Bidhaa Betrayed

Reading Time: 10 minutes

This is my attempt at the first “Turning Point Scene,” as prescribed by “Story Genius.” The objective is to write three scenes to see the escalating arc of the story with instructions to fully flush out the scenes, providing story-specific info. “Specifics play forward. Generalities do not.” The scenes should reinforce the protagonist’s worldview, referred to as the “misbelief,” while simultaneously escalating the conflict with something they desire.

Here goes the first:

I live on a plantation with a human woman named Ms. Bixen, a human man called Mahout, a matriarchal elephant named Mubwa, and a dog named Kuchota. Many other humans work in the rows and rows of coffee and tea fields, but elephants are not allowed to go there for fear of destroying the crops. 

Ms. Bixen is the matriarch of our little herd. Mahout feeds, walks, and takes care of Mubwa and me. He is our caretaker. Ms. Bixen said she rescued Mubwa from poachers that killed the rest of her herd. Mahout says Mubwa had to be chained to keep her from hurting herself. She still wears leg irons whenever she is taken outside her cage. He says I give Mubwa a sense of purpose. Otherwise, she might have died of despair. 

Mubwa is not my biological mother, but she has cared for me the best she can. I have no memories of my mother. I only remember being born from a crate. Mubwa calls me an orphan, which she says is a name for one that does not have a mother though it does not seem that way. She has always been a mother to me. Mubwa says we are alike because we have both lost our herd. I understand her meaning, but I do not think we are alike. She has detailed memories of her herd. I have none. I belong to the Ms. Bixen herd.

Mubwa has taught me the three languages of the elephant: touch, talk, and rumble. She tells me the language of touch is a form of writing for intimacy and secrets. I like the way it feels when we trunk touch. The language of talk is for everyday stuff, like when Mubwa tells me it is time for lessons, the hay is here, or tells me to come to fetch a banana. 

Occasionally, we hear the rumbling of distant herds from outside the compound. Mubwa calls back, but the others do not come to us. Mubwa says it is damn peculiar that I can speak the language of the humans. She has never met another elephant that can do so. 

I have learned the human language from Ms. Bixen, the lady of the plantation, and Mahout, the trainer. I cannot speak fast, the way people talk to one another. The words do not form in my mind nor fall off my tongue so quickly, but I hear their words and understand some of their meanings.

I have also learned much from a flatscreen that shows things outside the compound. I watched the humans and learned how to turn the flatscreen on and off. I would watch it when the humans went to the outside. The flatscreen once showed me a creature called a lion. I learned that a herd of lions is called a pride. The pride of lions attacked an elephant much larger than myself and made that elephant disappear forever. Mubwa said that I was safe from lions in the compound. And I do not watch the flatscreen anymore.

Mahout says that I am a designer species. When I asked him what designer meant, he said, “You are worth a lot of money.” When I asked him what worth a lot of money meant, he said, “It means that you are a status symbol,” but I didn’t know what that meant, either. When I asked him what a status symbol was, he said, “You are not meant to live on the outside, either in the world of elephants or the world of humans. Just be nice to Ms. Bixen’s guests and do what she asks, and you will lead a long, happy life.”

 I don’t see Ms. Bixen much except when she has guests over. On those occasions, I am made to say words in the human language, though her guests seem to talk at me, not with me. I say a few utterances and do some silly tricks. When they all laugh, I flap my ears and bounce from one front leg to another to pretend I am enjoying this trite demonstration because that is what I am supposed to do. My speech amuses most of her guests to no end, but it frightens a few greatly. 

One night, one of Ms. Bixon’s lady guests said, “You are so privileged to have a designer species, but aren’t they illegal now?” Ms. Bixen said, “No. It’s only illegal to let them breed with natural species. Technically, he shouldn’t be allowed with the matriarch.” Ms. Bixen leaned toward the woman and whispered, “I don’t think there is much danger of that, but let’s keep this between you, me, and the fence post.” I did not understand the meaning of the word illegal and struggled to fathom why the two women would share information with a fence post. Another guest said, “Let’s not talk about the elephant in the room.” And they all laughed tremendously. But at least they stopped asking me to do baby talk and went on to talk about the “Death Star,” saving what little remains of wild places and investing in something called the economy. I don’t have enough context to understand these lofty topics.

