Chapter 11: Toomai of the Elephants
I will remember what I was, I am sick of rope and chain--
I will remember my old strength and all my forest affairs.
I will not sell my back to man for a bundle of sugar-cane:
I will go out to my own kind, and the wood-folk in their lairs.
I will go out until the day, until the morning break--
Out to the wind's untainted kiss, the water's clean caress;
I will forget my ankle-ring and snap my picket stake.
I will revisit my lost loves, and playmates masterless!
Kala Nag, which means Black Snake, had served the Indian Government in every
way that an elephant could serve it for forty-seven years, and as he was
fully twenty years old when he was caught, that makes him nearly seventy--a
ripe age for an elephant. He remembered pushing, with a big leather pad on
his forehead, at a gun stuck in deep mud, and that was before the Afghan
War of 1842, and he had not then come to his full strength.
His mother Radha Pyari,--Radha the darling,--who had been caught in the same
drive with Kala Nag, told him, before his little milk tusks had dropped out,
that elephants who were afraid always got hurt. Kala Nag knew that that advice
was good, for the first time that he saw a shell burst he backed, screaming,
into a stand of piled rifles, and the bayonets pricked him in all his softest
places. So, before he was twenty-five, he gave up being afraid, and so he
was the best-loved and the best-looked-after elephant in the service of the
Government of India. He had carried tents, twelve hundred pounds' weight
of tents, on the march in Upper India. He had been hoisted into a ship at
the end of a steam crane and taken for days across the water, and made to
carry a mortar on his back in a strange and rocky country very far from India,
and had seen the Emperor Theodore lying dead in Magdala, and had come back
again in the steamer entitled, so the soldiers said, to the Abyssinian War
medal. He had seen his fellow elephants die of cold and epilepsy and starvation
and sunstroke up at a place called Ali Musjid, ten years later; and afterward
he had been sent down thousands of miles south to haul and pile big balks
of teak in the timberyards at Moulmein. There he had half killed an insubordinate
young elephant who was shirking his fair share of work.
After that he was taken off timber-hauling, and employed, with a few score
other elephants who were trained to the business, in helping to catch wild
elephants among the Garo hills. Elephants are very strictly preserved by
the Indian Government. There is one whole department which does nothing else
but hunt them, and catch them, and break them in, and send them up and down
the country as they are needed for work.
Kala Nag stood ten fair feet at the shoulders, and his tusks had been cut
off short at five feet, and bound round the ends, to prevent them splitting,
with bands of copper; but he could do more with those stumps than any untrained
elephant could do with the real sharpened ones. When, after weeks and weeks
of cautious driving of scattered elephants across the hills, the forty or
fifty wild monsters were driven into the last stockade, and the big drop
gate, made of tree trunks lashed together, jarred down behind them, Kala
Nag, at the word of command, would go into that flaring, trumpeting pandemonium
(generally at night, when the flicker of the torches made it difficult to
judge distances), and, picking out the biggest and wildest tusker of the
mob, would hammer him and hustle him into quiet while the men on the backs
of the other elephants roped and tied the smaller ones.
There was nothing in the way of fighting that Kala Nag, the old wise Black
Snake, did not know, for he had stood up more than once in his time to the
charge of the wounded tiger, and, curling up his soft trunk to be out of
harm's way, had knocked the springing brute sideways in mid-air with a quick
sickle cut of his head, that he had invented all by himself; had knocked
him over, and kneeled upon him with his huge knees till the life went out
with a gasp and a howl, and there was only a fluffy striped thing on the
ground for Kala Nag to pull by the tail.
"Yes," said Big Toomai, his driver, the son of Black Toomai who had taken
him to Abyssinia, and grandson of Toomai of the Elephants who had seen him
caught, "there is nothing that the Black Snake fears except me. He has seen
three generations of us feed him and groom him, and he will live to see four."
"He is afraid of me also," said Little Toomai, standing up to his full height
of four feet, with only one rag upon him. He was ten years old, the eldest
son of Big Toomai, and, according to custom, he would take his father's place
on Kala Nag's neck when he grew up, and would handle the heavy iron ankus,
the elephant goad, that had been worn smooth by his father, and his grandfather,
and his great-grandfather.
