The Elephant Keeper's Daughter Page 13

  “I am Major Charles Odell of the Royal Engineers. Where is the village leader?” His tone was imperious in its arrogance.

  Nobody replied. A trace of anger flickered across Charles’s face. “Are you mute or just stupid? Haven’t you monkeys learned a little English yet?” His eyes flickered as they landed on Anshu.

  He’s recognized me, she said to herself. Her heart skipped a beat as she imagined what he would do, how he would torture her simply for being Jeeva’s widow. Then it occurred to her that the British could be after Eranga. Since the time his elder brother died, he had held the position of widan, or village leader. Maybe the British had found out about Eranga’s part in the rebellion and wanted to behead him, too.

  She winced as Odell stretched out his right arm, pointing straight at her.

  “You there, woman! Answer me!”

  She opened her mouth, but no words came.

  “Make it quick!”

  She forced herself to sound calm as she wrapped her mouth around the strange English words. “Widan in rice field.”

  “Take me to him! Now!”

  Anshu ran like a hunted animal. The horsemen followed close behind, frightening away the small, lean cows tugging at the grasses and herbs between the trees. The other women followed at a distance.

  Anshu was terrified. Samitha and Phera were in the rice fields, and she was leading the devil incarnate straight to her daughters and the unsuspecting villagers. How could she warn them of the danger? The cruelty of that man, his voice and his satisfied expression while he had tortured and murdered her compatriots, still gave her terrifying nightmares. It seemed that Odell had not recognized her, but she couldn’t be certain.

  Anshu reached a large pool, swarms of flies darting across its surface. The pool was connected by drainage channels to the rice fields on a terraced slope. This slope was dotted with raised points where children kept watch, shouting and drumming to frighten away wild elephants. Two young men were driving a team of buffalo over the damp soil to break and soften the clods. Behind them fluttered cattle egrets in search of frogs as well as of spiders and other tiny creatures disturbed by the buffalo. In other fields, women stood up to their ankles in water, bearing back panniers full of young rice plants. They moved across the fields, bent low, reaching into the panniers with one hand, taking out a little plant, and placing it in the earth. Samitha and Phera were pulling weeds in their field situated not far from the plantation. They were the first to notice Anshu and the redcoats. Both froze at the sight. Memories of the most terrible hours of their lives threatened to overcome them. The screams and pleas rang once more in Phera’s ears, the stink of death and decay returned, and she saw her father’s head rolling toward her across the ground. Her stomach heaved. She gagged, close to vomiting.

  Samitha clapped her hand over her mouth to stop herself screaming in terror. Pulling a corner of her sari over her head, she turned and ran as if pursued by a pack of leopards.

  Phera stared after her, wishing she could flee as well. But under no circumstances could she leave her mother alone with the evil British. She breathed deeply, closed her eyes, and called to mind her oath: never again would she allow an Englishman to murder a member of her family.

  She slid her right hand between the folds of her sari to find the small knife she had kept hidden there since that terrible day in Uva. As her hand closed around it, she felt her fear turning into powerful determination. She took her pannier off her back, put it down at the edge of the field, and hurried to her mother. “What do they want, these—”

  Anshu cut her off. “Where is Eranga?”

  “On the newly cleared field, a bit further down the slope. Why?”

  “The British want to speak to him.”

  “Stop that gossiping! Take us to the widan!” Charles ordered from behind them.

  “There.” Anshu pointed down the slope.

  The soldiers galloped across the rice fields. They showed no regard for the terrified people, who scattered to all sides, or the tender young plants, now trampled down by the horses’ hooves.

  Anshu grabbed Phera by the wrist. “Go to Samitha,” she hissed. “She’s bound to have run to Thambo.”

  “Why?” asked Phera. “Who are these redcoats?”

  But Anshu had already taken off running behind the horses. Phera hesitated, then realized that Siddhi was with Eranga, helping him shift roots and undergrowth from the newly cleared field. She decided not to run back to the village but to follow in her mother’s wake. All the others working in the field hurried behind the British, too.

