Jackdaw discovered figs growing on an old tree on the far side of the hill. They were still hard and green, but they were big and with time their skin would turn velvety purple and soften around sticky sweet flesh. Jackdaw had tasted figs before and he wanted to taste them again.

So Jackdaw decided to wait for the figs to ripen. He waited all day. As the sun blazed across the sky, it cast deep shadows over the fruit, which made him think the figs might be ready. He flew down to check, but found them as hard and as green as before.

He was getting more than a little hungry now, but the only things he wanted to eat were figs. He could think of nothing else. Nothing would match the sweetness that oozed from the body of a ripe fig. Patience, he whispered. ‘It’s just a matter of time. It will be worth the wait.’

But a fox had spotted Jackdaw perched in the old fig tree and wondered what he was doing there. When she saw him go to peck at the hard, green fruit, she understood. “Those figs won’t be ready for a while yet,” she told him. “You’d do better to seek your dinner elsewhere.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Jackdaw agreed. “But I can’t say I’m especially hungry.” (He was lying, of course. He was half-famished.) “Lucky for you,” the fox replied. “I haven’t eaten since the night before last. If I don’t find something soon, I fear I’ll drop down dead.”

With that, the fox headed into the scrub to search for her dinner. Jackdaw thought he saw her pause in the shadows and glance back at the fig tree. “I see what you are up to,” he muttered. “You don’t fool me. You’re after my figs. But you won’t get them, not over my dead body.”

That night, Jackdaw suffered a fitful sleep. He was convinced the fox lurked in the shadows, poised to steal the figs from under him. As soon as it was light, he hurried to check the fruit. They were there, he sighed, but they were still hard and green.

“Good morning,” said the fox, greeting Jackdaw from the foot of the tree. “You’re still here, I see.” “Why wouldn’t I be?” Jackdaw snapped, irritable with hunger and fatigue. “You’re not waiting for those figs to ripen, I hope.” “Why not?” Jackdaw replied. “They’re mine.”

“Oh, I’m not interested in the figs,” the fox replied airily. “But I am concerned about you. You don’t look well at all.” “Don’t worry about me,” Jackdaw insisted, but there was desperate look in his eye and it took all his strength just to grip the branch and remain upright.

“Glad to hear it,” said the fox, and then added she’d found a puddle by the farm. “You should come,” she said. “Before the heat dries it up.” A drink sounded good to Jackdaw, who was more dehydrated than malnourished, but he was not going to abandon the figs.

“They will ripen soon,” he told himself. “I just have to be patient.” And he clung tight to his perch as the sun blazed across the sky, while his fevered brain swam with visions of crushing the figs’ velvety skin and gulping down their soft sweet flesh.

At dusk, the fox returned. She stretched on her hind legs to sniff at the figs. “Mm, almost ready,” she declared, licking her lips. “Hey, they’re mine,” Jackdaw cried in alarm as he lunged at the fox. But he was too weak even to flap his wings and dropped straight to the ground.

The fox pounced on the helpless bird. “Patience is a virtue, my friend,” she whispered. “But you also need a plan.” Her jaws closed around Jackdaw’s throat, his sweet flesh oozed between her teeth. For dessert, she took a fig or two from the tree. The rest she left to the wasps.

© Richard Parkin 2021

further reading: misadventures in the land of fables #7