The Elephant Keeper's Daughter Read online

  Charles spun on his heel and went to the door. “Untie him,” he ordered the guards. “Take him outside and sit him at the table. But stay with him. I don’t want him to move an inch.”

  After they had freed Henry’s hands and feet, they led him to the veranda and pushed him down onto the remaining seat, next to his brother. Charles picked up the silver teapot and poured. “Nothing beats a good afternoon tea, eh? I do so hate missing it.”

  Henry’s jaw tightened but he stayed silent. He looked at the empty clearing and racked his brains for how to stop his brother carrying out these executions. Nothing came to mind. His mind felt hollow.

  Since becoming an army doctor, he had learned only too well the bloodiness of war. And yet the barbarity he had experienced here today shook every fiber of his being. His own brother seemed to have lost all humanity. He was taking a frenzied revenge not only on the rebels but also on the elderly and sick, on women and children. What was even worse for Henry was seeing how much satisfaction Charles got from causing suffering.

  A troop of soldiers approached, bringing with them the two surviving rebel leaders. Deepal seemed detached, as if he had already finished with life, while Jeeva held his head high. The long look he gave Charles and Henry was both proud and candid. It told them he knew what was coming, but he would not surrender his dignity.

  Charles helped himself to a sandwich and, chewing, considered Jeeva. “You won’t be looking so haughty for much longer, elephant keeper. Bring his wife!”

  A soldier came, hauling Anshu with him. Her torn nightdress made only a crude covering for her nakedness. Henry could see how much pain walking caused her. He had not witnessed it, but he knew that she, like all the other women, had been raped.

  “She’s in pain,” he said to Charles. “I’d like to give her some laudanum.” He started to his feet, but his guard pushed him back down.

  “A bit of bellyache will teach her never to rebel against our rule again,” declared Charles.

  Henry was so furious, he considered pushing the soldier aside. But he held himself in check. His brother had already shown him who had the upper hand.

  Charles finished his sandwich and carefully wiped his hands on his napkin.

  “That one first.” He pointed at Deepal.

  The man, once a distinguished royal minister, now stumbled in front of the veranda, his back bent. He seemed not to notice when a soldier forced him to kneel, pulled back his long, disheveled hair, and cut it off with a knife.

  “Very unimpressive,” commented Charles and got to his feet. “Deepal Sirisena, I condemn you to death by beheading for high treason.”

  He beckoned to the corporal. “Carry out your duty.”

  The man positioned himself behind Deepal at the perfect angle. Within seconds, his saber made contact with Deepal’s neck. There was an audible crunch as his head separated from his body.

  After Deepal’s corpse and head had been removed, Charles gave the order for Jeeva to be brought over. Jeeva, however, shook off the soldiers and turned to Anshu.

  “Lives come and go,” said Jeeva wistfully. “I would so much have loved more time with you in the bosom of our family, but my time has come. Don’t grieve for me, for I am fortunate. The end of this life only brings me closer to eternal release.”

  Anshu nodded and placed her right hand on her heart.

  Then the soldiers forced Jeeva in front of the veranda.

  He and Charles shared a long look, but Charles lowered his eyes first. He swiftly masked this moment of defeat with an exaggerated announcement of Jeeva’s sentence.

  Henry translated, and Jeeva replied calmly. “As sure as a stone thrown into the air falls back to earth, so I shall meet the Buddha. He will release me.”

  Henry hid a sad smile.

  “Arrogant rogue!” shouted Charles. “Tell him we’ll do exactly to him what he did to Wilson.”

  “Do I do your dirty work, then?” Henry yelled back at him.

  Charles looked at him with fury, but Jeeva spoke again.

  “He is asking for a bowl of water,” Henry explained.

  When Charles laughed, Henry added, “If you won’t do this for him, I will. And you won’t stop me.”

  With the worst grace possible, Charles conceded. A soldier brought a bowl of water and placed it in front of Jeeva. Another soldier loosened the rope around his wrists. Jeeva knelt before the bowl and moistened his hands and face. Then he wound his shoulder-length hair into a bun.

  When the corporal stepped behind him and drew his saber, Jeeva’s fingers closed around the ivory elephant figurine Vikrama Rajasinha had given him at their final meeting.

