The Elephant Keeper's Daughter Read online

  The kitchen helper started to say something, but Henry interrupted him. “What are you cooking there?” He nodded toward the heavy cauldron.

  The Sinhalese man gave a start. “Rice, sir,” he replied, recovering in a flash. “Rice is good for the sick and makes them well again. Come, I’ll show you.” He hurried over and lifted the lid. “Come and see, look, look.” He beckoned eagerly to Henry.

  While Henry peered into the cauldron in which rice, and only rice, was indeed simmering, Mahinda was opening all sorts of containers, sniffing at the contents and, now and again, having a taste. Then he took the stopper out of the little bottle that the helper had just put away in the cupboard, and sniffed it. He frowned, let a drop of the viscous liquid drip onto his palm, then tasted it. He turned to look at Henry, still standing at the cauldron. But Henry had his back to him and was stirring the rice. The Sinhalese man, however, stared unflinchingly back at Mahinda. Mahinda pursed his lips and gave a slight shake of the head. Then he closed the bottle and tucked it into his own leather pouch.

  “You really don’t want to stay in the camp?” asked Henry after Mahinda had told him how to make the kumbuk-bark tea. “You could use my bed. I’ll be up all night working, anyway.”

  Mahinda shook his head. “I’ll ask the people in Mapitigama for shelter, but I’ll come to see you every day so we can still meditate together.”

  “Today’s not going to be any good for that,” responded Henry. “I have to take care of my patients.”

  Mahinda nodded in understanding. “But at least have some hathawariya tea.” He took a handful of the roots from his pouch, wrapped it up in leaves he had torn from a bush, and gave Henry the little bundle.

  “Don’t worry about the epidemic,” said Mahinda. “It might seem frightening, but they’ll soon recover.”

  “Did you read that in the stars, too?” Henry teased.

  The monk bowed with a smile. “Ayubowan, Henry Odell.” He turned and vanished between the rows of tents.

  Mahinda followed the jungle trail that the workers had shown him, and in half an hour he was at Mapitigama.

  He looked pensively at the simple huts with their small gardens. A few women were working outside, children were playing, and chickens clucked as they scratched here and there. In the village center was an old Bodhi tree, so fragile the villagers had propped it up with wooden posts. The shrine to the Enlightened One was lovingly decorated with flowers. A large branch had broken off and lay beneath the tree, leaving a gaping wound on the trunk.

  If the widow of Jeeva Maha Nuvara really had taken refuge here, then her life must be very different from her life at the royal court of Vikrama Rajasinha.

  A very lean old man was sitting on a bench in front of one of the huts, chewing betel nut and enjoying the sun on his bones. Mahinda went up to him.

  “Ayubowan, wise one,” he said. “Are you the widan, and can you tell me where I’ll find Anshu Maha Nuvara?”

  The old man squinted up at him. “Ayubowan, venerable hamudru. I am not the widan. You’ll find our leader there.” He pointed to a hut near the Bodhi tree.

  “And where does Anshu Maha Nuvara live?”

  The old man gave a giggle, showing teeth stained red with betel-nut juice. “There. She is our widan. I am happy that the Enlightened One has sent you to us, hamudru.”

  “I thank you.” Astonished, Mahinda walked to the hut.

  The carefully tended garden was deserted. The banana palms and mango tree bowed under the weight of their fruit. Jasmine and cardamom twined around bamboo poles, and beans, okra, and chili pods thrived in perfect raised beds. Mahinda also noticed various medicinal plants and an abundance of colorful flowers that pleased his eye.

  The hut door stood open, and he went in. In the dim light, he made out the silhouette of a woman sitting on a stool, cleaning beans piled in a basket at her side. A little boy crouched at her feet, passing her more beans when she was ready.

  When Mahinda’s shadow darkened the doorway, the woman started. Her grip on the knife tightened.

  Mahinda placed the flat of his hands across his chest. “My greetings, Anshu Maha Nuvara.”

  She stared at him for a moment. Then, very slowly, she relaxed her grip on the knife. “Mahinda Dharmapala?”