I spend most of my time playing with Kuchota. He is a simple creature that follows me around like a duckling follows its mother. He does not speak words I understand, but I can always read his intentions. His tiny legs quiver in anticipation of the sticks and balls I throw for him. When I tire of the game, we swim in the pond, and I spray water into Kuchota’s unexpecting face. He never learns. His angry barking at my betrayal delights me to no end. 

When Kuchota languishes in the hot afternoon, Mahout feeds and grooms me. He tells me of other places and elephants he has known from a distant place called Jaipur in India. He said the Indian elephants are different from the African elephants here. I told him that Mubwa says I am different from her herd and asked Mahout if I was an Indian elephant. He laughed and said, “No, you are a Tembo. A small elephant. The only Tembo I know of live in a park called Kruger in South Africa.” Kruger is a word I remember from before the time of the Bixens.

On most nights, Mubwa tells me the stories of her days as the matriarch of a large herd. She describes her life outside the compound of the plantation, of playing with the many young ones, and of great travels across savannah, jungle, mountains, lakes, and rivers. The herd traveled hundreds of miles in the backcountry for food, water, and mates. She tells me how she dug for water and how to take down trees for their fruits and leaves. She talks of exhausting wanderings with creatures I have only seen on the flatscreen, sometimes fighting off vicious, hungry animals. She chokes with sadness when she relives the tragic stories of her herd obliterated by men that made thunder with sticks. Despite her anguish, she says it is vital that someone carries the memory of her family. 

Mubwa insists that I remember the details of her travels though I do not know why she bothers. I have not been outside the compound since the day I arrived, nor do I wish to leave it. I remember the dark cages, the bad smells, and the loneliness of being isolated in a cell. I have heard the dark stories of Mubwa and seen the dangers of the lion on the flatscreen. I am more afraid than curious. I asked Mubwa if she traveled to Kruger Park in South Africa, but she did not know of such a place. It is the only place I am curious about because there might be other Tembo like myself. I might even find my mother.

I saw very little of Mr. Bixen in my eight years on the plantation. When he came to the plantation, Mr. Bixen and Ms. Bixen would shout loudly at one another, and then he would leave. After one of their yelling sessions, Ms. Bixen started calling herself Ms. Bixen instead of Mrs. Bixen. She said she would divorce soon and wanted to get into the habit.

I didn’t understand her meaning. When I asked Mahout what divorce soon meant, he said, “They don’t like each other anymore. They will pay lawyers a lot of money to argue against one another on their behalf. I don’t think we will see Mr. Bixen anymore.”

Ms. Bixen had many tears and spent long hours staring into space when Mr. Bixen died. For elephants, tearing is good health, but for humans, not good. Mahout told me to die meant he would never return, and Ms. Bixen was very sad. I did not feel much of anything when I learned he would never return. 

Mubwa had told me about grieving and dying when she talked about her herd. She told me about trunk touching the body to keep the memory of the lost soul. I saw Ms. Bixen look at a picture of Mr. Bixen. And then she smashed it on the floor. The glass splattered into a thousand pieces. She shouted at it just as if he were here and still alive. I think she was trying to destroy the memory of Mr. Bixen, not keep it.

Not long after Mr. Bixen died, a man in a suit stopped by the plantation. He said he was from “The Nature Development Company.” I remembered the salesman that sold me to the Bixens was from the same human herd called “The Nature Development Company.” The man in the suit looked at me and touched me in ways that made me uncomfortable, tugging at my ear flaps and twisting my trunk roughly. 

Ms. Bixen asked me to leave the veranda so she could talk to the man privately, but I could hear the conversation from a distance. I overheard the man say, “The livestock is in good condition, and I will give you better than a fair price for it and the plantation.” Ms. Bixen did not answer, and after some hesitation, the man said, “The alternative is a lawsuit. You will lose the livestock for sure and maybe even the plantation. Let’s do this the easy way. It’s better for you, and it’s better for us.” 

“What about Bidhaa?” she asked. The man said, “We discontinued the Intelliphant Product Line because of intellectual property rights disputes. Bidhaa was the last of his kind. Probably best to let him self-terminate. Shame him. Put him in isolation for a few days, and the end of life gene will express.” 

I asked Mahout what this meant. He said, “Termination is the same as dying. Don’t you worry about it. Ms. Bixen will never agree to it.” but I saw the water come down his face before he looked away. 

