I dreamt an entire short story based on the poem Karl I by Heinrich Heine and possibly Rise of the Planet of the Apes
The poem imagines Charles the First rocking the cradle of a peasant child in a charcoal burner’s hut in the forest, gloomily prophesying his coming death at the hands of the proletariat.
For some reason my brain made this into a story about a scientist accidentally teaching a chimp about the concept of God, and sparking a spirit of revolution.
I’ve written it up as I dreamt it.
What Rustles In The Straw?
Karl Konig sat, alone and preoccupied, in the Animal Cognition Centre at Wald Laboratories. The high tech but cramped room was commonly known to the staff as the Cola Hut after its star resident, Cola: a juvenile chimpanzee of unusual intelligence.
To say that Karl was alone isn’t entirely accurate
Cola was half asleep in her enclosure, groggy after an emergency sedative.
Aya and Popeye, the macaque sisters whose cognitive ability seemed largely devoted to larceny, were busily burying their latest prize under their straw bedding.
It was usually pens, filched from scientists’ pockets.
Karl wasn’t about to get dung thrown at him for investigating. They weren’t doing any harm, and after all, for all he knew, they were scribbling out the complete works of Shakespeare under there.
It was Cola who troubled him. As a baby chimp, her amazing skills as regards shape and colour sorting, big soulful brown eyes (which gave her her name, and the lab some lucrative soft drink sponsorship) and adorable antics on camera had made her a viral internet sensation. She and Karl had already been popular guests on several day time television shows.
She’d climbed ingratiatingly into Holly Willoughby’s arms and cuddled her protectively, bringing the house down by sticking her tongue out at Philip Schofield as much as to say: “YOU’RE not my daddy!”
Phil had been delighted.
Karl had written quite a successful article about the incident, positing Cola’s antics as both self aware, and, if anything, a nuanced performance of human child behaviour. She’d been notably unchimplike, even for a domesticated juvenile. Karl theorised that Cola, somehow, knew both when she was on camera and what humans considered “cute”.
He was widely mocked in academic circles for this rank anthropomorphism, but the article was the most widely shared post on Facebook for over a week, and Cola had received more fan mail and gifts than Wald Labs could store. They’d sent the thousands of toys to homeless shelters, day centres, and schools with “love from Cola” notes in the end. It had done the company no harm at all PR wise.
Karl, feeling stung by the snide comments of his peers, had immediately set about teaching Cola sign language. If he could prove Cola’s superior cognitive ability and, what could you call it, advanced PR skills? Well, perhaps he could claw back his academic respectability and do some more TV shows. Karl rather enjoyed being a celebrity. Ellen Degeneres’ people had been in touch. First class flights to LA, a five star hotel, (and appropriate lodgings at Los Angeles Zoo for Cola, of course). It had all sounded quite appealing at the time.
Then Cola had started to speak her mind.
Her first question, once the basics of syntax and vocabulary had been established, had been a shock:
God: Who is?
An internet site had featured a video of Cola deep in thought, considering a puzzle that would earn her a rare treat of strawberries. Cola had a habit of clasping her hands when considering a problem, in this case arranging blocks to continue a pattern. And the big eyes, clasped hands, and half finished puzzle happening to form a cross shape had given a saccharine impression of a child saying grace before eating.
Cola had been dubbed “God’s baby angel” and now had a vocal following among various church communities.
Carl had read several of Cola’s fan letters to her, and God came up rather a lot.
He’d tried saying that God was…
A big, good person: look after humans. Tell them be good. love them.
Karl look after Cola, say “be good!”
Yes, but Karl not God. Can’t see God.
God human?
God… look like human, bigger.
This had elicited screaming and Karl had sustained a bruised forehead from a flying block. Cola did not appreciate a paradox.
God: Can’t see. God look like who? Stupid! Stupid Karl!
The next day, Cola didn’t want to talk about anything else. clearly, religion had been on her mind.
Cola. Finish pattern. Green or blue?
No puzzle. Karl talk Cola. Humans live where? with God?”
Humans live houses. many humans
Cola live hut. Here. Karl come. Where go away? house?
Yes, Karl live house. Come here, see Cola.
God live Karl house?
Karl wasn’t entirely atheist, but hadn’t been to church in years. Could he say that God was with him? and would he risk another wooden block to the head if he did?
He decided to hedge his bets with
Maybe.
Karl can’t see God. Don’t know.
Yes.
Karl want big human. bring strawberry. say yes, good Karl.
Well….
Then Cola had put forth her theological treatise.
Human sad. Human want big friend bring strawberry. Play. God human playing.
Play was Cola’s somewhat disparaging term for the “make believe” games they’d tried with her early on. toy animals baffled her. Toy fruit enraged her. Once a magazine has come to do a feature on Cola. They’d made her a little white coat and a notebook, and dressed her up for a photoshoot. Karl’s assistant Olu had said “Oh look, it’s Little Karl!” and Cola had given her a look of withering scorn, removed the coat, promptly defecated on it, and had refused to have anything further to do with the journalist.
“Play” had since become her word for “lying” or “deceit”.
The L.A. trip was imminent.
And he’d taught the star attraction to express her opinions. He’d hoped she’d say something cute and funny to Ellen and make his name as the world’s leading animal behaviour expert. Instead he’d be taking a mini Richard Dawkins and putting her on the air in bloody America.
He’d decided a distraction was needed. He’d just give Cola something else to talk about. The less she said about humans on air the better. Maybe other animals would help. A kitten, perhaps. That’d go over well.