  He nodded. “Yes, it’s me.”

  She stood up, placed the knife on a shelf out of the child’s reach, and greeted the visitor. “Ayubowan, venerable hamudru. Forgive me for not recognizing you.”

  “It has been a long time,” he replied.

  “How did you know—” Her voice failed her. The unexpected reappearance of the abbot stirred up painful memories of happy times that were now so long past.

  “I met the British doctor, Henry Odell, in Colombo, and came back with him. He told me about you.” Mahinda’s eyes wandered over the simply decorated hut, took in the house altar with its fresh flowers, the spinning wheel, and then lingered on the little boy who was staring at the visitor with a mixture of mistrust and curiosity. “Is this your grandson?”

  She nodded. “Thambo is Samitha’s son. She’s out in the rice field, working.”

  Mahinda bent toward the child, gently took him by the chin, and looked at him for a long time. “Does he know about his father?”

  Anshu’s face hardened. “He has no father!”

  Mahinda straightened up. “The day will come for him to learn.”

  “May the gods protect him!” Anshu turned brusquely away and went over to the shelf on the wall. She took down a jug of water, poured some into a beaker, and offered it to the monk. “You must be thirsty.”

  “I thank you.” Mahinda drank it quickly and handed back the beaker. “Your daughter Mihiri is dead?”

  Anshu almost dropped the beaker. “You know about that, too?”

  “Who’s Mihiri, Grandma?” piped up Thambo.

  Anshu gave no answer. She put the beaker back on the shelf, took Thambo by the shoulders, and steered him toward the door. “Go outside now, my little one, and play with your friends.”

  Thambo resisted, asking again, “Who’s Mihiri, Grandma?”

  She sighed. “I’ll tell you later. Now go and play. Quick, quick!” She pushed the boy outside and watched him as he ran off. Behind her, she heard Mahinda’s voice.

  “The British doctor mentioned only two of your children, a daughter and a son. So I knew either Samitha or Mihiri must be dead. And the doctor said Jeeva was executed.”

  Anshu turned away without a word, and went to the altar. While she tidied up fading blooms here and there, she told him quietly how Jeeva and Mihiri had met their ends. For the last four years, she had tried to come to terms with the horrific deaths of her husband and her child, but the pain would not subside, no matter how often she told herself the two of them had exchanged this life for a happier existence in the other world.

  Mahinda listened carefully without interrupting her. He already knew how merciless the British had been toward his countrymen during the rebellion, but to hear it from Anshu herself made him burn with rage. When she fell silent, he said in very subdued tones, “Sometimes it’s very hard not to follow the path of revenge.”

  “That’s exactly what I try to explain to my children,” she acknowledged. “But it’s very hard. Especially for Phera.”

  Mahinda’s face lit up. “Where is Phera?”

  “With Siddhi. Do you remember the king’s gift?”

  Mahinda nodded. “I do indeed. Your youngest child has a special destiny.”

  Anshu thought back to the day of Phera’s birth and the years her youngest had spent as a boy, her father’s heir. “It was I who sealed Phera’s fate,” she said, downcast. “If I hadn’t—”

  Mahinda raised his hand. “You made a lapse of judgement, but your circumstances were not easy. Do not torment or reproach yourself any further. Your youngest daughter’s destiny was already written at her birth. You couldn’t have changed it.”

  Anshu’s eyes widened. “You know?” she whispered. “Y
ou know that Phera isn’t a boy?”

  “I’ve known since I drew up her horoscope. Humans cannot keep secrets from the stars. Now tell me about how you came to live here and how you are getting on.”

  Anshu prepared a tea using the dried herbs she kept in earthenware pots, sat down with the monk in the shade of the mango tree, and began her story. “We lived in peace for almost four years,” she concluded later. “But destiny caught up with us a few months ago.”

  “You mean the two British brothers?”

  Anshu nodded and pulled her sari more snugly around her shoulders.

  Mahinda leaned forward and looked straight into her eyes. “Tell me everything you know about them.”

