Robots and Moon Rockets

by Mark Douglas Stafford

CHAPTER 3

  THE GREATER BURDEN OF SADNESS

  Reginald Elephant was just nineteen years old when he first met Marjorie, his late wife of fifty-three years. And it was a troubled beginning. He had spent his early years in the elephant town of Twin Rivers, which is located a little way south of the colossal glaciers that made up the Northern Escarpment, north of the untamed Wilds and east of the Sierra Madre Oriental; the impassable western mountain range running along the very edge of the known world. He had done well academically and showed both ability and an abiding interest in history. Twin Rivers had a university well known for its ice-archaeology, an excellent library and a large collection of ancient artefacts from the Machine Age. He had grown up around elephants of studious disposition, some teaching at Twin Rivers University, others full time academics. When the time came, his parents encouraged him to enrol. And so began the darkest chapter of what was to be, as he later thought, an undeservedly long life.

  Reginald was in the second year of an undergraduate degree in Arts, majoring in ancient history, when he was invited on his first ice-archaeology field excursion. He hadn’t realised how cold it could get digging ice. He could see why so many others wore padded vests and woollen leggings. He had none of these and each day returned to camp earlier than the others, miserable and shivering bleakly.

  After a week of digging, Reginald had still failed to find a single artefact. Others of his peers returned glowing warmly as they passed around and discussed the pieces of ancient history they had un-iced. Someone had even produced a curiously shaped bottle with the mysterious phrase or word, they couldn’t agree which, written stylistically across its middle in letters from the Latin alphabet. ‘Coca-Cola®’, it read. What the word-phrase meant and what was once contained by the small and shapely bottle was unknown, would never be known. The little ‘R’ in a circle that followed the word-phrase suggested a connection with the small house gods that were occasionally found amongst the melting ice at the foot of glaciers. The house gods were usually in the form of animals holding what could be sports equipment or weapons, no one was sure which. They too had word-phrases like ‘McDonalds’ or ‘KFC’ or ‘Burger King’ followed by the little ‘R’ in a circle, so most of their group thought there might be a connection with the bottle.

  One cold, wet afternoon, as he sat alone, huddled in front of the campsite’s poorly made fire, Reginald was approached by an elephant too young to be a fellow university student. He recalled seeing her in the kitchen tent but hadn’t thought to introduce himself.

  ‘I made you these,’ she said, blushing. She pushed towards him thick woollen leggings and a scarf. They had been knitted from raw sheep’s wool and he could smell the lanoline.

  Reginald was caught by surprise. He had been contemplating the best excuse for having to return to Twin Rivers early and had not heard her approach. ‘Ah, thank you,’ he said, reaching out to take the gift.

  When his trunk brushed hers, the younger elephant turned and scurried away without another word. He sat there holding the gift for a few minutes looking in the direction she had gone. She was rather plain, but not in an overly unattractive way. She had an intelligent forehead and her ears tended to curl up slightly at the ends—a sign of having come from a good family, if you believed in such things. The tip of her trunk was soft pink and he felt a tingle as their trunks touched, like it meant more than just the giving and receiving of a gift. Could it be that she liked him in the way a cow elephant liked a bull elephant? What could she possibly see in cold and miserable him?

  The following day he returned later and in the company of some of the other students. The leggings and scarf he’d been given, though unskilfully made, were wonderfully warm and he was able to stay out much longer. He was in good spirits when he arrived back at camp and immediately went in search of Marjorie, the female elephant’s name. That morning he had discretely asked around, learning her name and her connection with the expedition. She was the younger sister of one of his classmates and had come as a volunteer to help in the kitchen. Reginald wanted to thank her for the gift. Strangely, Marjorie was nowhere to be found. Others had said they had seen her in this place or that but when Reginald looked, she wasn’t there.

  That night, with a chill wind howling off the glaciers and pummelling the campsite with icy fists, Reginald contrived to be the last to leave the dining tent following dinner. He had hoped to speak with Marjorie as she cleared away the half-finished barrels of hot-chocolate and swept up the barley and oats from under the feed troughs that ran the length of the tent. He could help her and perhaps learn a bit about her background and interests. But she had not appeared.

  Reginald learned that Marjorie’s brother was heading upstream with some of the others. He was a third-year student and the most successful finder of artefacts to date. Reginald caught up with him at the creek that ran beside the campsite just below a naturally-formed rock pool heated by a lone Heat Tree – more like a coral than a tree, red hot in any weather, a mystery that made life possible in the frozen lands lying between glaciers in the North and the Gulf of Mexico in the South. Three others of his party held lanterns in their trunks, which bobbed about like giddy fireflies in the gusty breeze.

