The Elephant Keeper's Daughter Read online

  “I’ve always known that,” said Phera with pride.

  “If you will allow me to, young mistress, I’d like to tend to Siddhi,” said Eranga. “Then you can go and welcome your father.”

  She nodded, and he moved off across the clearing with Siddhi and Upali. Anshu, Samitha, Mihiri, and the servants came running out of the house. Kalani was the last to reach the veranda, leaning heavily on the cane Eranga had fashioned from a sturdy branch. Samitha shrieked when she saw her husband was wounded. But as soon as he slid down from Siddhi’s back and folded her in his arms, she regained her composure.

  One by one, the other men emerged from the jungle. Tharindu was in the lead, the image of the victorious warrior, a spear in his right hand. Impaled on its tip was the blanched and bloody head of a Briton.

  As soon as he spotted Phera, he began to swagger, swinging the spear from side to side. “Just look at this! It’s the head of Sylvester Wilson, the man sent by the British government to capture our King Wilbawe. Killed by my arrow. We could’ve killed all the British, but we spared a couple of lives and sent them to Senkadagala with Wilson’s body and the news of our victory. Now the British will flee Kanda Uda Pas Rata like the rats they are.” Tharindu tilted the spear so that the dead Englishman’s grotesque face was eye level with Phera.

  She flinched. Much as she delighted in the victory, those lifeless eyes seemed to fix her with a hostile look. “Didn’t the British put up a fight?”

  Tharindu laughed. “We didn’t give them the chance. Our arrows and rocks pelted down on them like a thousand rainstorms.” His gaze took in her made-up face and body. “You look nice.”

  She concealed her pleasure with a snappy reply. “Only just noticed?”

  He laughed. “When we hold our victory celebrations, my beauty, I want you at my side.” Without a backward glance, he moved off across the clearing, still brandishing his trophy.

  Her cheeks burning now, Phera turned away and searched for her father amongst the warriors continuing to stream out of the jungle. Some had wounds protected by nothing more than banana leaves, but their faces glowed with pride. Many were now clad in enemy headgear or jackets, the cloth stained with blood. They brandished in triumph all the weapons they had plundered from the British.

  “Phera!” Jeeva was there, ready to embrace her.

  She hugged him in relief. “Oh, Father, I’m so happy you’re back.”

  “There was no need for you to be worried, my dear daughter. Keppetipola is a fine warrior and led us to an important victory. We have wiped out the regiment sent to Badulla by Brownrigg. Our King Wilbawe is saved!”

  Phera looked around. “So where is Keppetipola now? Was he wounded?”

  Jeeva shook his head. “He’s gone back to Badulla with his men in order to receive further orders from our king.” He held Phera close again, then hurried toward Anshu.

  Phera watched him go, one moment feeling triumphant, the next desperate. They had been living here in hiding for over three years. Would this mean it was all over? Would they all go back to Senkadagala and resume their old life? And what did that mean for her? The royal elephants were gone, and even if they had still been there, she would no longer have been able to be her father’s successor.

  “Our victory may seem major, but these British were easy game. They were hopelessly exposed. Their gunpowder was damp, and they couldn’t make any use of their cannon and rifles,” came a croaky voice, cutting through her thoughts of home. Next to her stood Deepal Sirisena, his hand on the bridle of an enemy horse. “Our men are drunk with victory. They’ll be celebrating until dawn. But the British don’t give up easily. Masters of the world won’t take a defeat like that without retaliation.” He looked darkly at the fighters as they continued to fill the clearing. Women and children from the village had come running to cheer for them. Servants had brought palm wine, and goblets were passed round. Voices struck up triumphal harmonies, and people clapped in time with the songs telling of heroic deeds.

  “Silence, you prophet of doom!” Psindu was suddenly there, next to Deepal. “Let’s cook all the rice we have and enjoy the palm wine. Today we’re celebrating our victory over the British invaders. We’ve well and truly routed them. The children of the lion are stronger than these white-skinned bastards!”

