The Elephant Keeper's Daughter Page 16

  Charles reluctantly lowered the gun. “I should have put a bullet between that beast’s eyes long ago,” he snarled.

  Henry reached out, pried the pistol from his brother’s grip, and stowed it in the belt of his own trousers.

  Slowly, Phera lowered the dagger, then used it to cut through the bindings around Siddhi’s feet. Siddhi will never work for you British again; I’ll see to that. At a tap on the right foreleg, the elephant obediently raised her leg. Phera clambered onto her back and sat up straight.

  “Bring me Eranga, would you, so I can get him on Siddhi’s back?” she said to Henry.

  He hesitated, unsure what this powerful animal would do when he approached. The elephant, however, remained still and placid as he carried the corpse over his shoulder and then raised it high. Phera took hold of Eranga’s arm and pulled him right across Siddhi’s neck, giving the cold body a sad embrace.

  When Phera looked at Henry again, those eyes were brimming with tears. “Please remember what you have promised me. Find out the truth.”

  Then the mahout and the elephant vanished into the forest.

  Chapter Nine

  September 1822

  At sunrise the next morning, the villagers committed the body of their deceased widan to the fire. A long procession followed Siddhi as she bore the corpse, wrapped in white linen, to the banks of the Nanu Oya. Nobody spoke. Only rhythmic drums and bells echoed in the stillness. As the flames shot up, Phera threw in the little wooden Buddha.

  Once the fire had died down, the funeral helper brushed the deceased’s ashes into an earthenware pitcher and handed it to Anshu. She gently placed the pitcher in the shallow waters near the riverbank.

  The crowd watched in reverence as it coasted toward the middle of the river, and Siddhi lifted her trunk and made her sad puffing sounds. Like a tiny ship, the pitcher danced on the rippling waves, gradually tipping as it took in water. Eranga’s ashes were carried away with the current.

  “His old life is now finally over,” said Anshu. “Cleansed of all the evil of the past, his soul is ready for a new life.”

  The crowd slowly dispersed. Anshu, her daughters, and Siddhi stayed on the bank and stared at the water, while little Thambo dug in the sand around the elephant’s feet.

  The women looked up as a group of six women drew near to them. They were all members of the most highly regarded families in Mapitigama and owned the biggest rice fields and most of the valuable cinnamon trees. They stopped in front of Anshu.

  “Most esteemed lady.” The oldest woman in the group crossed the flat of her hands against her chest and bowed. “We need a new widan for Mapitigama.”

  Anshu nodded solemnly. “Who do you have in mind?”

  “You, ma’am.” The oldest woman bowed again, and the other five nodded in support.

  Samitha’s and Phera’s eyes widened, but Anshu’s face was impassive. “I decline,” she said firmly. “Find another village leader.”

  The six women exchanged dismayed looks.

  “But who?” one lamented. “Eranga’s family is gone, and none of the men we have left can take on the office.”

  “There are still men in the village,” argued Anshu.

  “Only old men who are either too fragile or can’t think straight!”

  The oldest of the women gestured for silence, then turned back to Anshu. “Allow me to explain, ma’am. Of all the people in the village, you have the greatest experience with the British. We need a widan who knows how they think, how they work. Ma’am, you are clever and courageous. You bear your destiny with dignity and without complaint. Who other than you will the British meet with any respect?”

  People who have stolen our king and our land from us, who have violated our women and murdered our men, respect nobody. They strive only for domination at any price, thought Anshu. She understood the women’s reasoning, but her memories of Uva were too painful for her to imagine voluntarily interacting with the barbarians.

  “I shall not be your widan,” she repeated. “Don’t press me any further.”

  In stunned silence, the six women bowed. Disappointment covered their faces as they turned and walked back toward the village.

  Phera watched them go. “They trust you, Mother. You could at least have given some thought to their request.”

  “It’s right that she turned it down,” said Samitha. “Have you forgotten what the British did to our family?”