  ‘Care to join us, Reginald?’ Marjorie’s brother asked. He was going to swim at the waterhole and so wore a fluffy blue towel around his neck.

  ‘Ah, thanks, I will,’ said Reginald. ‘But I was just wondering where your sister is tonight?’ He tried and failed to sound only casually interested.

  ‘Marjorie? Oh, I believe the official explanation is that she’s not feeling well.’

  ‘Official?’ asked Reginald, puzzled. ‘Not well?’ he mumbled.

  ‘Nice leggings and scarf, Reginald. New, are they?’ asked Marjorie’s brother, changing topic with an innocent smile. ‘They look warm. Someone would have spent days making those, don’t you think? Someone who I didn’t even know could knit. Now why would someone do that do you think?’

  Reginald could hear the others sniggering, as if they were privy to a private joke. The darkness would prevent them seeing his reddening cheeks. ‘She’s not unwell is she?’ he blurted out.

  ‘There are some kinds of sickness for which there is no known cure,’ the brother replied mysteriously. The sniggering of the others became outright laughter.

  Ahead of them, Reginald could see the eerie glow of the Heat Tree. Like all Heat Trees it was white hot at the base of its trunk fading to pale pink in its branches, which vanished to black at the tips. In the dark, Heat Trees always reminded Reginald of coals glowing in the fire. Nothing was known of their lifecycle but they were very old and it was believed that their impossibly long roots brought up heat from deep under the ground.

  It was growing warmer as they approached and he could hear the wind whistling in the tree’s branches and the sound of splashing and trumpeting from students already swimming at the waterhole below. ‘Do you think I could see her tomorrow?’ asked Reginald. His interest in Marjorie was clearly well known so there was no longer any point in trying to hide it.

  ‘That’ll be entirely up to her, Reggie. For my part, and speaking strictly as her older brother you understand, and because you seem like a decent sort of chap, I won’t stand in the way of true love lest I myself am felled by a barrage of cupid’s irresistible arrows.’ Marjorie’s brother majored in the classics.

  They had reached the edge of the waterhole. There was so much splashing and trunk-squirting that Reginald was surprised there was any water left.

  ‘Last one in’s a…’ was all Marjorie’s brother could shout before two of the others pushed him in, fluffy blue towel and all. The tidal wave of warm water raced up the rocky bank and wet Reginald’s new woollen leggings.

  The next morning Reginald rose early, ate a quick breakfast with the keener students and left for the diggings without laying eyes on Marjorie. He was determined to find an artefact worthy of impressing her and his instructors. The day was clear and full of promis
e.

  The tragedy that was to change Reginald’s life forever occurred just after midday.

  He had climbed high up the ice escarpment on a broken section of the glacial wall. It was virgin territory, higher than many others dared to climb. No one would have explored the area yet and he hoped to find something interesting he could safely remove. There had been many finds on the escarpment through the years. It was believed that locked within its frozen heart was an entire ancient city dating back to the Machine Age. As the world slowly warmed and the glaciers slid into the long Heat Tree reef skirting the Northern Escarpment they disgorged ancient treasures and revealed clues about what the world was like before the ice age began.

  Like the other students, Reginald had been trained on how to safely remove artefacts from the ice. He knew, for example, that if he was exploring an uncharted area he should pair up with another student. They would both wear harnesses tied together with strong rope. It would slow things down but in the event of a fall, the mass and sure-footing of one elephant could save the life of the other. He also knew that when climbing, he must ensure no one was below. This would keep lower groups out of the path of a possible ice avalanche caused by any excavations above. A herd of elephants could easily cause a major collapse so exploration intentions were always agreed in advance and communicated to everyone at the beginning of each day.

  On the day of the terrible tragedy, Reginald was in a hurry to begin. The pale pink light of dawn was only beginning to touch the feathery morning clouds. He hadn’t clearly worked out where he would be exploring nor had he learned where others would be. He and a few of the more eager students arrived before any of the instructors did. They had split up, each eagerly going their separate ways and telling no one where they intended to go.

  Throughout the morning, Reginald had fossicked along established trails cut into the escarpment as he looked for fresh ice falls. He had wandered far, steadily rising, when he came to an area that seemed untouched. A huge chunk of ice peppered with rock had split from the main body of the glacier revealing enticing artefact-like shadows beneath. He looked over the edge of the trail and was surprised to see how high he had climbed. The still, clear air was refreshingly cool. From here he could make out the waterhole watched over by the lone Heat Tree and beyond that the campsite where he and Marjorie had first met. He wondered what Marjorie was doing and whether she was also thinking of him. He saw a small herd of students meandering along the stony trail leading to the foot of the glacier. They had probably slept in after last night’s pool party. From this height they looked more like fieldmice than elephants.