  Even if this life is now ending and I must leave behind the people I love, I have still done as you bid me, my king.

  Behind him the serene voice of his wife began reciting the holy texts of the Enlightened One. He breathed deeply, closed his eyes, and let the words and his wife’s voice carry him to the other world.

  Henry was listening with equal concentration. He could not understand Pali, the sacred language of Buddhism, but he sensed the significance of Anshu’s words.

  With a hiss, the saber sliced through the air again. A split second before the blade met Jeeva, he shouted, “Perfect savior, accept me!”

  Blood sprayed from the torso as Jeeva’s head fell to the ground. From under the veranda came a cry so harrowing that everyone in the clearing shrank in alarm.

  Phera had overheard her father taking his farewell of her mother. But her brain had refused to let her understand what was being said.

  Now she was faced with her father’s staring eyes, his distorted face, his half-open mouth, his blood flowing still at the neck. Her heart broke into a thousand pieces, and she heard herself scream as if at a great remove.

  Charles and Henry sprang to their feet simultaneously. Henry knew instantly that the sound came from the creature crouched beneath the veranda. But before he could act, Charles had thrown aside his chair, drawn his reserve pistol, and fired straight through the wooden floor. Splintered wood flew up into the air.

  Something shot out from under the veranda, a howling creature covered in mud, and raced across the clearing. The rebel leader’s widow screamed her heart out and reached toward the creature as it fled. But it rushed on to the jungle.

  Charles felt for his holster, then remembered both pistols were now empty. He was annoyed with himself for not reloading after shooting the Sinhalese girl’s husband in the head.

  “Your gun!” he barked at one of the soldiers guarding Henry. Before the man could even draw his pistol, Henry had seized the gun himself. He pressed the barrel against Charles’s forehead for all to see.

  “Anyone fires a shot, he dies.” There was a distinct click as he cocked the gun.

  Phera spent the whole night and the following morning huddled on the bank of the Badulu Oya, staring in a trance at the fast-flowing brown water.

  Three years ago she had waited for her father in the same spot, tucked between the thick roots that fanned out beneath the old fig tree. Back then she had hoped against hope that he and Siddhi would return unscathed from Senkadagala. Now her father was dead.

  At dawn the British trumpets had sounded. Soon afterward the soldiers had moved off, leaving behind them the devastated village and its few survivors. Since then a ghostly silence had reigned. And yet Phera did not go back. She was too afraid of what she would find.

  On the other side of the river, there was a sudden crackling and rustling in the undergrowth. She jumped up and hid behind the fig tree. This time it was not the British coming out of the jungle, but Siddhi, with Eranga on her back.

  “Over here!” Phera called, waving both arms wildly.

  Siddhi flapped her ears in excitement and waded into the water. Eranga raised his hand in greeting. Stacked high behind him on Siddhi’s strong back were sacks of rice and a small wooden munitions crate.

  “Young mistress! Are you well?” As soon as Siddhi’s front feet were on the sa
ndy bank, Eranga slid down off her back and stood before Phera, wide-eyed. The girl was filthy. Tears had left tracks down her mud-covered cheeks.

  “Oh, Eranga!” Phera buried her face in her hands and broke into desperate sobs.

  Eranga knew better than to touch a member of a higher caste, but at that moment she was simply a young girl in need of his comfort. He pushed propriety aside and wrapped his arms around her. “I’m here, I’m here,” he murmured, stroking her back. “Stay calm, young mistress, and tell me what has happened.”

  In a faltering voice, she described the events. Eranga listened in horror. His master, Jeeva, and all the men he had fought alongside against the British were dead, and a whole village razed to the ground.

  “I had feared they would take revenge,” he said. “I came back as quickly as I could to warn you all, but I’m too late. The British have killed Keppetipola, too.”

  “What?” Phera pulled away and gaped at him.

  The mahout searched for the right words. “The British took him prisoner near our old royal city, Anuradhapura, and executed him.”

  “But Anuradhapura is far away in the north, and Keppetipola was in Badulla with King Wilbawe!”