  Siddhi puffed nervously and tugged against her harness when she noticed the men and their horses rapidly approaching. Eranga, too, looked up in alarm.

  Charles pulled up his horse just in front of them. “You the village leader?” he shouted in stilted Sinhalese. He had recently learned enough of the language to make himself understood.

  “I am the widan of Mapitigama,” replied Eranga. “What do you want from me?” He felt confident these British did not know that he had fought against them during the rebellion.

  Charles took a good look at the villagers who had now gathered in a semicircle behind him and his soldiers. “Where are your men?”

  “In the fields here,” answered Eranga.

  Charles cast his eye around. “Where are the rest?”

  “You British didn’t leave many of our young men alive.”

  Charles gave Eranga a long and quizzical look, then spoke in a garble of English and Sinhalese. “D’you know you talk like a damned rebel? I’d normally make short work of you. But you’re in luck, because I need you. You and all the other men, apart from the old ones. And I need that elephant there, too.” He nodded toward Siddhi.

  “Never!” Phera gasped.

  “Shhh!” Anshu squeezed her daughter’s arm. “Why aren’t you with Samitha?”

  Charles was already urging his horse on toward the two women. “Nest of rebels! I’ll teach you all to follow my orders!”

  “Leave her! She’s still a child.” Anshu darted between the horse and her daughter, but Charles skillfully guided the animal around her and reared up right in front of Phera. Once again, Phera felt absolute terror. Yet she also wanted to protect Siddhi, and this gave her the strength to stand up to the tyrant. Her hand floated to the knife in the folds of her sari, fully prepared to kill first the horse and then the man.

  Charles stared hard at her face, then at the curve of her breasts beneath her clothing. “A child, did the crone say?” He sneered. “I’d enjoy finding out just how much of a child—”

  “What do you need us and the elephant for?” Eranga pushed forward to stand in front of Phera.

  As Charles turned his attention to the widan, Anshu pulled Phera behind the other villagers, out of Charles’s line of sight.

  “What are you doing, Mother? I have to help Siddhi.” Phera tried to pull her hand away.

  “Stop it! Don’t you recognize him?”

  “No.” Phera took in the desperation on her mother’s face. “But you do. Who is he?”

  Anshu didn’t respond. “Run to the village. Hide at home and don’t let anyone see you as long as he’s here. Eranga will make sure nothing happens to Siddhi.” She nudged her daughter insistently in the back, and Phera stumbled. Why didn’t her mother want to say who the man was? Somewhere behind her was his voice.

  “I’m building a new road from Kandy to Colombo and need workers and elephants. This one seems to know how to shift heavy weights.”

  Phera stiffened. Suddenly, she knew why her mother was so upset. It was the voice that had ordered the massacre of her people almost four years ago, had laughed at the death of Tharindu, had organized the execution of her father.

  She turned slowly and looked protectively at her elephant. Siddhi was standing quietly, flapping her ears, always a sign she was taking careful note of everything going on around her.

  Unrest had broken out amongst the villagers on hearing Charles’s ann
ouncement. That the British were building a road near Mapitigama had been reported by the Moorish merchants on their last visit. However, they had said nothing about men being enslaved to do the work.

  “You want a road, then get your own people to build it!” called out one young man.

  “We’re not doing any rajakariya service for you people,” added another, sparking murmurs of agreement. “You’re not our beloved king!”

  Rajakariya was the labor service they had done for their kings in olden times. They had cleaned the irrigation pools and temples and maintained the jungle paths. However, in stark contrast to laboring for the British masters, carrying out work for the king had been an honor.

  Eranga raised his hand. “I can give you neither men nor elephant. We are in the middle of the planting season.”

  “That was not a request. It was an order!” roared Charles. He took out his watch, studied it, and then said, “You and your men have thirty minutes to say good-bye to your families. Anyone not coming of his own volition will be manacled and taken away by force.”