  “One of them, the doctor, seems a good man, in spite of being English,” Anshu began, her voice hesitant. “He wishes no harm to our people and has actually helped us. But the other is so wicked in every thought and deed that he could be Mara incarnate, the demon bringer of death. He should have an entire village on his conscience, men who were brave fighters. My own husband. From Samitha and Phera, he stole all peace, and from Mihiri, her life.” Her voice trembled so much that she stopped speaking. Once she had collected herself, she pressed on. “He dragged the village men from Mapitigama and made them his slaves. He plans to drive us out from our homes for his road, and even to chop down the tree of the Enlightened One. Only Phera and Siddhi prevented him from doing it already. That’s why they must hide in the jungle.”

  “Perhaps you already know that the building work has been delayed? The British have all got diarrhea, while the workers remain well.”

  Anshu looked at him nervously, but when she saw Mahinda wink at her, she could not help a mischievous smile herself. “I heard, yes. And I hope the plague stays a long time.”

  The monk reached into his leather pouch and set the small bottle on the bench between himself and Anshu. “I found this in the British kitchen. It contains oil pressed from the seeds of the miracle tree.”

  Anshu’s smile broadened. “I am the widan here, and a widan must, after all, take care of the community. I sought advice from the women, and together we came up with the idea of miracle-tree oil. One of us is married to the cook working for the British. She met with him in the forest and gave him the bottle. He stirs a bit into the Britons’ food every day. That’s the only thing keeping our village safe for the time being. And the women have their menfolk back.”

  Mahinda laughed. “I’ve seen only one very elderly man here. Where have you hidden all the others?”

  “There are plenty of places in the jungle the British can never find.”

  “But what’ll happen next?” Mahinda was serious again. “You need to defend yourselves against being driven out of the village, but you’ll put yourselves in worse danger if the British ever find out what you’ve done. Your idea was a good one, but I beg you not to continue with it. That’s why I took the bottle, so that nobody finds any evidence that the mysterious epidemic started with all of you.”

  Anshu lowered her head. “You’re right. It’s too risky. Venerable hamudru, do you know some other way of keeping this devil, Charles Odell, away from our village?”

  The abbot leaned toward her and gently touched Anshu’s arm. “At this moment I don’t know, but stay calm and trust in the power of poetic justice. Remember what Buddha said: ‘Sit by the river and wait for your enemy’s corpse to float by’!”

  Chapter Twelve

  October 1822

  Almost immediately after Henry’s return, the diarrhea and vomiting began to abate and the men gradually recovered. Henry put this down to his treatment of diet, rest, and Mahinda’s kumbuk-bark tea. He was enormously relieved that the epidemic had not claimed any lives. When he looked for causes, however, there were no clear answers. He had questioned his orderlies and the cook, and been assured that all hygiene procedures had been adhered to during his absence. It was, of course, obvious to him that the climate of Ceylon fostered a lot of harmful miasmas: vapors thought to spread disease through the air. In addition, he’d recently learned of miniscule bacteria and parasites in the ground and water.

  Henry observed how nobody asked about Charles or when he was coming back from Colombo. Not a soul, not even the engineers and soldiers, missed him. And amongst the few workers left, there was a relaxed, almost cheerful atmosphere.

  “Do you think it possible that the workers are responsible for the outbreak?” Henry asked Mahinda before one of their daily meditation sessions.

  “How could they be?”

  “Not a single one of them was affected by the epidemic, and while the British were confined, they could run off without fear of being hunted down and recaptured. Isn’t it possible that one of the kitchen assistants slipped something in the food?”

  “Everything is possible,” replied Mahinda casually.

  Henry gave him a hard look. “Why do I feel that you know more about this than you’re prepared to say?”

  Mahinda smiled. “If you have a problem, try to solve it. If you can’t solve it, then don’t make a problem out of that.” Before Henry could reply, the monk took up his meditation pose and closed his eyes.

  But there were no more outbreaks, so Henry let the matter drop. One week after his return, he could leave his patients unattended for a few hours and do so with a clear conscience. He had decided to check on Phera and Siddhi. The mere thought filled him with joy and unease.