  Eranga looked at Phera with sad eyes. “Everything I’m telling you I heard in Senkadagala, and it is true. Brownrigg’s men are all over Uva Province. Using cannons, they took Badulla. Keppetipola managed to flee, but they caught him at Anuradhapura.”

  “I hate the British! I will never forgive what they have done to my people and family!” Phera was shouting now. “Why don’t they just go away and leave us in peace?”

  “Let’s go to the village, young mistress,” said Eranga. “We can accompany the dead to the other world.”

  Siddhi grew more and more agitated the nearer to the house they came. The smell of fire, death, and decay frightened her, and Phera and Eranga had to use all their persuasive skills to stop her running back into the jungle.

  As Eranga entered the clearing and saw the men still hanging from the Bodhi tree, he snarled, “We should have killed every single one of them in Uva Ravine.”

  Two boys were standing under the tree, throwing clods of earth at the birds trying to peck at the corpses. Eranga’s eyes ranged over the ruined village and fields, and he shook his head in rage and disbelief.

  “It’s good you’ve brought some rice,” said Phera, “or anyone who survived would starve. They set fire to all the reserves, too.”

  A few women were dragging the corpses to a spot in front of the manor house, where dozens of dead had already been lined up. Other women had fetched white towels from the house and used them to cover the dead. The few children who’d survived scattered flowers they had picked at the forest’s edge, and an old woman distributed palm-oil lights and bowls full of fragrant herbs. Some other older women had torn white towels into narrow strips and were tying them tightly to the veranda railing and to low-growing bushes.

  Phera watched two women carrying brushwood to the funeral pyres in the middle of the clearing. Her face lit up. “Mama! Samitha!”

  With cries of joy, the two women let go of their bundles as Phera rushed to them and fell into their arms.

  “You’re alive!” gasped Phera, kissing her mother and her sister. Then she took a good look at Samitha. A purple bruise ran from her left temple all the way to her eye. The eye itself was bloodshot; her cheekbones looked red and sore. Her throat and neck were covered in ugly brown marks.

  “Was it the commander?” asked Phera. “I hid under the veranda and heard his voice.”

  Samitha’s face darkened at the mention of the man who had tortured her for hours on end. He had beaten her, kicked her, and choked her so hard, she had lost consciousness more than once. And he had raped her, not only with his penis but also with his pistol. Yet she had never been defeated. She had buried the monstrous pain and absolute terror deep in her soul and sworn she would survive.

  “Don’t worry about me, dear little sister,” she said to Phera. “My body will heal, and he didn’t get my soul.”

  In reality, the stabbing pains and burning around her womb made every movement agonizing. She bravely ignored it and refused to let anything distract her from her memories of her husband, her father, and all the others who had been murdered.

  “Where is Mihiri?” asked Phera.

  Samitha said nothing and looked at her feet. Anshu took her youngest daughter by the hand and led her to the place where the corpses lay. She stopped by one body, bent down, and pulled the white cloth to one side.

  Phera gasped. Anshu put her arm around her and drew her close. “Your poor sister endured the most unspeakable torment. Her body was broken, but her spirit remains in the world on the other side. Your father is there, too, and Kalani.”

  Anshu gestured toward a shrouded corpse to the right of Mihiri. Phera fell to her knees, drew back the cloth, and gazed dumbly at the face of the faithful servant who had so lovingly been at her side from the moment of her birth.

  Her voice trembling, she recited the words of the Buddha: “May you now be happy, free of sorrow, and remain in perfect peace.” She covered Kalani again and stood up. “Where is my father?”

  Anshu led her to a body near the end of the line. Eranga followed them.

  Together the three looked down at the shrouded corpse. It clearly had been decapitated.

  Phera struggled to stay on her feet.

  “The British took his head with them,” said Anshu. “His, and the heads of Psindu, Upali, Deepal, and Tharindu.”

  “They beheaded them even after they were dead?” cried Phera. “Oh, if only Keppetipola was still alive, he’d take revenge for all of them.”

  “What do you mean?” Anshu seized her daughter by the arm.

  “It’s true,” Eranga broke in. “Keppetipola is dead.” He repeated to Anshu what he had told Phera.