He knew what he was talking of; for he had been born under Kala Nag's shadow,
had played with the end of his trunk before he could walk, had taken him
down to water as soon as he could walk, and Kala Nag would no more have dreamed
of disobeying his shrill little orders than he would have dreamed of killing
him on that day when Big Toomai carried the little brown baby under Kala
Nag's tusks, and told him to salute his master that was to be.
"Yes," said Little Toomai, "he is afraid of me," and he took long strides
up to Kala Nag, called him a fat old pig, and made him lift up his feet one
after the other.
"Wah!" said Little Toomai, "thou art a big elephant," and he wagged his fluffy
head, quoting his father. "The Government may pay for elephants, but they
belong to us mahouts. When thou art old, Kala Nag, there will come some rich
rajah, and he will buy thee from the Government, on account of thy size and
thy manners, and then thou wilt have nothing to do but to carry gold earrings
in thy ears, and a gold howdah on thy back, and a red cloth covered with
gold on thy sides, and walk at the head of the processions of the King. Then
I shall sit on thy neck, O Kala Nag, with a silver ankus, and men will run
before us with golden sticks, crying, `Room for the King's elephant!' That
will be good, Kala Nag, but not so good as this hunting in the jungles."
"Umph!" said Big Toomai. "Thou art a boy, and as wild as a buffalo-calf.
This running up and down among the hills is not the best Government service.
I am getting old, and I do not love wild elephants. Give me brick elephant
lines, one stall to each elephant, and big stumps to tie them to safely,
and flat, broad roads to exercise upon, instead of this come-and-go camping.
Aha, the Cawnpore barracks were good. There was a bazaar close by, and only
three hours' work a day."
Little Toomai remembered the Cawnpore elephant-lines and said nothing. He
very much preferred the camp life, and hated those broad, flat roads, with
the daily grubbing for grass in the forage reserve, and the long hours when
there was nothing to do except to watch Kala Nag fidgeting in his pickets.
What Little Toomai liked was to scramble up bridle paths that only an elephant
could take; the dip into the valley below; the glimpses of the wild elephants
browsing miles away; the rush of the frightened pig and peacock under Kala
Nag's feet; the blinding warm rains, when all the hills and valleys smoked;
the beautiful misty mornings when nobody knew where they would camp that
night; the steady, cautious drive of the wild elephants, and the mad rush
and blaze and hullabaloo of the last night's drive, when the elephants poured
into the stockade like boulders in a landslide, found that they could not
get out, and flung themselves at the heavy posts only to be driven back by
yells and flaring torches and volleys of blank cartridge.
Even a little boy could be of use there, and Toomai was as useful as three
boys. He would get his torch and wave it, and yell with the best. But the
really good time came when the driving out began, and the Keddah--that is,
the stockade-- looked like a picture of the end of the world, and men had
to make signs to one another, because they could not hear themselves speak.
Then Little Toomai would climb up to the top of one of the quivering stockade
posts, his sun-bleached brown hair flying loose all over his shoulders, and
he looking like a goblin in the torch-light. And as soon as there was a lull
you could hear his high-pitched yells of encouragement to Kala Nag, above
the trumpeting and crashing, and snapping of ropes, and groans of the tethered
elephants. "Mael, mael, Kala Nag! (Go on, go on, Black Snake!) Dant do! (Give
him the tusk!) Somalo! Somalo! (Careful, careful!) Maro! Mar! (Hit him, hit
him!) Mind the post! Arre! Arre! Hai! Yai! Kya-a-ah!" he would shout, and
the big fight between Kala Nag and the wild elephant would sway to and fro
across the Keddah, and the old elephant catchers would wipe the sweat out
of their eyes, and find time to nod to Little Toomai wriggling with joy on
the top of the posts.
He did more than wriggle. One night he slid down from the post and slipped
in between the elephants and threw up the loose end of a rope, which had
dropped, to a driver who was trying to get a purchase on the leg of a kicking
young calf (calves always give more trouble than full-grown animals). Kala
Nag saw him, caught him in his trunk, and handed him up to Big Toomai, who
slapped him then and there, and put him back on the post.