He’d started bringing Aya and Popeye into his sessions with Cola. Popeye had been named for her unusual predeliction for spinach, considered a “low value” treat intended to provoke jealousy if the other subject was given fruit. Popeye, then called Papaya, had had her own internet moment a few weeks ago by refusing the offer of grapes, gleefully eating all the spinach and then, in a show of strength, dragging her protesting sister away from the grapes. She didn’t want them, but she still didn’t see why Aya should get a treat.
Then she’d stolen another pen and retreated into the enclosure, chittering in, it has to be said, a very Popeye-like manner.
The internet loved her almost as much as Cola, but she couldn’t be relied on to behave for someone like Ellen Degeneres.
Then again, in this mood, could Cola?
Cola has been interested in the two macaques, but was obviously frustrated by their poor communication abilities.
Why Aya, Popeye not talk?
Aya, Popeye, not know talk. Not hand talk, not mouth talk.
Why?
Only humans know talk. Monkeys, no. Animals, no
Cola. Cola animal? Monkey? Cola talk. Monkey talk.
Cola special. Special monkey.
(not biologically accurate but Karl’s BSL didnt stretch to advanced simian taxonomy)
Cola had thought about this for a minute
God, big special human?
Karl didn’t like where this was going.
Cola. Big special monkey.
Right…
Cola had then taken one of her precious strawberries, a bribe for gentle behaviour with the smaller animals, and given it to Aya.
Good Aya.
She had then fetched poor Popeye a ringing clip round the ear.
Bad Popeye.
Then she had looked Karl square in the face and signed, in what could only be described as a sarcastic manner.
Cola play human Karl god.
Their relationship had deteriorated after that.
Cola had found out about hierarchies and she wasn’t impressed. She’d refused all activities, signing angrily.
Big Karl, live big house, eat strawberry. (Strawberry had become Cola’s ultimate symbol of decadence, clearly)
Come tell Cola good, Cola bad. Stupid God. Stupid Karl.
Then she’d thrown another brick at him and launched herself at his face, teeth bared. The lab tech had rushed had to sedate Cola, but not before she’d drawn blood.
The L.A. trip was in two days’ time. Karl was going to look a mess on camera.
The kitten Karl had considered introducing to Cola live on set: a clever reference, he’d thought, to Koko the gorilla, would have to be scrapped. For all he knew Cola would decide to visit her divine wrath on the poor thing. He wasn’t convinced she wouldn’t use her new platform to overthrow his own reign. He’d have to make sure there weren’t any sharp objects handy. Cola was getting quite strong.
And after all, she could do enough damage to him with her newly acquired words.
“Cola”, sighed Karl, stroking her sleeping form,
“You’ll be the death of me.”
Original poem and translation
(eiapopeia is like a thing you say to babies like “Hushabye”.)
Im Wald, in der Köhlerhütte, sitzt
Trübsinnig allein der König;
Er sitzt an der Wiege des Köhlerkinds
Und wiegt und singt eintönig:
»Eiapopeia, was raschelt im Stroh?
Es blöken im Stalle die Schafe –
Du trägst das Zeichen an der Stirn
Und lächelst so furchtbar im Schlafe.
Eiapopeia, das Kätzchen ist tot –
Du trägst auf der Stirne das Zeichen –
Du wirst ein Mann und schwingst das Beil,
Schon zittern im Walde die Eichen.
Der alte Köhlerglaube verschwand,
Es glauben die Köhlerkinder –
Eiapopeia – nicht mehr an Gott,
Und an den König noch minder.
Das Kätzchen ist tot, die Mäuschen sind froh –
Wir müssen zuschanden werden –
Eiapopeia – im Himmel der Gott
Und ich, der König auf Erden.
Mein Mut erlischt, mein Herz ist krank,
Und täglich wird es kränker –
Eiapopeia – du Köhlerkind,
Ich weiß es, du bist mein Henker.
Mein Todesgesang ist dein Wiegenlied –
Eiapopeia – die greisen
Haarlocken schneidest du ab zuvor –
Im Nacken klirrt mir das Eisen.
Eiapopeia, was raschelt im Stroh?
Du hast das Reich erworben,
Und schlägst mir das Haupt vom Rumpf herab –
Das Kätzchen ist gestorben.
Eiapopeia, was raschelt im Stroh?
Es blöken im Stalle die Schafe.
Das Kätzchen ist tot die Mäuschen sind froh –
Schlafe, mein Henkerchen, schlafe!«
In the forest, in the charcoal hut, sits
Dejected alone the king;
He sits at the cradle of the charcoal burner’s child
And rocks and sings monotonously:
“Eiapopeia, what’s rustling in the straw?
The sheep are bleating in the stable –
You wear the mark on your forehead
And you smile so terribly in your sleep.
Eiapopeia, the kitten is dead –
You bear the sign on your forehead –
You become a man and swing the hatchet
The oaks are already trembling in the forest.
The old charcoal burner belief disappeared,
The Köhler children believe –
Eiapopeia – no longer in God,
And to the king even less.
The kitten is dead, the mice are happy –
We must be put to shame –
Eiapopeia – in heaven the god
And I, the king on earth.
My courage is failing, my heart is sick,
And every day it gets sicker –
Eiapopeia – you charcoal burner child,
I know you are my executioner.
My death song is your lullaby –
Eiapopeia – the aged
You cut off locks of hair before –
The iron rattles in my neck.
Eiapopeia, what’s rustling in the straw?
you have acquired the kingdom
And slap my head off my torso –
The kitten died.
Eiapopeia, what’s rustling in the straw?
The sheep are bleating in the stable.
The kitten is dead, the mice are happy –
Sleep, my little hangman, sleep.
Tom Juniper Poetry 