  “You’re telling me they beheaded Wilson, took his head as a trophy, and then sent you here to me with his body?” Governor Brownrigg brought down his hand so hard on the huge writing desk and bellowed so forcefully that the sounds echoed through his office in the king’s old palace. “I demand an explanation, Captain!”

  On the other side of the desk stood Charles Odell, saluting. His uniform was torn and dirty, his face drawn and exhausted, and yet his voice shook with rage. “The brown monkeys lured us into a trap. We couldn’t defend ourselves because the damned rain had made our gunpowder wet. Those hounds slaughtered us. I led the advance and had almost traversed the ravine with my men when we discovered the way out was blocked. We thought it was some earthquake or avalanche, not unusual in the monsoon season. I was about to shout a warning when a shower of arrows rained down on us, followed by huge lumps of stone. Hardly anyone escaped injury. Wilson was one of the first to perish. They shot my horse to the ground, a bit of luck, really, as it meant I could take cover behind his body. By God, I was sure I’d breathed my last.”

  “It was a terrible slaughter,” added Henry Odell, the third man in the room. “The only reason they left a couple of us alive was for us to bring you Wilson’s body and the news of the rebels’ victory.”

  The young doctor looked as bewildered as his brother. His right knee was heavily bandaged. He had been dragging a wounded colleague to safety beneath a rocky outcrop when he himself caught a hail of enemy rocks.

  Brownrigg raked his fingers through his silver-gray hair. “How many men have survived, Dr. Odell?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “Eighteen! Eighteen out of two hundred and fifty?”

  “With regret, sir, I have to report that half of those eighteen are going to die,” Henry clarified, his voice subdued. “There is no hope for those hit by arrows and spears. Sadly, my medical skills are limited to fixing broken bones and crush injuries. And many of the soldiers have been weakened by the climate. They are suffering from malaria, and their bodies lack the strength to heal.”

  “What about your superior, Dr. Bell? Is he still alive?”

  “He fell, Your Excellency, while we were tending to casualties during the onslaught,” replied Henry.

  Brownrigg’s expression hardened. “That means the Fifteenth Infantry Regiment needs a new senior surgeon. Odell, you will take on this post with immediate effect.” He gave a brief nod in Henry’s direction and turned back to Charles. “Is this ravine the only route to Badulla?”

  Charles shrugged. “There might be one or two trails through the jungle. If there are, it’s unlikely they’re suitable for a unit the size of ours. Keppetipola led the Sinhalese. It’s because of him and his five hundred men that they had the strength to conquer us.”

  The governor looked at him, long and hard. “Was Keppetipola the only one leading the ambush?”

  “No. With him there were six altogether. Deepal Sirisena and his son were there. They’ve changed sides, just like Keppetipola. The other three are well known to us. We’ve been after them for years: Psindu Amarasekere; his son, Upali; and Jeeva Maha Nuvara. They all vanished over three years ago, together with the royal elephants.”

  Brownrigg looked deep in thought. “This needs considered action.”

  “With respect, Your Excellency,” Charles said, “if we can get those men, the entire rebellion will collapse.”

  “But how are we to find them? The rebel leaders have the full support of the population. The people will never give away their hideout.”

  “I don’t see it that way, Your Excellency. Up to now we’ve let the brown monkeys walk all over us. Now it’s time to use the only language they understand.” Char
les gave the governor a meaningful look. “I’m referring, of course, to starvation, fire, and the sword. Anyone—and here I include the women and children—who refuses to toe the line will be killed.”

  “I agree the rebel leaders must be punished, but only through a civilized judicial process,” Henry broke in. “An eye for an eye is not acceptable, most particularly where women and children are involved.”

  “There should be no exceptions!” retorted Charles. “It’s the women who give birth to the next generation of rebels.”

  But Henry persisted. “When we arrived in Kandy, many Sinhalese welcomed us. We should be asking ourselves why that’s changed.”

  Brownrigg was listening attentively. “And what do you think, Doctor? Why have the Sinhalese changed their minds about us?”