Next morning he gave him a scolding and said, "Are not good brick elephant
lines and a little tent carrying enough, that thou must needs go elephant
catching on thy own account, little worthless? Now those foolish hunters,
whose pay is less than my pay, have spoken to Petersen Sahib of the matter."
Little Toomai was frightened. He did not know much of white men, but Petersen
Sahib was the greatest white man in the world to him. He was the head of
all the Keddah operations--the man who caught all the elephants for the
Government of India, and who knew more about the ways of elephants than any
living man.
"What--what will happen?" said Little Toomai.
"Happen! The worst that can happen. Petersen Sahib is a madman. Else why
should he go hunting these wild devils? He may even require thee to be an
elephant catcher, to sleep anywhere in these fever-filled jungles, and at
last to be trampled to death in the Keddah. It is well that this nonsense
ends safely. Next week the catching is over, and we of the plains are sent
back to our stations. Then we will march on smooth roads, and forget all
this hunting. But, son, I am angry that thou shouldst meddle in the business
that belongs to these dirty Assamese jungle folk. Kala Nag will obey none
but me, so I must go with him into the Keddah, but he is only a fighting
elephant, and he does not help to rope them. So I sit at my ease, as befits
a mahout,--not a mere hunter,--a mahout, I say, and a man who gets a pension
at the end of his service. Is the family of Toomai of the Elephants to be
trodden underfoot in the dirt of a Keddah? Bad one! Wicked one! Worthless
son! Go and wash Kala Nag and attend to his ears, and see that there are
no thorns in his feet. Or else Petersen Sahib will surely catch thee and
make thee a wild hunter--a follower of elephant's foot tracks, a jungle bear.
Bah! Shame! Go!"
Little Toomai went off without saying a word, but he told Kala Nag all his
grievances while he was examining his feet. "No matter," said Little Toomai,
turning up the fringe of Kala Nag's huge right ear. "They have said my name
to Petersen Sahib, and perhaps--and perhaps--and perhaps--who knows? Hai!
That is a big thorn that I have pulled out!"
The next few days were spent in getting the elephants together, in walking
the newly caught wild elephants up and down between a couple of tame ones
to prevent them giving too much trouble on the downward march to the plains,
and in taking stock of the blankets and ropes and things that had been worn
out or lost in the forest.
Petersen Sahib came in on his clever she-elephant Pudmini; he had been paying
off other camps among the hills, for the season was coming to an end, and
there was a native clerk sitting at a table under a tree, to pay the drivers
their wages. As each man was paid he went back to his elephant, and joined
the line that stood ready to start. The catchers, and hunters, and beaters,
the men of the regular Keddah, who stayed in the jungle year in and year
out, sat on the backs of the elephants that belonged to Petersen Sahib's
permanent force, or leaned against the trees with their guns across their
arms, and made fun of the drivers who were going away, and laughed when the
newly caught elephants broke the line and ran about.
Big Toomai went up to the clerk with Little Toomai behind him, and Machua
Appa, the head tracker, said in an undertone to a friend of his, "There goes
one piece of good elephant stuff at least. 'Tis a pity to send that young
jungle-cock to molt in the plains."
Now Petersen Sahib had ears all over him, as a man must have who listens
to the most silent of all living things--the wild elephant. He turned where
he was lying all along on Pudmini's back and said, "What is that? I did not
know of a man among the plains-drivers who had wit enough to rope even a
dead elephant."
"This is not a man, but a boy. He went into the Keddah at the last drive,
and threw Barmao there the rope, when we were trying to get that young calf
with the blotch on his shoulder away from his mother."
Machua Appa pointed at Little Toomai, and Petersen Sahib looked, and Little
Toomai bowed to the earth.
"He throw a rope? He is smaller than a picket-pin. Little one, what is thy
name?" said Petersen Sahib.
Little Toomai was too frightened to speak, but Kala Nag was behind him, and
Toomai made a sign with his hand, and the elephant caught him up in his trunk
and held him level with Pudmini's forehead, in front of the great Petersen
Sahib. Then Little Toomai covered his face with his hands, for he was only
a child, and except where elephants were concerned, he was just as bashful
as a child could be.