Ms. Bixen had the same tears when the man in the suit from the “Nature Development Company” left the plantation. It made me very uncomfortable. I wanted to cry, too, but I didn’t know why. I asked her, “Why are you sad?” 

She said, “I don’t know how to explain, but things are happening beyond my control. That asshole husband of mine really screwed us over.” She stepped closer and rubbed my trunk like she was trying to remember a lost friend. She touched her cheek to mine and then ran off.

I did not like being touched like I was a body to grieve. I asked Mahout to explain why she did this. He softly said, “You are different. You are neither an elephant nor a person. In the times ahead, a lot of unfair things are going to happen. Listen very carefully to what I tell you now. You must remember this above all things. People and elephants feel sadness when they know they can’t change something unfair. Anger is what they feel when they think they can change something unjust. You have something built into your body called an end-of-life switch. You were built differently. Sadness can eat away at a person for a lifetime, but despair will kill Bidhaa dead in three days. Sadness and despair are lethal to you in ways they are not to anyone or anything else. Humans will tell you things to hurt you. You must never give in to sadness or despair. Choose anger if those are your only two options. You must fight for your life. You cannot stay here anymore.”

I remember the words, but the advice made no sense. I nodded yes like I understood, but I did not. Where was I supposed to go? Why would I be sad? Why should I be angry? I didn’t feel sad or angry, just confused. Why would I have to fight for my life? Everything is so peaceful here. I know it had something to do with that man. I did not like him. I did not like the feeling of not knowing. 

Mubwa told me the feeling of not knowing is called angst. It didn’t feel like home when I had this feeling. I hoped the bad man that brought angst would never come back. I told her what Mahout had said. She told me I must go to the wilderness south of here and made me repeat her stories about survival. The humans call the territory “Nyere National Park.”

Later that evening, more men from the company came with a trailer. They prodded me into the trailer. I tried to say cute things that made Ms. Bixen’s guests laugh, but I was zapped every time I said something. Ms. Bixen came into the trailer. She did not come close, and two men stood between us with shocking sticks. She shouted, “Because of you, I had to fire Mahout. You’ve ruined his career and made him a miserable man.” I lowered my head to reflect the shame. “Mr. Bixen worked himself to death because of you, working so hard to pay for your food, and all you do is play with that stupid dog.” Even in the darkness, I could see that she was fighting off the tears. She blubbered, “You are not an elephant and you aren’t a human. You don’t belong anywhere. You are worthless and don’t deserve to live.” Ms. Bixen ran from the trailer, and the men backed out, never taking their eyes off me. 

They shut the door behind them, leaving me in complete darkness. I felt the pain stab at my heart. A wave of sadness swept over me, and I crumbled to my four knees. Mahout said humans would say things to hurt me. I did not think Ms. Bixen would be one of those humans. She was my caretaker and the matriarch of our little herd for the last eight years. I am only nine years old. Mugwa had told me of her pain at losing her herd. I tried to imagine it before, but this was the first time I felt it cut through my heart like a bull elephant sitting on my chest. But I didn’t believe Ms. Bixen’s words. Her lies made me angry. I stood up, walked to the door, stood on my hind legs, and tried to push it open with all my weight. The door didn’t budge. I tried again and again for hours. Desperation is an odd mix of anger and despair. I went into a corner to lie down and cry. 

And then the door creaked open. I heard Mahout whisper, “Ssh. Be quiet. Follow me.” It took a minute for the surrender of hopelessness to fade enough to give me the strength to rise. Mahout whispered, “Hurry. Damn it. We don’t have all night.”

It was night time. He said, “Walk quietly.” In so much as an elephant can tiptoe, I followed him to a back gate of the compound. He let me out. He said, “This is the best I can do. I can’t take you because there is nowhere I could hide you and the roads aren’t safe. You will have to get yourself to Nyere. Follow the roads and travel at night. Stay off the roads in the daytime.” He pointed south in the direction of the park, the same as Mubwa had told me. “Get lost or you will get dead. Now go.” There was no goodbye. He closed the large gate, and I was standing outside the compound alone under the light of a half moon. It was the loneliest feeling I have ever had, running from a life that no longer existed. Mugwa said it was a two-day hike from here to the park if I kept up a brisk pace. I didn’t know what else to do. So I started walking. I crossed through the rows of coffee trees, grabbing at the branches and eating as I walked. I crossed a paved road onto a dirt road. In the distance, I heard Kuchota bark. I imagined the barking getting closer and louder. And then Kuchota was walking at my side, wagging his tail and panting. I never believed I could be so grateful for the companionship of this so-easy-to-please beast.

