The Monkey King sits, observing his domains – the treeline, which seemed to stretch on forever, above the forest floor and below the canopy. He imagines it, the kira-buri nuts and the ochre-stain flowers, the pawpaw and the macadamia. He sees in his mind the jaguar and the python – he reminds his subjects of their victories, and preaches to them, absolving them their defeats.
The Monkey King sits, observing his domains – the females in heat and the infants, all his. He sees the bald, hairless apes gather, banging against rocks and playing discordant non-harmonies on bone-flutes – they have captured fire, but not yet the forest. They are creatures of the plains, weak and not agile, not like his mighty people.
The Monkey King sits, and he pities them – from the safety of the forest.