The humid air hung heavy over the River Bend, sticking to the scales of Barnaby the Crocodile as he lumbered through the mud. Perched precariously on the end of his long, toothy snout were two Leafcutter Ants, Pip and Zoc. They were an odd trio, traveling toward the Great Banyan Tree to settle a dispute that had threatened to tear the jungle society apart.
The economy had crashed. The barter system was failing. The jungle needed a standard currency.
“I still say it’s a mistake not to use Shells,” Barnaby grumbled, his voice vibrating through his snout and shaking the ants. “They are durable. They are shiny. And they make a pleasing clack sound when you stack them. A proper currency should be heavy.”
Pip, the smaller ant, stomped a tiny foot. “Barnaby, be reasonable! Shells are useless. You can’t eat them, and they are too heavy for anyone but you to carry. Imagine me trying to buy a drop of nectar with a river clam!”
Zoc adjusted his antennae, looking serious. “Pip is right. The only logical currency is Leaves. specifically, the Hibiscus leaves we use to cultivate our fungus gardens. Think about it: they represent labor. They represent food. They are the backbone of the fungal economy. If you hold a Leaf, you hold the promise of a meal.”
“Leaves rot,” Barnaby countered, swishing his tail. “A currency that rots in a week is a bad investment. My Shells last forever.”
“But Shells have no intrinsic value!” Zoc shouted back. “If the jungle starves, you can’t eat a shell. But a Leaf? A Leaf becomes fungus, which becomes life.”
They argued for miles. The Crocodile wanted durability; the Ants wanted utility. The debate seemed endless, destined to end in a stalemate beneath the Banyan Tree.
Suddenly, the air shimmered above them. A low hum, like an electric wire, buzzed through the canopy. Descending in a flash of iridescent blue was Zephyr the Dragonfly. He hovered right in front of Barnaby’s snout, his compound eyes twitching.
“I heard the bickering from the treetops,” Zephyr buzzed, his voice rapid and sharp. “You are both fools.”
Barnaby blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“You argue between the dead and the dying,” Zephyr said, landing lightly on Barnaby’s nose, right between the ants. “The Crocodile wants Shells—which are merely the tombs of dead mollusks. The Ants want Leaves—which begin to die the moment they are plucked.”
The trio fell silent. Zephyr spread his wings, catching the dappled sunlight.
“We should use Seeds,” the Dragonfly declared. “Because Seeds are the most valuable thing in the jungle.”
“Seeds?” Pip asked. “Why?”
“A Shell is the past,” Zephyr explained. “A Leaf is the present. But a Seed... a Seed is the future. A single seed holds an entire tree inside it. It holds fruit, shade, oxygen, and shelter for generations. It is a promise of growth. It is an investment that multiplies.”
Barnaby stopped walking. He looked at the muddy floor where a Mahogany seed lay half-buried. He thought of the forest that sustained him, the shade that cooled him.
Zoc looked at the seed. He realized that without trees, there were no leaves to harvest.
“Infinite potential,” Zoc whispered.
“Exactly,” said the Dragonfly, taking flight once more. “Pay in potential. Pay in life. Pay in Seeds.”
And so, under the shadow of the Great Banyan, the jungle changed. They did not trade in dead weight or fleeting labor. They traded in tomorrow.