The Elephant Keeper's Daughter Page 15

  “Perhaps I know someone,” she replied hesitantly. “But I can’t promise anything.”

  “We have only until tonight.” Henry put his hat back on and rode off.

  “Why did you send for us, Mother?” Samitha stepped inside the hut, followed by Phera. Her little boy left his playmates and ran over to her, clacking together two coconut shells as he went.

  “Horse!” he shouted, proud of his new word.

  Samitha scooped him up into her arms and kissed him.

  As always, it was like twilight inside the windowless hut. A little daylight shone through the open door.

  Stacked on the shelf along the wall were storage baskets, food bowls, and cooking equipment. On the other side were a clothes chest and a spinning wheel with a little three-legged stool, and in the corner were sleeping mats, rolled and stored during the day. The family cooked outside, beneath the canopy. On the hut’s back wall there was an altar. Every morning Anshu’s first walk of the day was to the garden, where she picked fresh flowers for the altar. Then she lit the oil lamps, prayed, and thought of her dead husband and her dead daughter.

  She sat before the altar now and turned her eyes toward the small golden Buddha. Her mind was focused on the two Britons and the strange way their paths had crossed again with her family’s. She was repelled by the idea that the brothers’ destiny could be intertwined with theirs. But she knew that she, too, had to follow the eternal law of cause and effect. If the scales of justice became imbalanced, they would seek equilibrium.

  “Is everything all right, Mama?” asked Phera. It was unusual for her mother to be praying in the middle of the day instead of working in the garden.

  Anshu stood up and went over to her daughter. “Something terrible has happened.”

  “To Siddhi?” asked Phera, horrified. Ever since she had consented to the elephant being used on construction of the new road, she had found no peace. Every day she regretted her decision but had no idea what else she could have done.

  “An Englishman was in the village,” began Anshu. “He brought the news that Eranga is dead. He—” The rest of the sentence was drowned out by a scream of horror.

  Anshu gestured for her daughter to be quiet. “They say Siddhi killed Eranga.”

  “Siddhi would never hurt Eranga,” Phera wailed.

  “She always obeyed Eranga,” chimed in Samitha.

  “I share your opinion, my daughters,” Anshu responded. “But the British think otherwise. They want to shoot Siddhi because she won’t let anyone near Eranga’s body. They are asking for a mahout who can calm her.”

  “I will not allow that to happen!” Phera rushed over to the clothes trunk, flung open the lid, and rooted around inside. Right at the bottom, she found her old baggy trousers and looked at them carefully. They might be a bit short now, but with luck they would still just about fit her. She bent over the trunk again and took out a linen cloth and shirt of her father’s.

  Anshu looked at her in some irritation. “What do you want with those?”

  Phera clutched the bundle of garments to her chest. “The British are asking for a mahout for Siddhi. They’ll get one.”

  “Oh, my child! These British are dangerous.” Anshu hugged her daughter tight.

  But Phera gave a decisive shake of her head. “Siddhi is my friend. I’ll help her. And I’ll bring Eranga home.” When she saw the fear in her mother’s face, she spoke more gently. “Mama, please don’t worry. I can look after myself. Eranga trained me well. And we all know that Siddhi didn’t kill him, so perhaps I can figure out what really happened.”

  Anshu thought of the day when the monk, Mahinda, had revealed the contradictions in Phera’s birth horoscope: sensitive Cancer, poisonous Scorpio, the sentimental Moon, and the aggressive Mars.

  “Phera’s mind is as sharp as a newly whetted blade. But if it is not used wisely, it can turn dangerous and deadly, like an untamed elephant,” the monk had said.

  Anshu would have liked more than anything to lock Phera up to keep her away from the British. But she could not stand in the way of destiny.

  “After Father’s death, Eranga gave us a new home,” said Samitha. “Without him, we’d have been outcasts and would have had to do the work of the lowest of the low. It is honorable and good for Phera to bring him back home.” She put Thambo down and held her hand out to Phera. “Let me have that linen, Phera. I’ll help you to bind your breasts flat.”