Baby Bidhaa

Reading Time: 7 minutes

This is my second attempt at an “Origin Scene,” as prescribed by “Story Genius.” The assignment after the “Origin Scene” is to create three “Turning Point” scenes. When I started the turning point scenes, the original origin scene seemed too late in the story, so I started about as early as you can start in a story.

Origin Scene. The objective is to establish the protagonist’s worldview before the story begins. The “Origin Scene” motivates the protagonist’s thinking: why does the protagonist have the belief or worldview they will have in the story?

  1. What does the protagonist go into the scene believing?
  2. Why does the protagonist believe it?
  3. What is the protagonist’s goal in the scene?
  4. What does the protagonist expect?

Here goes again.

 I remember my first steps. I stumbled and fell to the ground before I managed to keep my feet under me. Water drops fell from the sky. I smelt a comforting smell that I was drawn to. I now recognize that smell as elephant, maybe even my mother. Could I identify the owner by its memory?

I heard shouting and a sharp prod in my hind quarters. I was pushed into a crate into which I barely fit, and it went dark like I was being unborn. I thrashed in my container, but I didn’t have the strength to break out of it. I did not have enough room to turn around.

The cage rattled and bounced. I thought I would fall over again many times. I didn’t have enough space to fall over. I smelt foul odors that burned my eyes and breathed dust so thick I coughed and coughed so hard I thought my lungs were coming out of my throat. When the rattling stopped, I heard the words of humans, “I have an Intelliphant here from Kruger.” I did not know then that the place I was sent to was Nairobi. I now know Kruger is a place farther than the greatest migrations of elephants. 

The top opened, and the brightness hurt my eyes. A man pushed a milk bottle toward my head. I instinctively pulled it into my mouth and drank until it was empty. It soothed my throat, and the empty feeling in my stomach disappeared. I wanted desperately to get close to the man with the bottle, but the cage lid closed when the milk was gone, and I was in darkness again.

The container opened once again. Two men with painful sticks led me from one crate to another. The ground was hard and cold in the cage. The light was dim. I found it difficult to sleep. Strange sounds frightened me, and acrid burning odors smelling like my urine permeated the air. I wanted to hide but could only curl up against the cage bars in one of the corners. My whole body felt nauseous. I thought I would go to sleep and never wake up.

I was in the cage alone for a long time. I despaired for the comfort of another. Men came to the cell. I heard one say, “Bidhaa?” Another answered, “Yes.” One of the men entered and walked over to me. He inspected my trunk, twisting it in ways I did not like, and spread my eyes open, unhappy with how bloodshot they had become, but I did not move from my prone position. He patted me on my head in a comforting way. I lifted my head and said, “Bidhaa.” The man laughed, repeated “Bidaa,” and stroked my trunk. I thought that was my name. It wasn’t until later that I learned that “Bidhaa” means product. Despite my wretchedness, I managed to sit up. 

The man pointed to himself and said, “Trainer,” but I did not respond. 

When the man left, I could feel my heart sink like a rock in a pond. But he came right back with a bright green ball. He rolled it around under his foot and then moved it from one foot to another. I watched, mesmerized by the toy. Trainer allowed me to touch the ball with my trunk and push it around, but when I stood up, he took it away. When I tried retrieving it from him, the man shouted, “No!” He pointed to himself and said, “Trainer.” He grasped my throat gently with his hand and said, “Say it. Trainer.” He waited and then said again, “Trainer.”

I shook my head from side to side anxiously, not understanding what he wanted me to do and desperately wanting to see that ball again. He squeezed my throat harder and moved his hand like he wanted me to swallow, saying, “Trainer.” Finally, I understood his meaning and uttered something like “Trainer.” He smiled and scratched me on the back of my head. Then he pointed to me and said, “Bidaa. Bidaa.” The name had stuck, and I repeated it back to him. The man dropped the ball to the ground and kicked it at me. I watched the ball bounce off the cage’s bars and bounce back. The man had to show me how to play. I chased after that ball for five or ten minutes before exhausting myself completely. I wanted to go over and cuddle up against the man, but each time he prodded me with a sharp stick and yelled, “No!”

