The Elephant Keeper's Daughter Read online

  She remained silent, her heart full of questions she longed to ask.

  Jeeva went on. “Heaven sent us a sign that you were chosen to take the place of a son when the king bestowed on you the elephant born the same night. With your birth horoscope, that sign was confirmed. Your mother and I know you bear a difficult destiny. But it would not have been decided for you if you couldn’t live up to it.”

  Phera tried to understand what her father was saying, but everything he talked of was either too long ago for her to remember or somewhere in the distant future. She understood one thing and one thing only. She was not a boy, as she had believed herself to be for the last twelve years, but a girl. She had loved being a boy, but certain things began to make sudden sense.

  Her thoughts went to Tharindu and the sensation she had experienced watching him, and mixed with all her confusion was the tiniest bit of happiness. She tilted her head to one side and asked shyly, “So I took the place of a son, but may I be a girl, too?”

  “Never!”

  Phera trembled. “I don’t understand, Father.”

  He shut his eyes and took a deep breath. “When the king made you the gift of Siddhi, he signaled that the post of senior elephant keeper is to stay in our family—with you. And such a high office may be held only by a man.”

  “But one day I’ll be a woman,” Phera persisted. “And I know plenty about elephants. Eranga says I’m the best pupil he’s ever had.”

  “You must not ever think that one day you’ll become a woman, Phera,” answered Jeeva. “For the king, for your mother and me, for the whole world, you will remain forever my son, just as you have always been.”

  Again she thought of Tharindu and her throat tightened. “But what if I don’t want to be a boy forever?”

  “Silence! Don’t let me ever hear those words again!” He seized her by the shoulders. “I demand obedience, Phera. You are a boy. You will accept your destiny.”

  Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  Jeeva let go of her shoulders and held her head with both hands so that she had to look straight into his eyes. “You mustn’t cry, child. Be strong, as befits my son and heir. And never forget: the well-being of our entire family depends on you. You must keep your secret until death.”

  Several weeks passed, during which Phera turned her father’s words over in her mind endlessly.

  Her father behaved as if the day’s events had never happened and continued to treat her as his son, just as before. Her mother often looked at her with concern and seemed to hesitate before addressing the child as her son. Anshu tried to make Phera’s life as a boy seem attractive for her. “Just think of the education you’re getting,” she would say. “Your sisters have learned only how to read, write, and run a household. While you have learned to do arithmetic and will, one day, be invested with a position open to very few men, and never to a woman.”

  But when Phera asked why she could not learn and hold an important position as a girl, her mother had no answer.

  Kalani took special care of her, making sure that the cook prepared her favorite foods and that there was always a bath and a fresh set of clothes ready after her work with Siddhi.

  “Don’t quarrel with your destiny, young man,” Kalani said. “You cannot change it, so you must resign yourself to it.”

  In these confusing weeks, Phera buried herself in the activity she had always loved best: spending time with Siddhi. Whenever she busied herself with the young elephant, keeping her clean, feeding her, and tending to her needs, she could forget her own inner turmoil. Deeply affected to learn that she carried the fate of the family on her twelve-year-old shoulders, she understood that she must never reveal her secret. For other people, she was a boy. But her last thought at night before falling asleep, and her first in the morning when she awoke, was I am a girl.

  “Today Mother bought some fabric from the Moorish merchants from Colombo,” she confided in Siddhi one day. “We’re all getting new clothes for Samitha’s wedding. Samitha’s sari will be gold silk, and Mihiri’s will be pink. If I were allowed to wear a sari, I’d love to have one the same yellow as the ruk attana flowers in our garden. And I’d put some blooms in my hair, too.”

  She sighed ruefully. For the wedding party she would wear a new sarong, a shirt, and a short, embroidered men’s jacket. Her uncles would wink as always, asking if she had any peach fuzz on her cheeks yet.

  She rested her arm for a moment and lowered the coconut shell she had been grooming Siddhi with, so she could lay her forehead against the animal’s shoulder. “I wish I didn’t have to go to the wedding at all.”