  Phera stripped off her sari and slipped into the baggy pants. Samitha wound the linen tightly around her sister’s upper body.

  “I still haven’t told you everything,” said Anshu. “The Englishman who brought me the news of Eranga’s death—we know him.”

  Samitha lowered her hands, still clutching the end of the linen. “Was he there, too, when—?” Her voice broke.

  Anshu nodded. “He was the one who tried to hold back his countrymen. He wanted to help Mihiri and Father and Tharindu. And you, Phera, he saved your life when the commander wanted to shoot you.” She swallowed hard and took a long look at her daughter. “That same commander is his brother.”

  Phera stared at her mother without seeing her. She saw instead that horrific day when Tharindu had died before her eyes. She saw the Englishman’s face as he bent down to try and help Tharindu. She saw him discover her hiding place and look into her eyes.

  “My child.” Anshu carefully touched Phera on the arm. “Please stay here.”

  Phera brushed the memories aside and looked at her mother with determination. “What would happen to Eranga’s body, Mother? And Siddhi? No, I’ll go.” She tied the ends of the linen binding, which Samitha had now finished wrapping. Then she put on her father’s old shirt and tied her hair up into a bun at the back of her head, like their men did.

  “You’re so brave, Phera. Aren’t you afraid?” asked Samitha. She was standing next to Thambo with her hand on the child’s head.

  “Yes, I am. But I’m going to act as if the fear isn’t there.” She reached for her knife. As she started to secure it in her belt, Anshu held her again.

  “Wait.”

  She went to the altar, took a long, flat object from behind the shrine, and solemnly handed it to her youngest daughter.

  Phera’s eyes widened. “Father’s dagger.”

  “It will give you strength and will protect you.”

  Phera’s fingers closed around the silver handle. She felt its weight in her hand and executed a few rapid movements through the air. Her face showed fierce concentration.

  “The dagger is for you to use in self-defense only,” warned Anshu.

  Phera returned the weapon to its sheath and attached it to her belt. “Doesn’t the man guilty of killing Father and Mihiri, and of causing Samitha unspeakable pain, deserve retaliation?”

  Anshu held her daughter’s face with both hands and looked into her eyes. “You know what you are taking on if you put out fire with fire.”

  Phera broke away from her mother without a word and left.

  Siddhi scented her friend from afar and trumpeted so loudly that Phera heard it over the din of the construction site. The desperate sound went right through her. She hurried on and soon discovered Siddhi in a small clearing. A British soldier was guarding her from a safe distance, his rifle at the ready. It appeared that Eranga had secured Siddhi to a tree trunk by means of a rope looped around her left foreleg. He had then attached a second rope from that same foreleg to the left hind leg so that she could take only small steps if she got free. Now the elephant was pulling at the rope with all her might and stamping her feet in anger.

  The soldier saw Phera and bellowed something in English. She took no notice, concentrating only on Siddhi.

  “Ho, ho. It’s me.”

  Siddhi let out a puff and immediately stopped stamping. She stretched out her trunk, touching her friend’s neck, hair, and face. Phera stroked her soothingly while looking down nervously. Eranga lay on his back between the elephant’s legs. His dark skin had taken on a gr
ay pallor; his now-lifeless eyes stared out of his motionless face. His sarong was torn, pushed up high, his half-naked body covered in wounds and filth. Phera saw that his rib cage was crushed. And one leg was twisted into an unnatural position.

  She fought back the nausea and crept slowly beneath Siddhi’s belly. All the while, she spoke soothingly to the distressed elephant. Once she was close enough, she lifted Eranga under the arms and, little by little, eased his body out from under Siddhi. The corpse was heavy, and it took all her strength to move it. On top of that, rigor mortis had set in, and Eranga’s body was as stiff and hard as an ironwood tree.

  “Wait!” someone called out in Sinhalese behind her. “I’ll help you, boy!”

  She turned and saw an Englishman hurrying toward her. Her heart raced as she recognized the man who had spared her life. But he looked weary and far thinner than she remembered. Perhaps he had been sick. She knew that foreigners did not fare well with the climate in her country.

