Bumble Asks Too Many Questions

Bumble had questions. Many questions. Too many questions. An unreasonable number of questions for one small elephant in one large jungle.

By breakfast Bumble had asked: Why does the river go that way and not the other way? Why does the fig tree only fruit on Tuesdays? (It didn't. Bumble had miscounted. This did not reduce the question.) Why do monkeys sleep at the top and not the bottom? And: What is at the end of the jungle?

The monkeys moved to a different tree.

By lunch Bumble had asked: Why does thunder come after lightning and not before? Why does the mud smell different after rain? Why do butterflies land on flowers and never on rocks? (They sometimes land on rocks. Bumble had not seen this yet.)

The butterflies went to a different flower.

By afternoon Bumble had asked the parrot seventeen questions in a row without stopping. The parrot who could talk and usually did at considerable length looked at Bumble and flew away without saying a single word.

Even the parrot.

Bumble sat alone by the river. The river went that way and not the other way. As it always did. For reasons nobody had explained yet.

Bumble looked at the water. "Why," said Bumble, to nobody in particular, "does the water smell different today?"

Nobody answered. Because nobody was there.

Bumble smelled it again. Not the rain smell. Not the mud smell. Not the ordinary river smell of water going that way and not the other way. Something else. Sharp. Chemical. Wrong in the way that things are wrong before anyone has noticed they're wrong.

Bumble followed the smell. Upstream. Around the bend. Past the fig tree that fruited when it fruited regardless of Bumble's counting.

There. A tree. Fallen across the river. Old and rotting. Leaking something dark and thick into the water. Not poison exactly. Just — wrong. The kind of wrong that spreads slowly before anyone notices until it has spread too far to stop.

Bumble ran back.

"The water smells wrong!" said Bumble. To the monkeys. The monkeys started moving to a different tree. "Wait," said Bumble. "Upstream. Something is leaking. Something dark. Something that smells like wrong."

The oldest monkey stopped. Looked at Bumble. "Show me," said the oldest monkey.

Bumble showed them. The oldest monkey looked. Then called the others. The others came. The parrot came. The butterflies came which was unexpected but welcome. Even the river frogs came who had very strong opinions about the quality of the water and were prepared to share them.

They moved the tree. Together. All of them. The monkeys pulling. The elephant pushing. The parrot directing loudly and with great confidence about exactly where everything should go. The frogs supervised.

The tree moved. The dark leak stopped. The river went that way and not the other way as it always did — clean again cold again smelling like nothing which is exactly what water should smell like.

The oldest monkey looked at Bumble. "How did you know?" Bumble looked at the river. "I asked why it smelled different," said Bumble. "And then I went to find out."

The oldest monkey was quiet for a moment. Then: "Ask me again," said the oldest monkey. "About the river. Why it goes that way."

Bumble looked at the river. Then at the oldest monkey. Then asked.

The oldest monkey sat down. And answered. Every part.

The parrot added things. The frogs corrected details. The butterflies landed on a nearby rock which Bumble noted with considerable interest.

The jungle filled with the sound of questions being answered by animals who had stopped running away long enough to realise — questions are how you find out what's wrong before it's too late. And also how you find out why rivers go that way and not the other way. Which turns out to be a very good reason. Which Bumble immediately had four more questions about.

The monkeys stayed.