  The young elephant wrapped her trunk protectively around Phera’s waist and made a gentle rumbling sound.

  The monk, Mahinda, had compared the horoscopes of bride and groom and set the wedding date for the new moon in the last month before spring. The bride’s relatives began to arrive several days beforehand, while the groom’s family sent gifts for Samitha every day. There were bangles, necklaces, rings, and earrings of gold and precious gems. Oxcarts piled high with household goods went daily from Jeeva’s house to the bride’s future home, only a stone’s throw from Astawanka-veediya.

  Her bridegroom, Upali Amarasekere, was considered a young man of great promise. At the court of Vikrama Rajasinha, he had the important job of overseeing the kingdom’s revenue and expenditures. His father, Psindu, was amongst the king’s most powerful supporters. Psindu was the dissava, the administrator of the province of Uva, and represented the ruler’s power there. Both families belonged to the high Radala caste and had agreed that a marriage between their children would be advantageous.

  The wedding took place in the garden of the bride’s house. There, beneath a huge mango tree, workmen had set up the wedding poruwa, a wooden platform with a baldachin decorated with flowers, beneath which the bridal pair would seal their vows.

  The garden was full of excited guests, all dressed up for the occasion. The groom’s relatives had already gathered on the right side of the poruwa, the bride’s on the left.

  Directly in front of the platform stood the master of ceremonies, at his side the groom, nervously jigging from one foot to the other.

  Mihiri turned to Phera. “Look how nervous Upali is. Do you think he loves our sister?”

  “I don’t think so. He’s only met her once, with Mama and his mother chaperoning.”

  “But if it’s true love, one look is enough,” said Mihiri. “You’re still too little to understand that. And anyway, you’re a boy.”

  Phera winced. The sound of trumpets and flutes on the street drew nearer.

  “It’s starting!” As Mihiri craned to get a good view, the servants opened the gates to the garden. Phera watched in surprise as her mother and aunts all took handkerchiefs from their handbags and dabbed at their eyes.

  Then came the musicians, dancing through the gates. With her arm linked through her father’s, Samitha stepped from the house and joined the procession. A sigh rippled through the crowd. Samitha was radiant. Her eyes, full of joy and expectation, were directed toward the groom; and when he gave her a shy smile, her face glowed. She cut a graceful, womanly figure, and her sari hugged her hips and her full breasts.

  I want to look like that, too, Phera thought.

  Her own breasts had been developing for a while, and although they were still no more than bumps, her mother made her bind them flat with strips of linen. Kalani always pulled the cloth so tight that Phera felt she could barely breathe.

  “Doesn’t Samitha look beautiful?” said Mihiri with a sigh. “I’ll be next, in just a couple more years. Maybe I’ll marry your friend over there, the one waving. He’s handsome and looks strong. Then again, I don’t want a husband who’s younger than me.”

  Phera followed Mihiri’s gaze to Tharindu, and her stomach filled with dread. Ever since her discovery, she had avoided him and the other boys more than ever.

  “He definitely wouldn’t want to marry anyone as old as you.”r />
  “You’re just in one of your moods again,” Mihiri snapped back at her.

  Phera fixed her eyes on the procession and pretended she hadn’t heard.

  Samitha and her future husband stood face-to-face and greeted one another, their palms flat on their chests. Upali led his bride up the two steps of the poruwa. When both stood side by side under the canopy, the master of ceremonies handed them a tray bearing betel-pepper leaves, the symbol of a happy marriage. Then Upali hung a golden chain around Samitha’s neck. Next Jeeva placed his daughter’s right hand on Upali’s. The couple linked their little fingers, and over this an uncle of the groom poured water from a silver pot. At the end of the ceremony, Anshu handed her daughter a bowl of boiled rice, and the couple fed one another. Finally, Mihiri and the other girls sang the “Jayamangala Gatha,” a song extolling the Buddha’s virtues and believed to bring luck to the newlyweds.