  The grumbling started again, louder this time. Some of the young men pointedly picked up stones. The soldiers immediately drew their sabers and positioned their horses alongside their commander. Charles had drawn his pistol, and now he aimed straight at Eranga’s head.

  “Call your people off, Mr. Widan.”

  Several seconds of tense silence passed.

  “We agree to your conditions,” said Eranga, his expression grim. He gestured to his men, and they let the stones drop to the ground.

  With a smug smile, Charles returned his pistol to its holster. “Your village square in thirty minutes. The clock’s ticking.” Turning his horse, he galloped off. His soldiers followed him, sabers swishing menacingly as they went.

  The villagers stood there in shock.

  “Run home, pack whatever you need, and bid farewell to your families,” Eranga urged the young men. “Hurry! You heard what the demon said.”

  They shuffled away in bewilderment.

  Phera rushed back down the slope toward her elephant.

  “You can’t give him Siddhi, Eranga!” She grabbed the rope on Siddhi’s harness.

  “I could have killed the commander, but his men wouldn’t have left any of us alive,” he said. “Forgive me, my young mistress, I had no choice.”

  “I’d rather drive Siddhi into the jungle than leave her to this evil man!”

  “I can’t prevent you from doing that, young mistress,” he replied. “But then they’ll take revenge on the villagers. You know what these British are capable of.”

  Phera’s head fell, and she rested her forehead against Siddhi. She wondered whether she should tell Eranga who the man was. But if she did, Eranga might decide to avenge Jeeva’s death. He would kill the Briton, and he, and many others, would pay for it with their lives.

  I can’t say anything, she thought, fear clutching at her heart. Forgive me, Siddhi, for not being able to protect you better.

  The elephant lifted her trunk and gently touched her friend’s cheek with its tip. She gave soothing snorts as if to say, “Don’t worry about me.”

  Phera took a deep breath and looked at Eranga. “Swear to me that you will look after Siddhi.”

  He nodded solemnly. “I’ll protect her as I would my own eyes.”

  Charles guided his horse across the construction site and stopped at a point that gave him a good view in all directions. Three months had passed since they first broke ground, and the work had progressed well.

  Behind him, the new road wound in generous curves through the narrow valley below the Kadugannawa Pass. Only a half-mile stretch, a good foot in depth, still needed to be filled in with gravel, brought with extreme difficulty all the way from the coast to the uplands. At the edge of the site, a group of laborers was breaking down a cartload of gravel that had arrived too bulky for use. The rhythmic hammering echoed around the steep, wooded hills, which had for centuries shielded the ancient royal city of Kandy against invaders. Where the roadbed had already been filled, elephants were dragging heavy boulders over the gravel to make a strong, resilient surface.

  Charles had divided the workers into columns, each under the direction of a soldier from the Royal Engineers. Work started at sunrise, after a meager breakfast of flatbread and rice. Then Charles would announce the workload for the day. This was usually so great that the men had to work until evening with only a short break for another small scoop of rice. At the beginning, the workers had protested the conditions. A number had fled. But Charles had sent soldiers after them and captured every single man. On Charles’s orders, each was flogged, then hanged for all the others to see.

  Now he turned his attention to the most recently built section, stretching a good mile ahead of him, to the edge of the jungle. Somewhere in that dark-green mass, the Nanu Oya flowed. Charles heard the rush of water tumbling in waterfalls to the valley bottom. In the distance, a huge granite mass rose out of the green jungle, its peak half-veiled in wispy white cloud. To the local people, this was Bathalegala, but Charles, like all the British, knew it as Bible Rock.

  On the section of road in front of Charles, workers were excavating the roadbed and digging side channels for the rain runoff. Charles watched a small group doing a second gravel pour where the last heavy rain shower had washed away the first. The frequent changes in weather were an annoyance. Storms brewed up quickly in this country and caused considerable damage.

