A Scientific Mind by Itto and Mekiya Outini

If anyone in Htou’s village had been familiar with the scientific method, they might’ve said she had a scientific mind. But none of them had ever heard of science, so they called her mad.

It was not uncommon in those years—the twilight years of the twentieth century, when the rest of the world was preoccupied with the collapse of Yugoslavia, the scandalous tales leaking out of the White House, and the impending threat of Y2K—for Htou’s neighbors to interrupt their chores and watch her lead their most obstinate donkeys and mules along their single unpaved road, sometimes with heavy logs lashed to their backs, which the men had felled especially for the occasion, and other times laden with great sacks of stones.

Perhaps it was a spirited commitment to the truth, as Htou sometimes let herself believe, that moved the villagers to lend her their animals and help her produce raw materials to run her experiments; but more likely it was something else. Perhaps a distant echo of those million televisions tuning in, those million viewers bearing witness to those other, greater happenings unfolding all around the globe, of which Htou’s neighbors knew nothing.

The question that had driven Htou to science, or madness, was this: what sort of animal, or which combination of animals, might a young man and his bride have used to disappear into the night without a trace, along with four divans, sixteen pillows, thirteen blankets, quilts, and comforters, six sheepskins, three plastic mats, eight sacks of wheat, corn, barley, and sugar cones, and seven boxes of dishes, in just under six hours, without waking anyone?

Had this happened to anyone else’s son, Htou might not have been driven to science, or madness, but it had happened to her own son, her one and only, her flesh and blood, her Ali, who’d married a girl from a distant town where people—a few of them, anyway—had heard of science. The bride had made no secret of her disappointment with her husband’s village, which she’d called “the middle of nowhere” despite the extravagant wedding they’d thrown. For seven days, she’d put up with the bottle-gas lights, the unlockable doors, the livestock in the guest rooms, and the overflow from the latrines, but as soon as the wedding was over and all the guests had collapsed in exhaustion, she and Ali had pulled their vanishing act, leaving everyone baffled.

What made the incident even more mysterious was that none of the villagers’ animals had gone missing.

“It must’ve been a big hawk that carried them off,” proposed one of the neighbors, who’d had this happen once or twice to her chickens. But this hypothesis had not impressed Htou.

“Have you ever seen a hawk like that?” she’d demanded. “Impossible. They must’ve used something with four legs.”

For a while, urged on by Htou, the men had asked around while trading in nearby towns, bringing back tales of creatures called camels, which carried haystack-shaped hills on their backs, and creatures called Buraqs, which could fly around the world in just a few hours, and creatures called tractors, which could plow a whole field in a day and drank bottle gas whenever they were thirsty. Htou, however, was unable to verify any of these outlandish tales, so she remained unsatisfied.

As time went on, the failed experiments, the profusion of apocryphal stories, and the neighbors’ mockery began to take their toll. Everyone remembered the days when Htou had carefully standardized her units of measurement, comparing crates of borrowed dishes to boxes of collected stones, taking one dish out or putting one stone in until identical grunts of exertion were produced each time somebody lifted them. By the turn of the century, however, her methodology was becoming more haphazard. Having exhausted every possible condition involving horses, donkeys, and mules, she began asking to borrow sheep and goats instead. She was refused, of course, but one night, under a full moon, a family awoke to ghastly screams. The man of the house rushed outside to find two of their goats lashed together with rope, their hindquarters pinned to the earth beneath heavy sacks. Their backs had been broken. Htou never confessed, of course, but no one had any doubts as to who was responsible.

After that, those who’d once indulged her started giving her a wider berth. Whenever she came knocking, asking to borrow milk or eggs, they would apologize, just having run out of whatever she needed. Meanwhile, the children were warned not to play near her home.

Htou grew ever increasingly aloof, eating less, running fewer experiments, and spending long hours lost in thought in the fields. More than once, she was seen standing near snake dens, peering into the tall grass and making strange shapes with her hands. Some said she’d taken up witchcraft. Others thought she was working up the courage to throw herself onto those venomous serpents and end her life. Still others proposed that she was calculating how many snakes one would need to lash together—and how one might go about doing it—to create a living raft with which to transport a divan.

Then came the year when Htou fell extremely ill. No one was surprised. She was an old woman, and she’d stopped taking care of herself long ago. Some brought her food, but most left her alone.

Soon the news spread to the neighboring villages, carried by traders, and from there it was passed on from town to town until it reached Hasan. Hasan was Htou’s nephew. He hadn’t seen her since his cousin’s wedding, many years ago, but he thought of her often and was dismayed to hear of her decline.

The following day, Hasan met Ali in a coffee shop. “Word on the street is that your mother’s dying,” he said. “Only God knows how many days she’s got left. Now’s the time to make things right.”

“But how can I show my face?”

“You’ve got to.”

“I can’t.” Ali shook his head miserably. “I’m too ashamed.”

“How about I bring her, then?”

“Here?”

“Why not? The doctors might even be able to help her.”

“Mimouna will never allow it,” said Ali. “How can I bring her and not even let her stay under my roof?”

“She’s your own mother, Ali. Are you the man of the house or not?”

Ali gazed dejectedly into his coffee.

“I’ll go and get her tomorrow,” said Hasan. “You sort things out with Mimouna. Leave the rest to me.”

The next day, Hasan rose early and drove for two hours, out of the city and into the mountains. When the road became impassable, he left his pickup and borrowed a donkey. It took another hour and a half to reach the village, by which time the day was very hot, and he was sweating.

“She’s been coughing up blood for some time now,” reported the neighbors. “She won’t live to see the sunset.”

“She’s got to,” said Hasan. “Come on. Help me get her on the donkey.”

“I can’t be a sack of grain,” Htou protested, pale and delirious, as they hoisted her onto the animal’s back. “I’m too light. I’m skin and bones.”

The smell coming off her was too much to bear, and the donkey’s swift canter jarred fresh clots of blood from her lungs, but Hasan, breathing through his mouth, forced himself to hold her in his arms. Everybody had abandoned this unfortunate woman, he reminded himself. Even her own son. He would not abandon her, too.

By the time they arrived at the pickup, she was too weak to sit up on her own. Instead of propping her up in the front seat, Hasan helped her into the bed, where there were blankets over corrugated steel. Then he returned the donkey to its owner, got in the truck, and started the engine.

For days, the thread connecting Htou’s body to her mind had been unspooling, allowing her consciousness to drift ever further from the known world, but the truck’s sudden lurch gave that thread an unexpected tug. She felt the crimson wetness on her lips and chin and collarbone. She smelled gas. She felt her head lolling. The truck picked up speed. Through half-closed eyes, she saw branches whipping by, the blue sky a river in flood.

“Ah,” she breathed, the revelation rattling dryly in her lungs. “So…this is how they did it.”

Then she died.