but a sudden thud made Godly look up.

Two powerful rams stood facing one another across the grass. One had warm white wool and a blue rope collar. The other had deep brown wool and a rust-red collar. They pawed the ground, stepped back and then ran forward to test their strength.

After each clash, they separated and caught their breath.

Near the middle of the meadow lay a few scraps from a shepherd's lunch—small pieces of flatbread and roasted grain. A hungry jackal smelled the food and crept closer.

He watched the rams charge, meet and step apart.

“There is plenty of time,” the jackal thought. “I can run between them, snatch a bite and escape before they move again.”

The moment the rams turned away, he dashed into the open space. He grabbed a piece of flatbread and sprang back to the edge of the field.

His plan had worked.

The jackal ate quickly. Instead of being satisfied, he stared at the remaining scraps.

Again the rams charged. Again they stepped apart. Again the jackal slipped between them and carried away another bite.

Godly watched with growing concern. The jackal was fast, but every trip depended on perfect timing.

“Little friend,” Godly called, raising an open hand, “a meal is not worth standing in the path of danger. Leave the last scraps and come away.”

The jackal heard him, but his eyes remained on the food.

“Just one more piece,” he told himself. “I have done this twice already. Nothing will happen.”

This time the jackal waited a moment too long. He trotted toward the final scrap just as both rams lowered their heads.

The ground trembled beneath their hooves.

At last the jackal looked up. The rams were racing toward the center from opposite sides. There was no clear path forward or back.

He leaped sideways with all his strength. The rams rushed past, and the wind of their charge sent him tumbling into a soft haystack at the edge of the meadow.

For several breaths, only the jackal's dark-tipped tail could be seen. Then his head appeared through the straw. He was frightened and bruised, but safe.

The rams had already wandered apart and begun nibbling grass.

Godly walked over and helped brush the straw from the jackal's coat.

“You saw the danger clearly,” he said gently. “Why did you keep returning?”

The jackal lowered his ears. “Each easy bite made me believe the next one would also be safe. I looked only at what I wanted and stopped noticing what could happen.”

He left the last scrap where it lay and limped slowly toward the trees. He had learned to value his safety more than one extra mouthful.

Godly returned to the riverbank, thinking about the jackal's mistake. Then he stopped.

The patch of grass where June had been waiting was empty. His disciple, the folded robe and the purse were gone.

Godly realized that he, too, had allowed something he wanted to hide warning signs. He had wanted to believe June's flattering words, so he had trusted them too quickly.

The jackal had ignored danger for another bite. Godly had ignored doubt for comforting praise. Both had discovered that desire can make even an obvious warning difficult to see.

From that day forward, Godly paused before placing his trust, and the jackal paused before darting toward a tempting reward. A thoughtful moment, they learned, can prevent a painful mistake.