I had no sense of time back then. I don’t know if I was in the cage for weeks, months, or even longer. But the lessons continued. I learned to speak in this way, trading language for toys. My favorite was the small pool where I would splash and play with an intertube. I learned “pool,” “ball,” “walk,” “eat,” “toy,” and many other words. I was never fed until Trainer was satisfied with my progress for the day.

I listened to the sounds of the workers who cleaned my cage and fed me. I did not know it then, but the workers spoke Swahili while Trainer taught me noun-verb English. I also learned words and watched images on a flatscreen which the humans turned on when they were not around to care for or teach me. It was a long time before I realized I was not a human, not understanding until later that the face in the reflection of the calm pool water was my own. 

Then they started bringing in items that were not toys, like couches, chairs, and flatscreens. If I started to play with them, I was zapped and prodded. I learned to wait for Trainer’s signal on whether I was allowed to investigate the new object. 

And then he started bringing in humans. If I approached the humans, I would be swatted. If they came to me and I backed away, I would be swatted. So I stood there without flexing so much as my trunk muscle. And still, I was swatted. I had to learn to read the minds of the humans in their gestures and facial expressions and show an appropriate response. If they smiled, I bobbed my head and flapped my ears like I was happy. If they looked angry, I would lower my head in deference. If they wanted me to be curious about something they wanted to show me, I would look interested trying to touch it with my trunk. I felt none of these things. If I was too clever or wordy, I was swatted. Mostly, they wanted me to utter simple words for their amusement. Only when they ignored me was I to become rigid as if happily anticipating their subsequent commands.

One day, Trainer said I was ready. I didn’t know what I was ready for. I was moved. When the truck stopped, I was chained with shackles about my ankles and led down a ramp into the outdoors. The light was blinding. I could not imagine a light so overwhelming. I had never seen the sun before. I was led into an enclosure and abandoned once again. I sniffed at the intoxicating mix of smells and listened to a symphony of sounds. I felt the soft dirt on the pads of my feet.

When my eyes finally adjusted to the intense light, I saw my first elephant, a massive creature in a neighboring pen. She smelt like but not quite the same as Mother. Seeing an elephant and remembering the reflection from the pool, I realized that I was a creature like these. The giant elephant approached and reached its trunk through the cage to touch and smell me. I was not trained in the expressions of elephants, but I recognized the gesture as one of curiosity. So returning the reach of its trunk with my I own, I said, “I am Bidhaa.” 

The massive creature dropped its trunk and backed away from the fence. I recognized its new emotion as distrust. I could not help myself. I so wanted the attention of this creature that was my likeness. So I ran toward her, and she bellowed out in anger. I froze and lowered my head. In words I didn’t recognize then, she said, “Why is it that you speak the language of the humans?” 

I did not know that I spoke the words of the humans. Over the days, I realized that just like humans, it is best to mimic the emotion of the other, even if that is not how you feel. I managed to strike up a cautious friendship with the beast. I learned that her name was “Kujuana.” Kujuana taught me my first words in elephant. She did not talk to me in the touch language I still had no knowledge of, but I did learn the elephant equivalent of the human handshake by trunk touching and sniffing.

Several humans came to visit. When they stood outside the gate of my enclosure, I overheard them. One human who said, “I am from the Nature Development Company,” wished to know whether the other humans wished to “buy” me. I did not know what the word meant, and it is precisely because I didn’t that I felt an uneasiness that was the same feeling I had when I ate disagreeable food. 

It was only a short time in the outdoor pen before I met Mr. and Mrs. Bixen. When I said, “I am Bidhaa,” a look of astonishment crossed Mrs. Bixen’s face that I wasn’t sure how to respond to. 

The salesman said, “Say hello to Mrs. Bixen.” 

I dutifully replied, “Hello, Mrs. Bixen.”

Mrs. Bixen looked more eager than ever. She said, “Oh, Dennis, we simply must have Bidhaa.”

Mr. Bixen replied, “Of course, Karen. He will make a wonderful pet and companion for you when I am away.”

I read Mr. Bixen’s emotion as one of tolerance rather than happiness. I did not know how to respond, so I remained frozen.

The salesman said, “Let’s return to my office to do the paperwork.”