"Oho!" said Petersen Sahib, smiling underneath his mustache, "and why didst
thou teach thy elephant that trick? Was it to help thee steal green corn
from the roofs of the houses when the ears are put out to dry?"
"Not green corn, Protector of the Poor,--melons," said Little Toomai, and
all the men sitting about broke into a roar of laughter. Most of them had
taught their elephants that trick when they were boys. Little Toomai was
hanging eight feet up in the air, and he wished very much that he were eight
feet underground.
"He is Toomai, my son, Sahib," said Big Toomai, scowling. "He is a very bad
boy, and he will end in a jail, Sahib."
"Of that I have my doubts," said Petersen Sahib. "A boy who can face a full
Keddah at his age does not end in jails. See, little one, here are four annas
to spend in sweetmeats because thou hast a little head under that great thatch
of hair. In time thou mayest become a hunter too." Big Toomai scowled more
than ever. "Remember, though, that Keddahs are not good for children to play
in," Petersen Sahib went on.
"Must I never go there, Sahib?" asked Little Toomai with a big gasp.
"Yes." Petersen Sahib smiled again. "When thou hast seen the elephants dance.
That is the proper time. Come to me when thou hast seen the elephants dance,
and then I will let thee go into all the Keddahs."
There was another roar of laughter, for that is an old joke among
elephant-catchers, and it means just never. There are great cleared flat
places hidden away in the forests that are called elephants' ball-rooms,
but even these are only found by accident, and no man has ever seen the elephants
dance. When a driver boasts of his skill and bravery the other drivers say,
"And when didst thou see the elephants dance?"
Kala Nag put Little Toomai down, and he bowed to the earth again and went
away with his father, and gave the silver four-anna piece to his mother,
who was nursing his baby brother, and they all were put up on Kala Nag's
back, and the line of grunting, squealing elephants rolled down the hill
path to the plains. It was a very lively march on account of the new elephants,
who gave trouble at every ford, and needed coaxing or beating every other
minute.
Big Toomai prodded Kala Nag spitefully, for he was very angry, but Little
Toomai was too happy to speak. Petersen Sahib had noticed him, and given
him money, so he felt as a private soldier would feel if he had been called
out of the ranks and praised by his commander-in-chief.
"What did Petersen Sahib mean by the elephant dance?" he said, at last, softly
to his mother.
Big Toomai heard him and grunted. "That thou shouldst never be one of these
hill buffaloes of trackers. That was what he meant. Oh, you in front, what
is blocking the way?"
An Assamese driver, two or three elephants ahead, turned round angrily, crying:
"Bring up Kala Nag, and knock this youngster of mine into good behavior.
Why should Petersen Sahib have chosen me to go down with you donkeys of the
rice fields? Lay your beast alongside, Toomai, and let him prod with his
tusks. By all the Gods of the Hills, these new elephants are possessed, or
else they can smell their companions in the jungle." Kala Nag hit the new
elephant in the ribs and knocked the wind out of him, as Big Toomai said,
"We have swept the hills of wild elephants at the last catch. It is only
your carelessness in driving. Must I keep order along the whole line?"
"Hear him!" said the other driver. "We have swept the hills! Ho! Ho! You
are very wise, you plains people. Anyone but a mud-head who never saw the
jungle would know that they know that the drives are ended for the season.
Therefore all the wild elephants to-night will--but why should I waste wisdom
on a river-turtle?"
"What will they do?" Little Toomai called out.
"Ohe, little one. Art thou there? Well, I will tell thee, for thou hast a
cool head. They will dance, and it behooves thy father, who has swept all
the hills of all the elephants, to double-chain his pickets to-night."
"What talk is this?" said Big Toomai. "For forty years, father and son, we
have tended elephants, and we have never heard such moonshine about dances."
"Yes; but a plainsman who lives in a hut knows only the four walls of his
hut. Well, leave thy elephants unshackled tonight and see what comes. As
for their dancing, I have seen the place where--Bapree-bap! How many windings
has the Dihang River? Here is another ford, and we must swim the calves.
Stop still, you behind there."