  Rocks of different dimensions also presented problems, but these could be overcome. Those the size of a coconut were dug out. Medium-sized obstructions were heated, then doused in cold water to make them shatter. A boulder the size of two elephants protruded from the ground at the end of this section. Rocks this large had to be blown up. To this end, workers had drilled a number of holes in its sides, and an engineer now placed leather tubes filled with black gunpowder inside the holes. Another engineer set the fuses. They were made of black gunpowder and reeds soaked in alcohol.

  Someone was guiding his horse over the uneven ground, slowly moving in Charles’s direction. He sighed when he saw the rider was none other than his brother, Henry. Charles already knew what the bore wanted: better food for the workers, longer breaks, more medicine and dressings.

  “Good day, Charles,” said Henry, pulling up his horse next to his brother’s. “You look pleased.”

  “We’ve made such good progress in the last few weeks that we’re three miles ahead of schedule,” explained Charles.

  “I hope you know such speed comes at the workers’ expense. If you don’t want to risk more injuries, they need rest, and urgently.” Henry pulled his hat farther down against the glare of the sun. “It isn’t even midday yet, and I’ve put splints on three broken legs, dealt with various fractures and countless compressions to fingers. One worker’s lost a thumb, another has been rolled over by a tree trunk. The number of fever cases is back up. I won’t even start with the bad nutrition, which weakens them even further.”

  “Why d’you bother, then?” interrupted Charles. “I told you at the start that sick coolies will be replaced. If you want to pamper and fuss over them, that’s your personal delight.”

  “You’re treating them worse than slaves,” Henry retorted.

  “Slaves are worth something to their owners. Coolies aren’t,” Charles shot back.

  “It’s bad enough they don’t get a single penny in return. The least we can do is look after them properly. They need suitable clothing and shoes. And they can’t do this hard, physical work on rice alone. They must eat meat.”

  Charles gave a shout of laughter. “Has it escaped your esteemed attention that their absurd religion forbids it?”

  “As is so often the case, you are inadequately informed about this country and its people, dear Charles,” countered Henry. “Only some Buddhists abstain from consuming meat. If you give these workers decent food, you’ll see how much stronger and more resilient they become.”

 
Henry thought of the book of the teachings of Buddha that he had bought at a Kandy market. Every night, when he lay awake under his mosquito net and longed for opium, he read this book. When the craving grew almost too great to bear, he would call to mind the words of the abbot, Mahinda Dharmapala, and swear to himself that he would never again be that broken-down addict whose vice could be spotted at first sight.

  He cleared his throat, took a scrap of paper from his jacket pocket, and passed it to Charles. “I’ve made a list of all the medicines I need. Dressings running low again, too. And I want the workers to have reasonable overnight accommodations.”

  “If people pitch in hard enough during the day, they should be so tired at night, they can sleep anywhere.” Charles put the list in his pocket without giving it a glance.

  For the British engineers and soldiers, there were tented accommodations the full length of the construction site. This included living and dining areas, a huge field hospital, and a tent especially for meetings. Even the horses had their own tent for the night.

  For the Sinhalese and Indian workers, there was nothing remotely approaching this. They slept in makeshift huts rigged up from a few palm branches. Soldiers were on guard to ensure nobody fled and nobody fought. The Indians were Hindu while the Sinhalese were Buddhist. Over and above this, the Indian laborers were “untouchables.” For the Sinhalese, who came from castes of farmers and tradesmen, it was unthinkable to sleep side by side with these people or to eat anything cooked in the same pot. However, Charles disregarded all this. If news of disagreements reached his ears, punishment was swift and severe.

  “As far as the accommodations are concerned—” Henry started to speak, but Charles had moved on.

  “Here comes Brooks. Now we can get on with the blasting.”

  “We are ready, Major,” confirmed the engineer, Charles’s second-in-command. “The soldiers are clearing the construction site.”