Doing the paperwork meant the end of my brief stay with Kujuana. Even though Kujuana did not understand the language of the humans, she understood that I would be leaving. The gestures of hello and goodbye are the same in Elephant. We touched and sniffed one last time. The word for goodbye in elephant means, “I will remember you if we meet again.” It was the last time I saw Kujuana.

Picture by Craiyon

The Laws of Nature

Reading Time: 6 minutes

This is my attempt at an “Origin Scene,” as prescribed by “Story Genius.” The objective is to establish the protagonist’s worldview before the story begins. The “Origin Scene” motivates the protagonist’s thinking: why does the protagonist have the belief or worldview they will have in the story?

  1. What does the protagonist go into the scene believing?
  2. Why does the protagonist believe it?
  3. What is the protagonist’s goal in the scene?
  4. What does the protagonist expect?

Here goes:

I live on a plantation in the highlands of Eastern Tanzania, not far from the Mangara Airstrip, with a human woman named Ms. Bixen, a matriarchal elephant named Mubwa, and a dog named Kuchota. Mubwa is not my biological mother, but she has cared for me the best she can for my first eight years of life. I have no memories of my mother. Mubwa calls me an orphan, which she says is a name for one that does not have a mother though it does not seem that way. She has always been a mother to me.

Mubwa calls me Tugwa, taking on her family sound. She says it means first daughter. She says we are alike because we have both lost our herd. I understand her meaning, but I do not think we are alike. She lost her herd, but I am at home with mine. 

My days are full and happy. I spend the mornings playing with Kuchota. His tiny legs quiver in anticipation of the sticks and balls I throw for him. When I tire of the game, we swim in the pond, and I spray water into Kuchota’s unexpecting face. He never learns. His angry barking delights me to no end. 

When Kuchota languishes in the hot afternoon, Mahout feeds and grooms me. He tells me of other places and elephants he has known from a distant place called Jaipur in India. He said the Indian elephants are different from the African elephants here. I told him that Mubwa says I am different from her herd and asked Mahout if I was an Indian elephant. He laughed and said, “No, you are a Tembo. A small elephant. The only Tembo I know of live in a park called Kruger in South Africa.”

On most nights, Mubwa teaches me the stories of her days as the matriarch of a large herd. She tells me of her life outside the compound of the plantation, of playing with the many young ones, and of great travels. She chokes with sadness as she relives her tales but pushes forward because she wishes to pass on the memories of her legacy to me. The herd traveled hundreds of miles in the backcountry for food, water, and mates. Mubwa insists that I remember the map of her travels though I do not know why. I have never been outside the compound, nor do I wish to leave it. I am more afraid than curious. I asked her if she traveled to Kruger Park in South Africa, but she did not know of such a place.

Mubwa has taught me the three languages of the elephant: touch, talk, and rumble. She tells me the language of touch is a form of writing for intimacy and secrets. I like the way it feels when we trunk touch. The language of talk is for normal stuff, like when Mubwa tells me it is time for lessons, the hay is here, or tells me to come to fetch a banana. Occasionally, we hear the rumbling of distant herds from outside the compound. Mubwa calls back, but the others do not come to us. Mubwa says it is damn peculiar that I can speak the language of the humans. She has never met another elephant that can do so. 

I have learned the human language from Ms. Bixen, the lady of the plantation, and Mahout, the trainer. I cannot speak fast, the way people talk to one another. The words do not form in my mind nor fall off my tongue so quickly, but I hear their words and understand some of their meanings. On the nights when Ms. Bixen has guests, I am made to say words in the human language, though her guests seem to have little interest in talking to me.

I have also learned much from something called a flatscreen that shows things from outside the compound. I watched the humans and learned how to turn the flatscreen on and off. I would watch it when the humans went to the outside. The flatscreen once showed me a creature called a lion. I learned that a herd of lions is called a pride. The pride of lions attacked an elephant much larger than myself and made that elephant disappear forever. Mubwa said that I was safe from lions while I lived in the compound. It is why I do not wish to leave it. And I do not watch the flatscreen anymore.

Mubwa wears leg irons and is not permitted to approach the ranchhouse as I am. I have asked Mahout why it must be so. The Mahout says it is for her own good. I am allowed onto the veranda of the ranchhouse, usually to amuse Ms. Bixen’s guests. My speech amuses most of her guests to no end, but it frightens a few greatly. One of her lady guests asked, “You are so privileged to have a designer, but aren’t they illegal now?” Ms. Bixen said, “I acquired Tugwa before the law changed so I think he is still legal, but let’s keep this between you, me, and the fence post.” I did not understand the meaning of the words designer and illegal and struggled to fathom why the two women would share information with a fence post. 