  “Forgotten?” shrieked Phera. “No, sister, I have not. But we have a duty to the people of Mapitigama. If they hadn’t taken us in, we’d have become beggars.”

  “Stop it!” Anshu held her hands up defensively. “I have nothing left to say on the matter.”

  A few days later, Anshu was resting in the doorway to her hut, contemplating the jungle in front of her. It seemed impenetrable, but its appearance was deceptive. Deep in the dense greenery, there was humming, rumbling, grinding, pounding, hammering. And this din was getting closer and closer, louder and louder.

  All the villagers were uneasy and had called a meeting to talk over the alarming events. Old and young came from hut and field alike, gathering together at the shrine to Buddha under the Bodhi tree. When Anshu saw her daughters, she called Thambo in from the garden and went to join them.

  Waiting in front of the shrine was the oldest man in the village. He had been born in the days when only the peaceful Dutch had arrived on the coast of Lanka, not the greedy British. His daughter-in-law, the oldest of the women who had asked Anshu to be widan, stood at his side and supported him. The elder was looking hard at the gathering, chewing on betel nut all the while.

  “Ayubowan,” he said eventually. “We have gathered together because—”

  Boom! An explosion rang out from the construction site. The startled villagers clung to one another, while the younger children burst into tears.

  The elder raised a scrawny arm, pointing accusingly in the direction of the noise. “That is why we have gathered together! Because the British are threatening us with their road.”

  “Soon they’ll reach our village,” added his daughter-in-law.

  Everyone murmured in agreement. A young mother, her baby fussing in her arms, called, “And they’re frightening the children!”

  The elder spat a stream of red betel juice onto the ground. “We must find out what the British are planning.”

  “But how?” objected another old man. “That horrible commander can barely speak our language. Besides, he would sooner kill us than consent to a meeting.”

  “Their doctor, he speaks our language well,” Phera announced. “And I believe he has kindness in him. I can ride Siddhi to the building site and ask him.”

  “No!” shouted Anshu. “Absolutely not.”

  She grabbed Phera by the wrist, but the young woman angrily shook her off.

  “Phera, you know why I want you to stay away.”

  But the woman with the baby said, “That’s a good plan, young mistress.”

  Once again came murmured agreement from the crowd.

  Phera gave her mother a defiant look. “I’ll fetch Siddhi straightaway.”

  “You’ll put all of us in danger just because you have to do everything your own way,” Samitha said angrily.

  “I want to help Mapitigama, and I’m not putting anyone in danger—the British won’t recognize me, especially when I’m dressed up as a man,” Phera told her.

  “You are very honorable in your concern for the well-being of the village, young mistress,” broke in the elder. “This task, however, is for a widan. Sadly, we have none.” His rheumy eyes looked straight at Anshu.

  She lowered her head. In the last few days, she had repeatedly asked herself if she had made the right decision. She knew she was indebted to the people still giving her family sanctuary, but everything within her fought against this dangerous task. Now she sensed everyone watching her.

  “We need a widan who can talk to the British.” The village elder’s daughter-in-law spoke
straight to Anshu. “Mistress, I beseech you once more to be our widan. You belong to Mapitigama now, and the people of Mapitigama need you.”

  Anshu looked at the sea of faces and saw concern, but hope, too.

  What would Jeeva have done? She already knew the answer.

  Her husband had fought for the people of Senkadagala and had died for their freedom. Had he still been alive, he would not have hesitated to bear this burden as well. What right did she have to shirk this duty? She straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath. “I accept.”

  There was loud cheering. The elder bowed his head before Anshu. “We place the destiny of our community in your hands, widan.”

  “I’ll fetch Siddhi,” said Phera, “and we’ll ride to the building site together.”

  When the two women were ready to set off, the villagers solemnly assembled under the Bodhi tree to watch the departure of their new widan. They knew how much depended on Anshu’s conversation with the British doctor.

  Phera was already seated on her elephant. She had put her hair up like a Sinhalese man, was wearing her baggy pants, and had hidden her father’s dagger inside her shirt. She told Siddhi to kneel so that Anshu could comfortably climb aboard.