  Reginald carefully probed the tilting surface beyond the path. It seemed stable enough to support his weight. He looked intently into the shadowy ice beyond. It was tantalisingly close but he knew it would be dangerous to attempt an approach without a harness. Should he go back and find a harness partner? Should he report the find and notify everyone one of where he intended to work? He thought of how impressed everyone would be if he came back with an artefact that would unlock the mysteries of the past in some unprecedented way. He thought of his parents glowing with pride; of Marjorie adoring and impressed. And so, despite the logical part of mind urging caution he stepped out.

  Reginald realised his mistake almost immediately and jumped back to the safety of the path. He watched in horror as an enormous chunk of ice and rock began to slowly separate from the top of the glacier. It slid with majestic greatness in a halo of rock and ice fragments, each larger than a house. Everything seemed to fall in slow motion; the noise deafening, the terror unimaginable. The path shook him to his knees, a big crack opening up behind. He was sure these were his final moments of life. Snow, rock and ice showered down, pummelling and bruising him. Something hit the side of his head smashing into his eye then everything went white.

   

  Reginald was the last survivor and one of the few to be rescued from the escarpment. As they slowly descended, his rescuers congratulated him on being smart enough to be above the fall. Thirty-eight of his fellow students had been caught in the path of the avalanche. Thirty-eight were buried by thousands of tons of fallen rock and ice. Thirty-eight were missing, presumed dead. The list of dead included Marjorie’s own brother.

  He had spent two days at the campsite’s makeshift hospital tent recovering from the blow to his head before confessing it was he who had caused the avalanche. He stood humbly and pitifully before his instructors and others who had joined the dangerous search and rescue effort. As he told them what he had done he fell to his knees, great tears of contrition rolling down his cheeks to the frozen dirt floor. Some were angry: ears flaring, tusks scything, eyes enraged. Others shook their heads in disbelieve at his impetuousness, vanity and stupidity. Others just wept for him and for themselves and the ones they’d lost. Reginald wanted to die, wished he had died instead of his thirty-eight classmates. He wanted to be punished, hated, reviled, excommunicated, denounced; anything but forgiven. What he had done was unforgivable and he knew he would carry it with him for the rest of his life.

  Then Marjorie stepped forward, crossed the dirt floor and faced Reginald. Everyone fell quiet. They knew she had lost her brother in the avalanche. Reginald was wallowing so deeply in his own misery that at first he didn’t noticed her so Marjorie reached out and wiped away his tears with the soft, pink tip of her trunk. Her deep and gentle eyes were brimming with sadness and her voice was unsteady when she turned and spoke to the gathering.

  ‘All elephants live with the curse of curiosity,’ she said with quavering voice, tears brimming in her gentle eyes. ‘It is both the strength and the weakness of our House. Aren’t we all here because we want to know, to understand? Aren’t we daily risking our lives to know? It is elephant-nature that we need to know. What happened was an accident…’ Her voice failed and she shook with sobbing. Someone approached but she waved them away and continued bravely. ‘What happened was a random event, blind chance, a natural occurrence; nothing more. Reginald has no need of our forgiveness for his part in this tragedy. His natural and highly prized curiously simply got the better of him.’ She looked fondly down at Reginald who turned away darkly, hardly hearing. ‘He risked all to learn, as do we all. He needs our comfort and support, not our anger and condemnation. For the rest of his life he will live with the greater burden of sadness for we have lost but has caused loss. Let us instead weep for those…, for my lovely brother…’ Unable to continue, Marjorie fell to her knees beside Reginald and wept, their trunks entangled.

  No more survivors were pulled from the ice, no more bodies recovered. There were further collapses along the ice escarpment in the days that followed so the search and rescue effort was soon suspended then cancelled. Days later the camp was packed up and the entire party began the long, sad march back to Twin Rivers. The glacier was never reopened to archaeological exploration. It was considered too dangerous.

  In Twin Rivers, Reginald had the number thirty-eight tattooed onto his proboscis; the tender tip of his trunk. Despite the procedure being excruciatingly painful he refused all sedatives offered. Every time he reached out, he was determined to remember the thirty-eight lives he had cut short by reaching too far, by being too curious, by being too proud. Marjorie wept when she saw what he had done, but said nothing. She stood by him silently as he grieved.

  Two years later, Reginald and Marjorie were married. Her parents accepted Reginald in place of the son they had lost.

  His and Marjorie’s resettlement in Port Isabel and all the subsequent years that had tumbled by as teacher, museum curator and even a short stint as a town councillor had not diminished the deep and slow sadness the tragedy had indelible wrought on his big heart.