  Siddhi lifted her trunk and trumpeted menacingly.

  “Stay back!” Without waiting for the man to reply, Phera turned away and got hold of Eranga again, struggling to drag him out of reach of Siddhi’s feet.

  The Englishman told the soldier to keep his distance. Then he placed his crossed hands flat against his chest and gave a little bow. “I am Henry Odell, surgeon to the Fifteenth Infantry Regiment. I care for the sick here on the construction site.”

  Phera stared at him, as shocked as Anshu had been to hear an Englishman use the greeting a local would. “My name is Phera. I am a mahout. I’m taking Eranga home.”

  Phera watched for signs of recognition, but his face revealed nothing.

  “Hello there. I would like to examine Eranga before you take him away.”

  “Why?”

  He looked first at Siddhi, then at the dead man. “I often saw how Eranga worked with the elephant. He was always careful to ensure the animal didn’t overexert herself. Every evening he would seek out a water hole so the elephant could bathe, and would put fresh greenery where she liked to take her rest. I am unsure why an elephant would kill anyone who looked after it so well.”

  Phera’s eyes lit up. “Siddhi would never have done Eranga any harm. He brought her into the world and taught her everything she knows.”

  “But whatever happened here, she was clearly ready to use force against anyone threatening Eranga,” Henry said. He turned and knelt down. “I shall now start the examination.”

  Phera crouched down near him, watching intently as the British doctor assessed the injuries on the front of Eranga’s body.

  “You’re very young, lad,” said Henry, as he carefully palpated Eranga’s broken leg. “Are you already a fully trained mahout?”

  “I’m nineteen, actually. My training started when I was only five.”

  He turned and looked at the mahout. For a nineteen-year-old, Phera’s face was strangely smooth, with no sign of stubble. The eyes were velvety and dark, framed with long lashes.

  A pretty boy, Henry thought. He felt himself getting aroused. What was happening to him? He cleared his throat and concentrated on examining the corpse. “Was Eranga the man who trained you?”

  The lump in Phera’s throat stopped any words from coming out.

  “Was he your father?”

  “No.” A shake of the head. “But I knew him from the day I was born. He was with my family for years.”

  “May he rest in peace.” Henry reached out and closed the dead man’s eyes.

  “Just like you did before, sir!” exclaimed Phera, recalling Tharindu. Startled by her own words, she clapped her hand to her mouth.

  But Henry, deep in the examination of Eranga’s wounds, replied absently, “A doctor, especially an army doctor, has to close the eyes of many dead.”

  “How is the soul supposed to leave the body if you close off the gates?”

  He looked up with concern on his face. “Have I done something wrong?”

  “Probably not,” Phera said after some thought. “Eranga has been dead for many hours. His soul will already have arrived in the world beyond this one. Have you found out yet why he died?”

  Henry grasped the dead man by the hip and the shoulder and gently turned him over so he could examine the back of his body. “I know only this: the broken bones and the wounds to his belly occurred after death.”

  Phera’s eyes were wide. “How can you tell?”

  “It’s not sorcery, my boy.” He smiled. “I have noted that those wounds barely bled. That is a sign that they came about after death, because the blood stops flowing then.”

  Phera swallowed hard. “I think Siddhi made those wounds. She was so agitated, she injured his dead body where it lay, between her feet. But she didn’t mean to. She wanted to protect her friend.”

  Henry nodded. “I think you’re right.”

  “So someone dragged Eranga between Siddhi’s feet after he died, to make everyone think she killed him!”

  Henry thought about this. “But she attacks every stranger who comes near.”

  “Perhaps someone pushed Eranga between her legs using a stick. Then she wouldn’t have been able to reach them.”

  Henry looked around but didn’t see any such implement. Still, the culprit could have easily hidden it a short way off. He nodded. “But that would also mean that someone had a motive for killing Eranga.”

  “I can only speak for the people of Mapitigama. Eranga was our village leader and held in high esteem by everyone. There was no ill will toward him from any quarter.”