And in this way, talking and wrangling and splashing through the rivers,
they made their first march to a sort of receiving camp for the new elephants.
But they lost their tempers long before they got there.
Then the elephants were chained by their hind legs to their big stumps of
pickets, and extra ropes were fitted to the new elephants, and the fodder
was piled before them, and the hill drivers went back to Petersen Sahib through
the afternoon light, telling the plains drivers to be extra careful that
night, and laughing when the plains drivers asked the reason.
Little Toomai attended to Kala Nag's supper, and as evening fell, wandered
through the camp, unspeakably happy, in search of a tom-tom. When an Indian
child's heart is full, he does not run about and make a noise in an irregular
fashion. He sits down to a sort of revel all by himself. And Little Toomai
had been spoken to by Petersen Sahib! If he had not found what he wanted,
I believe he would have been ill. But the sweetmeat seller in the camp lent
him a little tom-tom--a drum beaten with the flat of the hand--and he sat
down, cross-legged, before Kala Nag as the stars began to come out, the tom-tom
in his lap, and he thumped and he thumped and he thumped, and the more he
thought of the great honor that had been done to him, the more he thumped,
all alone among the elephant fodder. There was no tune and no words, but
the thumping made him happy.
The new elephants strained at their ropes, and squealed and trumpeted from
time to time, and he could hear his mother in the camp hut putting his small
brother to sleep with an old, old song about the great God Shiv, who once
told all the animals what they should eat. It is a very soothing lullaby,
and the first verse says:
Shiv, who poured the harvest and made the winds to blow,
Sitting at the doorways of a day of long ago,
Gave to each his portion, food and toil and fate,
From the King upon the guddee to the Beggar at the gate.
All things made he--Shiva the Preserver.
Mahadeo! Mahadeo! He made all--
Thorn for the camel, fodder for the kine,
And mother's heart for sleepy head, O little son of mine!
Little Toomai came in with a joyous tunk-a-tunk at the end of each verse,
till he felt sleepy and stretched himself on the fodder at Kala Nag's side.
At last the elephants began to lie down one after another as is their custom,
till only Kala Nag at the right of the line was left standing up; and he
rocked slowly from side to side, his ears put forward to listen to the night
wind as it blew very slowly across the hills. The air was full of all the
night noises that, taken together, make one big silence-- the click of one
bamboo stem against the other, the rustle of something alive in the undergrowth,
the scratch and squawk of a half-waked bird (birds are awake in the night
much more often than we imagine), and the fall of water ever so far away.
Little Toomai slept for some time, and when he waked it was brilliant moonlight,
and Kala Nag was still standing up with his ears cocked. Little Toomai turned,
rustling in the fodder, and watched the curve of his big back against half
the stars in heaven, and while he watched he heard, so far away that it sounded
no more than a pinhole of noise pricked through the stillness, the "hoot-toot"
of a wild elephant.
All the elephants in the lines jumped up as if they had been shot, and their
grunts at last waked the sleeping mahouts, and they came out and drove in
the picket pegs with big mallets, and tightened this rope and knotted that
till all was quiet. One new elephant had nearly grubbed up his picket, and
Big Toomai took off Kala Nag's leg chain and shackled that elephant fore-foot
to hind-foot, but slipped a loop of grass string round Kala Nag's leg, and
told him to remember that he was tied fast. He knew that he and his father
and his grandfather had done the very same thing hundreds of times before.
Kala Nag did not answer to the order by gurgling, as he usually did. He stood
still, looking out across the moonlight, his head a little raised and his
ears spread like fans, up to the great folds of the Garo hills.
"Tend to him if he grows restless in the night," said Big Toomai to Little
Toomai, and he went into the hut and slept. Little Toomai was just going
to sleep, too, when he heard the coir string snap with a little "tang," and
Kala Nag rolled out of his pickets as slowly and as silently as a cloud rolls
out of the mouth of a valley. Little Toomai pattered after him, barefooted,
down the road in the moonlight, calling under his breath, "Kala Nag! Kala
Nag! Take me with you, O Kala Nag!" The elephant turned, without a sound,
took three strides back to the boy in the moonlight, put down his trunk,
swung him up to his neck, and almost before Little Toomai had settled his
knees, slipped into the forest.