  “We have not adhered to promises made in the Kandyan Convention, Your Excellency. We do not respect their Buddhist faith. The people hold that against us.”

  The governor looked puzzled. “What do you mean? We don’t stop them going to the temple.”

  Henry shook his head. “The missionaries we brought from England forced local people to send their children to Christian schools. This antagonized the monks, the people held in the highest of esteem by the population. When the monks spoke out against us, the people listened to them. That’s what really fueled the rebellion.”

  “What are you suggesting, then, Doctor?”

  “The utmost tact in our dealings with the native population and greater respect for their traditions.”

  “Don’t listen to my brother, Your Excellency,” Charles said, his voice betraying impatience. “Where would we be if we let every savage in the colonies do whatever he felt like? Every one of us is here to serve the monarch. How do you suppose London will react if other colonies hear about our defeat and more uprisings break out as a result? Do you really want it to come to that?”

  “You’re right, Captain.” Placing both hands on his desk, Brownrigg rose to his full and commanding height. “Nobody treats British soldiers like this. We will destroy this rabble.”

  Chapter Five

  Uva Province, Territory of Kandy, October 1818

  As day dawned, Phera opened her eyes and was immediately struck by the silence. For the first time in more than two months, the daily pounding of rain on the roof had not woken her. The month of Asvina, known as October on the British calendar, had come and with it the end of the monsoons. Through the window came the sounds of the jungle: soft rustling and crackling, birdsong, and then the shrill cries of a monkey.

  She sat up and listened carefully. The house was still quiet, too. Since their fighters had come back from Uva Ravine, life seemed to have come to a standstill. Everybody was waiting for news from Eranga. After the victory celebrations, the mahout had gone to Senkadagala to observe how the British took the overwhelming defeat. He was to break into the British munitions store and steal bullets and gunpowder for the fighters to use with the plundered weapons. And, more importantly, he would buy sacks of rice—the tiny village’s rice fields could not feed all the extra mouths. He had set off two weeks ago and taken Siddhi with him to carry the goods.

  Keeping quiet as a mouse so as not to wake Mihiri, Phera slipped on her pants and shirt and rolled up her sleeping mat. Her thoughts drifted to Tharindu. On the night of the victory party, when revelers had eaten all the food, the fire was out, and most fighters were so full of palm wine they had fallen asleep where they sat, he had kissed her. Quite taken aback, Phera had pushed him away. Tharindu, surprised by his own boldness, had turned on his heel and hurried into the house.

  But in secret, Phera often thought about the kiss. She was not sure whether it had felt nice, exactly, but it had certainly been intriguing. While she braided her hair, she thought how she would like to try kissing Tharindu again. The trouble was he spent all his time with his father and the other rebel leaders and seemed to be avoiding her.

  She went to the window and peered out. The jungle still lay like a dark wall before her. And yet the deep, velvety blue of the night sky was growing lighter, and the shapes of the huts near the jungle began to come into view. A morning mist rose at the jungle’s edge, drifted up to the treetops, and melted away, clearing the way for a gentle, golden sun.

  Phera’s eyes went to the spear bearing the head of the British government’s representative. Tharindu had rammed it into the soil in the center of the clearing. Her scalp prickled at the sight of rotting skin hanging from the bony skull, two gaping holes where birds had pecked the eyes from their sockets. Every day she resolved to ignore the skull, only to find herself somehow bewitched by it, repeatedly drawn back to this gruesome sight.

  Just then she glimpsed a shadow moving rapidly down the spear to the earth below. A cobra. Rearing up, it opened its hood. It was motionless for some time, then shot forward, spat, and hissed. Phera followed the snake’s line of sight but could not work out what had provoked the creature. When she looked back, the cobra had disappeared.

  Phera squinted into the jungle. There! Something was rustling in the foliage. A leopard, ready to attack a cow in the farmers’ stalls, or maybe the horse captured at Uva Ravine? She whipped around at the sound of a branch snapping. Instinct made her step back from the window.