  Henry turned back to the dead man. He looked over the whole body, noting the dark bruises where blood had pooled since death. Then he looked long and hard at the head. His breath caught in his throat and he leaned closer. He tried carefully to part the matted hair. The long, graying strands were stuck together with a dark substance.

  “Blood,” said Phera. “A lot of it. So it must have flowed before Eranga died.”

  “Yes. From this wound.” Henry moved aside slightly so that Phera could see better.

  The wound was not large, but it was deep. Its edges were lightly encrusted with dried blood and traces of gray.

  “That’s where brain has seeped out,” explained Henry. “There are a few splinters of bone in the wound. So Eranga either fell, hitting his head on something extremely long and sharp, or he was hit over the head with a sharp rock or an iron hook.”

  “Someone killed him!” whispered Phera. Her stomach churned, and she swiftly turned her head away.

  Henry frowned. “All we can say for sure is that it can’t have happened here. The ground is soft. And there are no traces of blood.” He patted the forest floor.

  Siddhi gave a loud snort.

  “If she could talk, she’d tell us what happened.”

  The elephant looked long and hard at the two humans. A clear liquid was running from her eyes and leaving dark streaks on her gray cheeks.

  “She’s weeping,” said Phera softly.

  “You’re allowed to weep for your tutor, too, you know.” Henry touched the young mahout on the shoulder.

  Phera half-turned and looked at him with those huge, dark eyes. Hastily, he withdrew his hand, as if he’d been scalded.

  “Whoever succumbs to grief harms himself. And it would distress the souls of the dead in the other world. I want to know how Eranga died. If you can find out, will you tell me?”

  “I promise, my boy.” He held out his right hand.

  Hesitantly, Phera accepted it. “My thanks to you.”

  Henry took a deep breath. “I’m going to turn Eranga on his back again. After that you can take him home. Will you be carrying him on the elephant?”

  “Yes.”

  Phera grasped the dead man’s shoulders and Henry the legs. Then they carefully turned him over.

  “Look! Look at this!” exclaimed Phera.

  His sarong had shifted as they turned him. They now saw it had been concealing a little cloth bag, one or two objects clea
rly still inside. Henry hesitated but then carefully took hold of the bag between two fingers. Out slipped a tiny wooden Buddha, followed by a small stone. Without a word, he gave Phera the Buddha. Then they both stood looking at the stone. The size of a cherry, it looked as if two small pyramids were stuck to its base. It was dark in color, somewhere between gray and black. He examined the stone, turning it this way and that, running his finger over its sharp edges and smooth surfaces.

  “Do you know what kind of stone this is?” he asked, holding it out.

  “No. What an unusual shape. I’ve never seen anything like that.”

  Henry’s fingers slowly closed around the fragment, and he slipped it into his pocket. “I wonder whether I should show this to my brother. He’s an engineer and knows about rocks.”

  “Your brother doesn’t know anything!” Phera’s face twisted into a scowl. “He has only contempt for my land and its people.”

  Henry looked somber and nodded. Perhaps it was best to keep this to himself for now, see what he could find out.

  Just then Siddhi let out a shrill cry. Phera jumped up and ran to her, but the elephant was beyond soothing. She tossed her head and strained at her ropes.

  “Is the beast still pretending to be crazed?” Charles stepped into the small clearing. His face was red and perspiring. Unusually for him, his uniform jacket was open and his shirt collar loosened. He took off his bicorn, revealing hair damp with sweat.

  A fever, thought Henry. Probably another malaria attack.

  Siddhi stamped angrily, and her trunk whipped at the air. Henry feared what would happen if she managed to break free. It annoyed him a little that the young mahout was no longer making even the smallest effort to subdue her.

  “Keep that beast in check or it’ll kill someone else!” Charles yelled. He pulled his pistol from its holster and tried to take aim. But his hand was trembling too much.

  At the same moment, Phera drew Jeeva’s dagger. “Don’t you dare, Englishman!”

  “Stop, immediately!” Henry ran over to his brother and placed himself in front of him.

  “Please go back to camp,” he said to Charles, beseechingly. “You need medicine and must rest.”