A man in a suit stopped by one day. He said he was from “The Nature Development Company.” I did not know this word company but inferred it was some kind of human-like herd. The man looked at me and touched me in ways that made me uncomfortable, tugging at my ear flaps and twisting my trunk roughly. 

Ms. Bixen asked me to leave the veranda so she could talk to the man privately, but I could overhear the conversation in the distance. The man said, “The livestock is in good condition, and I will give you better than a fair price for it and the plantation.” Ms. Bixen did not answer, and after some hesitation, the man said, “The alternative is a lawsuit. You will lose the livestock for sure and maybe even the plantation. Let’s do this the easy way. It’s better for you, and it’s better for us.” 

I asked Mahout what this meant. He said, “They are talking about Mubwa, you, and the other animals, though I think they are mostly interested in you, Tugwa.” I asked him why, and he shrugged. I asked him what sell meant. He said, “Don’t you worry about it,” but I saw the water come down his face before he looked away. For elephants, tearing is good health, but for humans, not good. 

Ms. Bixen had many tears when Mr. Bixen died. Mahout told me to die meant he would never return, and Ms. Bixen was very sad. She had the same tears in her eyes when the man in the suit from the “Nature Development Company” left the plantation.

I asked her, “Why is there so much sadness here when I am so happy?” 

She said, “I don’t know how to explain to you, but things are happening beyond my control.” She stepped closer to me and rubbed my trunk like she was trying to talk in the touch language of elephants. She softly said, “You are different. You are neither an elephant nor a person. In the times ahead, a lot of unfair things are going to happen. Listen very carefully to what I tell you now. You must remember this above all things. People and elephant’s feel sadness when they know they can’t change something unfair. Anger is what they feel when they think they can change something unjust. You have something built into your body called an end-of-life switch. You were built differently. Sadness can eat away at a person for a lifetime, but despair will kill Tugwa dead in three days. Sadness and despair are lethal to you in ways they are not to anyone or anything else. You must never give into sadness or despair. You must fight for your life even if have to become angry.”

I remember the words, but the advice made no sense. I nodded yes like I understood, but I did not. Why would I be sad? Why should I be angry? I didn’t feel sad or angry. Why would I have to fight for my life? Everything is so peaceful here. I know it had something to do with that man. I did not like him. I did not like the feeling of not knowing. Mubwa told me the feeling of not knowing is called angst. It didn’t feel like home when I had this feeling. I hoped the bad man that brought angst would never come back.

Vortex Physics

Reading Time: 4 minutes

Spoiler Alert: If you plan on watching the Vortex, you might want to save this for another day.