  At the end of the performance, Phera lowered her head so no one would see her tears. It was hard to share her sister’s joy when she herself could never marry—not as a woman and surely not as a man. She wiped her eyes on her sleeves.

  “You feel lonely, don’t you?”

  Phera whipped around to find herself looking at Mahinda Dharmapala. As the monk’s gaze rested on her, she felt he was looking into the depths of her soul.

  “Don’t despair, Phera,” he said, “for you are strong.”

  “I don’t feel strong,” she answered faintly. “I feel weak and helpless.”

  “Let those feelings pass through you like a breath of wind. Be fearless and brave, and know that your spirit is eternal and indestructible.”

  She understood that he wanted to do more than comfort her. He wanted to convey something of great importance, a message to strengthen her in hard times. But the loneliness remained in her heart. She looked at Tharindu. He was standing close to Mihiri now and must have been telling an amusing tale, because she was laughing and inclining her head so close to his mouth that her ear brushed his lips.

  “Will I ever marry, venerable hamudru?” Phera asked.

  He smiled gently. “One day someone will come, someone who will recognize your true being.” For a moment he placed his hand on Phera’s shoulder. Then he turned and left.

  She watched until the orange glow of his robe vanished into the crowd.

  “I shall bear my destiny,” she told herself. “But I’ll never stop hoping. And apart from the one big secret that I did not seek out for myself, I shall have my own secrets that belong to me and me alone.”

  A lavish feast of rice, spiced meats, ripe fruits, coconut milk, and palm wine lasted until long after sunset. The servants lit torches in the garden, and the company was entertained by singers, musicians, and dancers. Anshu sat under one canopy with the women, Jeeva under another with the men. The bride and groom, together with the younger guests, organized lively games. They had great fun hurling cotton bolls at one another. Anyone missing a catch got a generous spraying of water.

  Phera did not join the games. After the meal she took a couple of pieces of fruit and stole out of the garden to see Siddhi. Since earliest childhood, she had always spent much of the day with her elephant friend. But today the wedding party had kept her away.

  It was already close to midnight when Phera reached the stables. After the evening feeding, the mahouts had put out all the lights, and the stable was lit only by pale starlight, a gentle gleam coming through the skylights and the open door. Phera paused a moment in the alley, breathing in the warm scent of the animals and listening to the slow, regular chewing as they ground down leaves and rice straw in their powerful jaws. Then she went to Siddhi’s stall, located roughly in the middle of the long row. Siddhi turned as much as her rope allowed and greeted Phera with that familiar rumbling.

  “Ayubowan, my friend.” Phera squeezed into Siddhi’s stall and stroked the animal’s crinkled cheeks. “I know I’m a bit late today, but I’ve brought you a couple of special treats: breadfruit and mangoes and, yes, your favorite, too.”

  Siddhi’s trunk explored Phera’s fingers until it found the banana.

  Once she had fed the elephant all the delicacies, Phera sat down on the rice-straw-covered floor, caressing Siddhi’s trunk and gazing at the powerful head high above her. Behind it the animal’s back rose like a dome. Siddhi’s small eyes sparkled in the dim light, and her ears moved slowly back and forth. The tip of her trunk gently played over Phera’s hair, then puffed at her neck.

  “That tickles!” Phera giggled.

  “Let’s talk in here.” A male voice came from the stable door. “So nobody can see us or hear us.”

  Phera gave a little jump. She knew all the mahouts’ voices, but this one was unfamiliar. It was hoarse and croaky, as if its owner were about to cough.

  Someone was creeping into the stable. Phera ducked behind Siddhi’s front legs, which towered in front of her like pillars, and held her breath as the footsteps came closer and closer. The feeble light of an oil lamp lit up the floor. The man passed the other cow elephants, snuffling in quiet concern about a stranger in their midst, and stopped almost directly in front of Siddhi’s stall.

  “Is it safe?” asked the croaky voice from the entrance.

  “Yes, sir. There’s nobody here,” replied a second voice. The first man then felt his way into the stable and joined the other.