  He set off early and, after hunting around for a bit, found once more the little path to the waterfall. His spirits were the highest they’d been in a long time, and he whistled a tune as he hurried through the jungle. The difficulties with his brother and the mysterious epidemic faded into the background. Even his craving for opium, still gnawing away at him in spite of the meditation, softened. He felt alive, yes, happy, even if Phera was at its root.

  Since his return to the construction site, he had watched himself carefully to see whether men stirred him sexually. Amongst the soldiers were quite a few who were handsome and well built. During medical examinations, he had to see them undressed and touch them in the most private of places. And yet doing this stirred up no excitement or feelings of desire. Thus his feelings toward Phera must be something unique, extraordinary.

  Today I’m going to allow myself my feelings, he decided as he pushed aside some branches and stepped into the little clearing. I’m not going to run away from them, nor will I behave as if they are not there. But they’ll remain my secret, and nobody will find out about them. Not even Phera.

  The roar of the waterfall mingled with the multitude of other forest noises. He looked toward the rock face. Water tumbled over the ridge between trees and bushes, here a foaming white force, there a gently shimmering curtain of pearls. He could not see the pool as Siddhi was blocking his view.

  The elephant maneuvered her huge body in his direction and greeted him with a deep rumbling sound.

  Henry glanced around the clearing but could not see Phera. He tried to skirt the elephant, but with a few astonishingly quick steps, she blocked his way. Then she turned her hindquarters to show Henry her wound. Cautiously, he leaned forward to inspect the bullet’s point of entry and was pleased to see the wound was healing and now nearly closed. With the greatest of care, he touched the flesh around its edge and found the swelling had reduced. During this examination, Siddhi was looking behind her as her short neck permitted, watching Henry. Encouraged by her trust, he went to her head and stroked the sides of her gray face. She puffed softly, rifling through his jacket pockets with her trunk in search of treats.

  “Whoa there!” Henry laughed, stumbling backward. As he did so, he stepped on a small pile of clothes, heaped carelessly on the grass. He picked them up and recognized Phera’s shirt and baggy pants. Just then he heard singing, muffled by the roaring waterfall. The voice was smooth and feminine.

  Henry let go the clothes and peered past Siddhi’s head to the waterfall. In the bright sunlight, the millions of droplets conjured all the col
ors of the rainbow, like in his dream. Then he saw the woman. She was standing on a broad ledge partway up the rock face, her back toward him, letting her body revel in the water. Her singing turned to laughter as she arched her spine, lifted her arms, and threw back her head, taking uninhibited pleasure in the gushing water as it caressed her. It trickled from the tips of her long, dark hair onto her shapely bottom, and glistened on her amber skin.

  Henry was transfixed, his mind suddenly a void, his heart pounding. Bewitched, he stared at the woman, at her graceful shoulders, her slender waist, broadening into the soft curve of her hips and leading to her long legs. As she turned slightly, Henry saw her face and was dumbstruck. Had he slipped back into some opium-induced fantasy? He shut his eyes and counted silently to three. But when he opened his eyes and still saw the woman beneath the waterfall, he realized this was the real world. And this world was better than any opium dream.

  “Phera,” he whispered. The happiness flooding him was beyond description. “Phera.”

  He wanted to go to her, take her in his arms. As a sigh of longing escaped him, he realized he was behaving like a lascivious voyeur. He had to be a gentleman, however difficult that might be. Once he had moved back behind Siddhi’s mass, he allowed himself time to think through his discovery.

  So Phera was not a young man, but a beautiful woman who dressed as a man for the outside world. She must have had sound reasons for doing this and so would not want her secret to come to light, particularly not in front of an Englishman and in her naked and vulnerable state.

  If she sees me here, she’ll never forgive me, Henry rapidly calculated, finding the mere thought unbearable.

  As he withdrew silently into the forest, he thought how he would have to put aside his own desires and longings to win Phera’s affection. Her secret needed to be safe with him until she herself chose to disclose it. Until then, he had to learn patience, cherish the newfound joy in his heart, and have faith that the hope he harbored deep inside could become a reality.