  Anshu’s face shone with determination. Now that she had taken on the role of village leader, she would represent the people’s interests as well as she could. She had put on her best sari and the little gold jewelry she still had. Gold was the Enlightened One’s color, and she hoped his wisdom would guide her through the difficult task ahead.

  She was just hitching up her sari to climb onto Siddhi’s left foreleg when the elephant suddenly gave a nervous shake of her head.

  Hoofbeats rang out, and four redcoats came charging into the clearing.

  The commander’s contemptuous gaze roved over the assembled villagers. Anshu shuddered. She had recognized the group’s leader straightaway as Charles Odell.

  She stole a discreet glance at her eldest daughter. Samitha was partially concealed amongst the crowd of villagers. She had lowered her head and was attempting to hide Thambo. But just then the little boy whispered loudly, “Mama, horsey!”

  All four Englishmen turned toward the child who, half in fear, half in curiosity, peeped out from behind his mother. While the three other soldiers were smiling at the little boy, Charles’s attention was on Samitha.

  He looked her up and down lasciviously. “You!” he shouted in his pidgin Sinhalese. “Blue sari. Come here!”

  Samitha quickly passed Thambo to a woman nearby. Then she held her sari veil across her face so that only her eyes were visible and hesitantly obeyed. She stopped at a safe distance from Odell.

  “What’s a beauty like you doing in this godforsaken dump?” he asked, a greedy smile on his lips.

  Samitha stood calmly and gave no reply.

  “Speak, woman!” Full of impatience, he brought his whip down against his own boot.

  “I live here,” she said quietly. “Mapitigama is my home.” Her hand shook as it held the veil in place.

  Charles looked at her long and hard. Something about her bearing, those dark eyes, stirred up memories. If he had seen her before, it must have been the day they had recruited the laborers. Anyhow, he found her extremely attractive. For a moment he thought about having her brought to his tent, but knew the most recent bout of malaria would stop him performing. You won’t get away from me, he thought. Next time I’ll really give you a good seeing-to.

  “Where is your husband?” he asked. “At work on the road?”

  Samitha remained silent.

  “Answer, damn you! And uncover your face!”

  Samitha did not move, and a tense silence pervaded the square. Then there was a mighty snort. It came from Siddhi as she slowly pulled herself to her full height. It was as if a huge gray boulder had come to life. Charles’s horse shied and almost reared.

  Charles turned and saw Phera looking down at him disdainfully from Siddhi’s back. Phera smiled, pleased with the successful diversion.

  Charles, however, was anything but pleased. He did not like having to strain his neck to look up at this insolent young mahout.

  “Well, well, it’s the little monkey who stole an elephant from my construction site. Where did you creep off to when I was recruiting workers?” His whip hissed as he swiped it through the air.

  Phera’s dismissive smile broadened. “You simply couldn’t see me.”

  This threw Charles into a rage, and he turned on the frightened villagers. “Where did you hide this able-bodied lad from me? What else are you conspirators hiding?”

  The villagers stared in amazement. Anshu was the one to reply. “We hid no one from you. The boy was in Colombo making purchases for the village when you took our men away.”

  Charles gave her a hard look. “Presumably, you’re this good-for-nothing’s mother!”

  Anshu blanched but went on bravely. “I am the new village leader of Mapitigama.”

  Charles gave a shout of laughter. “A woman leader? That’s the best joke I’ve heard in years. Answer my question, oh leader. Are you his mother?”

  Anshu lowered her head and nodded.

  “If you want to keep the boy alive, then teach him how to behave in front of an Englishman. He is to report to the construction site with his elephant—today.”

  Anshu was about to object, but Phera gestured for her to be silent.

  Charles turned to look at the villagers. “Enough nonsense. I am here because your huts have to go. The tree as well.” He pointed his whip at the Bodhi tree and gauged its strength. “The elephant can just push it over.”

  Gasps and cries of outrage ran through the crowd. The villagers, in spite of their fear, banded together around their sacred tree and the shrine to the Enlightened One.