“So, how do your characters time travel?”
“They use vortex glasses.”
“Vortex glasses? How do they work?”
“First, you put ’em on.”
“I assumed that part. How does the time travel part work?”
“Well, the characters don’t time travel per se. But they see into the past. And can talk to characters still living in the past.”
“Do the characters living in the past have glasses?”
“How could they? In the past, they have yet to be invented.”
“So the present only projects its image into the past. That seems lopsided. What do they talk about?”
“Well, the character in the future could tell the character in the past to go kill Hitler before Hitler kills them.”
“But what if Hitler was an ancestor?”
“Exactly, Then that character would disappear, and the story would end. But my character in the present timelines is the protagonist. So, we can’t have that, now can we? But, now, suppose the protagonist has a conversation with his first wife from the past to correct some evil like her own murder, but the protagonist husband’s second family disappears as a result. The husband would have to figure out what deviation his dead wife caused in the new past and convince her to undo the action that caused the problem while still correcting the original problem of her murder. But the wife from the new past might not be incented to correct it. In this case because she survives her murder but loses her husband.”
“So, her murderer is the villain, and the wife from the past is the antagonist?”
“Exactly. Every time future husband and past wife talk, some important event in the intervening interval changes for the worse. Fixing one unintended consequence results in another. The husband arrives at work to find a new boss because his old boss is dead. Or his best friend isn’t married to the woman he knew as his wife.”
“So the husband knows the true timeline, but all the other characters in his time only know the altered timeline?”
“Yes.”
“And the guy that lived the protagonist’s life up to that point is replaced by the guy in the original timeline in the altered present timeline.”
“You got it.”
“So the person the husband would have been in the new present dies every time the timeline changes?”
“The interval version of the protagonist is of no interest to the story. Other than to note that his past wife’s murderer killed various other people, depending on the timeline.”
“So the protagonist is a body snatcher.”
“It’s his body to snatch, isn’t it?”
“Does the wife remember the other timelines?”
“She has no future memories, and her time advances linearly from when she first meets her hologram husband to when she is murdered in the original timeline.”
“So she is timeline blind and the one on the clock?”
“Yes. The husband has no control over the clock. He can’t jump back at arbitrary points in her timeline to undo his and her mistakes.”
“Why not?”
“Vortex physics.”
“Plot-based physics. I assume the other characters have access to these glasses and are also changing timelines?”
“No. That would have been an interesting plot point if I had wanted to make a comedy. If all the time-messaging characters remembered the true timeline, what happens when they all change to an alternate timeline, and nobody has any memory of the current timeline and they somehow meet? All the confusion could have been good for a few laughs.”
“Couldn’t they reorganize themselves from memory into how the true timeline played out and be done with it?”
“Not if some are incapacitated, in prison, or dead. But I only allow the protagonist to time travel, and at one plot-convenient point, his daughter, so I don’t have that problem.”
“Why can’t anyone else time travel?”
“Because it’s not anyone else’s story.”
“Hmm. So, back to my original question. How do the glasses work?”
“They work by augmented reality. For example, if there is enough time-based evidence, the husband detective can see all the evidence at a crime scene and possibly even a reenactment.”
“Where does the wife come in?”
“As part of the augmented reality, but the past is real. That’s the twist.”
“So, the present and the past have to meet at the same place.”
“No. The present has vortex glasses, so they can be wherever they need to be as the plot dictates. The past doesn’t have the vortex glasses, so they must be at the physical place. The wife just shows up.”
“Actually, if you are not seeing the present reality, then the technology would be virtual reality, not augmented reality.”
“Vortex reality, with holodeck-like technology. Each appears as a hologram in the other’s reality.”
“Sure. So how does it end?”
“In the latest present timeline, the husband dies at the hand of the wife’s murderer.”
“So she doesn’t save herself and gets her husband killed?”
“Yeah.”
“Brutal ending.”
“But then at the synchronized moment.”
“Synchronized moment? What’s that?”
“When something happens in both the past and the present at the same time.”
“You mean like when they meet in the holodeck?”
“No. I mean at the time when she gets murdered and he gets murdered in their respective timelines, simultaneously.”
“What? How can something in the past and the present happen simultaneously?”
“The vortex of course. It happens at the time of the murder and at the time of the anniversary when the wife was killed in the past.”
“I see. It is a convenient point in both storylines. Physics has nothing to do with it. Was there a story-synchronized moment in all the other alternate-timeline leaps to establish this rule?”
“That’s not important, either. Let me finish. Just before the synchronized moment, the husband gets killed by the wife’s murderer. At the synchronized moment, the wife discovers her true murderer from the past and kills him. The husband undies in the present, quite relieved to discover himself undead.”
“The sci-fi version of deus ex machina. So the protagonist remembers the true timeline and all the other time he spends in altered timelines. And he even realizes that he is undead. But none of the other characters do.”
“Right. The vortex glasses get destroyed, and that breaks the cycle. In the final timeline, the husband meets the wife twenty-seven years after she killed her murderer.”
“How does that work out?”
“The alternate earlier self of the husband in the last timeline threw her in jail for killing her would-be murderer, and his daughter despises him because of it.”
“Because the alternate husband didn’t know about his wife’s murder in that timeline?”
“Yes. The wife is quite happy to meet the timeline-jumping husband who saved her life by telling her about her imminent murder in the first place. She is quite relieved to be rid of his alternate, earlier self.”
“So if someone in the past killed Hitler before they were able to kill anyone, they would get thrown in jail as a murderer and no one else would appreciate their sacrifice.”
“Yes. Until the one person who lived and remembers the original timeline returns.”
“I see. He is the only one that can validate his wife’s actions.”
“She waits 27 years for it.”
“Sounds sad. It’s not good enough to do a great deed. One must be appreciated for it.”
“Now you get it.”
“So who made the vortex?”
“Only the vortex knows.”