  Suddenly, a torch flared up between the huts, closely followed by another, then another and another. They formed a ring of fire around the village. Phera’s heart was racing so fast, she could hardly breathe.

  I must warn everyone, she thought. But she was paralyzed with fear.

  Terrifying sounds broke the silence. It was like the bugles blown by the monks in the sacred temple of Maligawa in Senkadagala, but far more threatening.

  Mihiri woke with a start. “What was that?”

  Men in red uniforms emerged from the jungle in droves. They all had blazing torches or rifles with fixed bayonets. As they ran past the farmers’ huts, they hurled torches through the windows. The palm-straw roofing and outside walls were too damp to burn, but the fire took hold inside. Several torches landed on Psindu’s veranda but went out before the wood caught fire.

  Mihiri screamed as a torch landed in their room. Phera grabbed her straw mat and beat it out.

  Smoke and flames poured from farmers’ huts. Terrified families came stumbling outside. Mothers clutched babies in one arm, pulling bigger children behind them with the other. The men carried the old and frail on their backs. Panic-stricken, many ran blindly into the firing line. Anyone not felled by the hail of bullets was slit open by a bayonet. Screams and sobs mingled with gunfire. Fatally wounded mothers tried to shield their children with their own bodies, as did men their wives. The village boys grabbed stones and hurled them as they ran for their lives. But they stood no chance against the well-armed British.

  The animal stalls, too, were on fire. Some of the cattle had already gotten out and were running through the village in terror. Their attackers drove them through vegetable gardens and rice fields, where the animals trampled on crops and tender, young rice plants. The enemy set fire to the store sheds and destroyed any reserves the farmers still had.

  Under orders from their commander, soldiers stormed Psindu’s house. Heavy boots pounded across the veranda. The wooden door was hacked open. Phera searched desperately for a hiding place. Apart from a trunk and some rugs, there was no refuge. The British were inside the house. Rifle butts forced open more doors. Mihiri scuttled to the corner of the room, whimpering. Jeeva’s and Anshu’s voices rang out, as did the harsh yells of the soldiers, then a shot. Phera ran to the window and dove onto the veranda. She vaulted over the railing into the mud, then wriggled under the deck. On all fours, she crept behind the posts that the house stood on and cowered there like a terrified kitten. She could hear her mother and sister weeping above, the thud of boots, and the tap of bare feet as the residents were driven from the house. The footsteps stopped almost directly over her.

  The air was thick with the smell of fire, and she clapped her hand across her m
outh to keep from coughing out loud. Her eyes streamed from the smoke. She dug into the mud with her free hand and smeared it on her face as camouflage.

  Above her head, the imperious voice of an attacker shouted a question. A different voice interpreted: “Your names, you rebels.”

  One by one, Jeeva, Deepal, Tharindu, and Upali gave their names and titles. Phera did not hear Psindu at all.

  The first man’s voice came again, and the second followed. “Who is the master of this house?”

  “The man your leader shot when he forced his way in here,” replied Jeeva. “Psindu Amarasekere.”

  Phera kept a tight grip on herself so as not to cry out. The first Englishman burst out laughing and said something more. “Governor Brownrigg will be delighted by this news. We are here on his orders to”—the interpreter broke off; there was a short, sharp exchange between him and the commander before he completed the sentence—“punish you for your rebellious conduct toward us, your rightful rulers.”

  After a brief pause, the commander roared in apparent rage, then the other man relayed, “Is that the impaled head of Mr. Wilson?”

  Phera’s stomach turned, bitter-tasting bile filling her mouth.

  “Yes, that’s him.” Jeeva’s voice shook with anger. “He and all the others have only themselves to blame for their fate.”

  The commander gave an order. Boots tramped over Phera’s head again and then into the clearing. She saw the spear with Wilson’s head on it being torn from the ground and borne away.

  The commander spoke again. “Jeeva Maha Nuvara, you speak as if you are the rebels’ leader.”