  “My new road will go right through it,” said Charles cheerfully. “Your tree is in the way, and so are all of you.” He turned to Phera. “Go on! Use the elephant to knock the tree over. Now.”

  But Phera just glared at him and did not move.

  “So you want to act the rebel, do you? I’ll show you all how to fell a tree!” Charles jammed his spurs hard into his horse. The animal reared, then raced toward the villagers, who were forced to dive for the ground. Charles drew his saber, leaned forward in the saddle, and took a swipe at one of the wooden props supporting the heavy boughs. The tree creaked and groaned; the bough cracked and fell. Charles grinned. “I’ll take care of the tree, mahout. You can just drag it off when I’m done.”

  Phera’s face darkened and froze. But then a powerful cry rose up from deep within: “Daha!”

  The elephant let out a deafening trumpeting and began to move forward, picking up speed like an unstoppable avalanche. She rushed Charles and his soldiers at full tilt.

  “Stop!” Charles held his whip high.

  But his horse panicked at the sight of the charging giant. It bucked wildly and threw Charles out of the saddle, leaving him dazed on the ground. His horse did an about-face and galloped off into the jungle. The soldiers drew pistols, but their mounts reared and bucked, too, so all three men were thrown, and their horses fled into the primeval forest. Two of the soldiers stayed on the ground, groaning. The third leapt up and shot at the elephant but missed. Siddhi would have trampled Charles to death, but he managed to roll to one side at the last second. Charles struggled to his feet and aimed at Siddhi’s hindquarters. The shot rang out just as Phera looked back. Siddhi gave a piercing shriek, but she carried on running as Phera drove her onward into the safety of the jungle.

  “I ordered a dozen lashes, good and hard.” Charles’s voice sounded above the din of the building site. “What’re you stroking him for? D’you want me to demonstrate on your own fair body what I mean by ‘good’?”

  Henry, who was examining patients in the field hospital, frowned. He had ordered complete bed rest for his brother’s fever, shivers, and cramps. And yet at dawn Charles had ridden off with three soldiers and, judging by the noises, was no
w back and in the foulest of moods. Henry beckoned an assistant to take over bandaging his patient’s crushed foot and hurried out of the tent.

  The construction site was its usual hive of activity.

  Henry went to a nearby overseer. “Where is my brother?”

  “There, Doctor.” The man pointed.

  Henry looked where the man was indicating, and his blood ran cold. Not far from the field hospital, ten halberds had been rammed into the ground. Tied to each halberd was a worker from Mapitigama, naked but for a loincloth, fully exposed to the merciless sun. Charles paced up and down behind the bound men. He looked crazed, his uniform filthy and his hair unkempt. He was gesticulating furiously at the corporal standing by, a whip with nine strands of braided, knotted rope in the man’s hand—a cat-o’-nine-tails. It was the same corporal who had carried out the beheadings in Uva.

  He had already flogged the first victim to the limit. The beaten man’s back was covered with a lattice of open wounds. Blood dripped to the ground. The man had lost consciousness and now hung helplessly by his wrists. The corporal had already started on the next. Charles, however, seemed dissatisfied. He seized the instrument of torture from the corporal. The nine tails hissed through the air, landing a sickening crack on the back of the Sinhalese man, who screamed out and struggled against the ties that bound him.

  “Now he knows he’s being punished!” snorted Charles. Seconds later the “cat” hissed again and cracked on the man’s raw back.

  Thoughts crowded in on Henry. Flogging was permitted as a form of punishment for only the gravest of offenses. It seemed highly improbable that the men tied to the halberds had committed any wrongdoing that could justify this degree of force. All the men feared his brother like the devil incarnate and did everything they could to avoid provoking him. As Charles prepared to administer the third stroke, Henry hurried forward.

  “Halt! Stop this immediately!”

  Charles whipped around. “What the devil—”

  The brothers stared at each other for several long seconds.

  “Get out of here!” roared Charles, raising the whip once more. “That’s an order!”