  Phera peered cautiously from between the elephant’s legs. Two pairs of human legs stood on the patch of mud floor lit up by the oil lamp. One was draped in a sarong reaching almost to the ankles, the feet in expensive gilded sandals, much like those her father wore. The other pair of feet was unshod and the sarong hitched up to the knees. Siddhi’s huge body blocked any view of the men’s top halves.

  “Turn down the lamp,” ordered the croaky one. The flame faded to give the smallest light. “You have news for me?”

  “A letter from the British general, sir,” replied the second man.

  There was some rustling. Phera heard a dry crack as a seal was broken, then again the rustling of paper. There was silence for several minutes. At last the one with the croaky voice said, “This is good news. You have earned your reward.” There was a soft clinking of coins.

  “I thank you, sir. What answer shall I convey to the British general?”

  Another silence followed; then the first man responded: “Tell General Brownrigg that I, and my loyal supporters, stand ready. Vikrama Rajasinha is finished.”

  Phera gasped, then quickly clapped her hand to her mouth. Too late. The men’s feet swiveled in her direction.

  “What was that?” asked the first one under his breath.

  “It came from the elephant stall. Might be a monkey, having a go at the feed.” The second man clapped a few times.

  Phera held her breath. The elephant barely moved a muscle either. Only her trunk gently stroked Phera’s shoulders.

  “A monkey would have cleared off by now! There’s someone here,” the first man hissed in annoyance. “Someone’s listening.”

  Phera watched, petrified, as the legs moved toward the stall. Then Siddhi stepped in. She stamped her feet in anger and swung her powerful hindquarters from side to side.

  “We can’t go in, sir; the elephant will crush us.” The second man sounded scared.

  “Turn the lamp up,” the first man ordered. “Someone’s been listening.”

  Phera jumped up and pulled at the bolt that secured the outside gate. But it was jammed. She was trapped. Her heart pounded. She looked around in search of an escape route, and her eyes landed on the skylight directly above her head. But it was far too high. She clenched her fists in frustration. Siddhi seemed to sense her fear and gently stroked her tensed fingers with the tip of her trunk.

  Oh, my dear friend, even you can’t help me, thought Phera and clasped Siddhi’s trunk. Then something struck her. Yes, you can.

  She stood up straight and whispered: “Rangu!”

  Phera had started practicing this just recently with Sid
dhi and was not at all sure whether the elephant had gotten the hang of lifting her truck on command.

  The lamp grew brighter as one of the men tried to shine it into the stall. Luckily, Siddhi’s enormous body was still obscuring the view.

  “Rangu!” repeated Phera and tapped Siddhi’s trunk. After a moment’s hesitation, the elephant lifted her trunk into the shape of a swing. Phera sat on it, and Siddhi tensed her muscles to hoist her little load. In a flash, Phera drew level with the skylight. She could have wept with relief.

  “Thank you,” she whispered to Siddhi.

  She grabbed the lintel with both hands and pulled herself up, getting first her upper body and then legs through. She looked down from the high roof.

  “There’s a boy out there!” she heard the second man yell.

  “We have to catch him,” shouted the first one. “Go!”

  Phera closed her eyes, summoned all her courage, and jumped. She hit the ground hard, and pain shot through her ankles and knees. But she recovered quickly and ran for it.

  She knew these stables so well, she could have found her way blindfolded. The cinnamon trees surrounding the cows’ stables were surrounded by thick, prickly bushes. With the courage born of desperation, she plunged in. Thorns scratched every bit of exposed skin. Bravely, she swallowed her yelps of pain and banished from her mind all thoughts of the spiders, poisonous snakes, and terrifying black scorpions she might have stirred into activity. She rolled herself into a ball under the bushes and listened. The men were already very close, and she could hear their footsteps and low voices.

  “Where on earth did he go?” asked the second man. He beat at the bushes with his hands, right above where Phera lay.

  “Stop that!” said the croaky voice. “Do you want to get attacked by a cobra?”