  “My father may be dead, and Tharindu, Keppetipola, and all the others, but the fight goes on for our people!” Phera clenched her fists. “The British will pay the price for everything they’ve done to us. We’ll drive them out of Kanda Uda Pas Rata.”

  But Eranga shook his head. “The British have taken Badulla. Our king has fled with Mahinda, the monk. Nobody knows where they are. They even had to leave the Sacred Tooth behind.”

  “The Sacred Tooth of the Enlightened One? In the hands of the British?” Phera was appalled.

  “That’s what people in Senkadagala are saying.”

  “If the British have the Sacred Tooth, that makes them rightful rulers of Kanda Uda Pas Rata,” said Anshu.

  “Never,” raged Phera. “I will never serve this evil!”

  “You will have to, young mistress,” Eranga said. “I heard in Senkadagala that they’ve brought troops from India. Their military is flooding our country. And haven’t you yourself seen what they do to us if we don’t submit?”

  Phera bit her lower lip and said nothing, but defiance still shone in her eyes.

  “I keep wondering how the British found out where we were,” Anshu murmured.

  “I can tell you that, too, mistress.” Eranga reached inside his sleeve for some crumpled papers.

  “That’s my dear husband!” Stunned, she looked at the drawing. The other papers bore portraits of Psindu and Upali. Then she read the Sinhalese text under each picture and went pale. “The British offered money for our men?”

  “These notices are all over the city. The British call them ‘wanted’ posters,” Eranga went on. “I took some of them down to show them to my master and warn him. But I was too late.”

  “Are you saying someone gave away our hiding place?” asked Anshu.

  “The British couldn’t have found it otherwise,” replied Eranga.

  Anshu swallowed hard. “So it must have been one of our own.”

  “Every man has his price,” said the mahout. “There was a large sum on my master’s head and the others’ heads, too. We may never know who did it.”

  With so many dead and so
few survivors, it took until evening to prepare for the traditional burning of corpses. Phera worked with Anshu and Samitha to gather wood and build the funeral pyres. Eranga recovered the bodies of the twenty hanged men. To do this, he led Siddhi to stand beneath the Bodhi tree, climbed on her back, and cut them down, one by one. The troubled elephant’s ears, trunk, and tail twitched constantly, and she kept her friend in sight the whole time.

  During the night, the living sat by the dead and kept watch. The smoky fragrance rising from bowls of burning herbs tempered the foul smell of death. As no monks were present, it was Anshu who sang the verses from sacred texts to accompany the dead as they crossed into the other world.

  Early the following morning, the funeral pyres were lit and the dead burnt. After Anshu, Samitha, and Phera had carried Jeeva’s body to the flames, Eranga asked Anshu, “And what will you do now, my mistress?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied flatly. “It was my husband who guided the family destiny. He was our protector. Now we have nothing left. No caste, no possessions, no home.”

  Phera held her head high. During the night of the vigil, she had decided that fear and tears achieved nothing. Her father was no longer there, but he had raised her as a boy for the first twelve years of her existence. From now on, she had to be strong and protect her mother and Samitha.

  “I will not allow us to live like outcasts, begging every day for a handful of rice,” declared Phera. “We’re going to leave this place and create a new home for ourselves. I will lead us.”

  “How can you possibly manage that?” Anshu looked despairing. “You’re still practically a child, and a girl at that.”

  “I’m not a child now. And I am no ordinary girl.” Phera planted her hands on her hips. “Eranga, I’d like you to come with us. You can carry on teaching me knife combat and all the other ways of fighting you know. No other member of my family will ever be murdered by an Englishman.”

  “I am honored, young mistress.” Eranga gave a little bow of the head. “If you will permit me to make one suggestion.”

  He looked from Anshu to Samitha and Phera before going on. “My home village, Mapitigama, is south of Senkadagala, near the Kadugannawa Pass. Before the British came, it was a thriving place with plenty of rice terraces. For generations, the men of my family have been the village leaders. What it’s like there now, I don’t know—” His voice faded for a moment, but he quickly composed himself and carried on. “In Mapitigama, there is a place for you, Mistress Anshu, and for your daughters. If you wish to come with me, of course.”