There was one blast of furious trumpeting from the lines, and then the silence
shut down on everything, and Kala Nag began to move. Sometimes a tuft of
high grass washed along his sides as a wave washes along the sides of a ship,
and sometimes a cluster of wild-pepper vines would scrape along his back,
or a bamboo would creak where his shoulder touched it. But between those
times he moved absolutely without any sound, drifting through the thick Garo
forest as though it had been smoke. He was going uphill, but though Little
Toomai watched the stars in the rifts of the trees, he could not tell in
what direction.
Then Kala Nag reached the crest of the ascent and stopped for a minute, and
Little Toomai could see the tops of the trees lying all speckled and furry
under the moonlight for miles and miles, and the blue-white mist over the
river in the hollow. Toomai leaned forward and looked, and he felt that the
forest was awake below him--awake and alive and crowded. A big brown fruit-eating
bat brushed past his ear; a porcupine's quills rattled in the thicket; and
in the darkness between the tree stems he heard a hog-bear digging hard in
the moist warm earth, and snuffing as it digged.
Then the branches closed over his head again, and Kala Nag began to go down
into the valley--not quietly this time, but as a runaway gun goes down a
steep bank--in one rush. The huge limbs moved as steadily as pistons, eight
feet to each stride, and the wrinkled skin of the elbow points rustled. The
undergrowth on either side of him ripped with a noise like torn canvas, and
the saplings that he heaved away right and left with his shoulders sprang
back again and banged him on the flank, and great trails of creepers, all
matted together, hung from his tusks as he threw his head from side to side
and plowed out his pathway. Then Little Toomai laid himself down close to
the great neck lest a swinging bough should sweep him to the ground, and
he wished that he were back in the lines again.
The grass began to get squashy, and Kala Nag's feet sucked and squelched
as he put them down, and the night mist at the bottom of the valley chilled
Little Toomai. There was a splash and a trample, and the rush of running
water, and Kala Nag strode through the bed of a river, feeling his way at
each step. Above the noise of the water, as it swirled round the elephant's
legs, Little Toomai could hear more splashing and some trumpeting both upstream
and down--great grunts and angry snortings, and all the mist about him seemed
to be full of rolling, wavy shadows.
"Ai!" he said, half aloud, his teeth chattering. "The elephant-folk are out
tonight. It is the dance, then!"
Kala Nag swashed out of the water, blew his trunk clear, and began another
climb. But this time he was not alone, and he had not to make his path. That
was made already, six feet wide, in front of him, where the bent jungle-grass
was trying to recover itself and stand up. Many elephants must have gone
that way only a few minutes before. Little Toomai looked back, and behind
him a great wild tusker with his little pig's eyes glowing like hot coals
was just lifting himself out of the misty river. Then the trees closed up
again, and they went on and up, with trumpetings and crashings, and the sound
of breaking branches on every side of them.
At last Kala Nag stood still between two tree-trunks at the very top of the
hill. They were part of a circle of trees that grew round an irregular space
of some three or four acres, and in all that space, as Little Toomai could
see, the ground had been trampled down as hard as a brick floor. Some trees
grew in the center of the clearing, but their bark was rubbed away, and the
white wood beneath showed all shiny and polished in the patches of moonlight.
There were creepers hanging from the upper branches, and the bells of the
flowers of the creepers, great waxy white things like convolvuluses, hung
down fast asleep. But within the limits of the clearing there was not a single
blade of green-- nothing but the trampled earth.
The moonlight showed it all iron gray, except where some elephants stood
upon it, and their shadows were inky black. Little Toomai looked, holding
his breath, with his eyes starting out of his head, and as he looked, more
and more and more elephants swung out into the open from between the tree
trunks. Little Toomai could only count up to ten, and he counted again and
again on his fingers till he lost count of the tens, and his head began to
swim. Outside the clearing he could hear them crashing in the undergrowth
as they worked their way up the hillside, but as soon as they were within
the circle of the tree trunks they moved like ghosts.
There were white-tusked wild males, with fallen leaves and nuts and twigs
lying in the wrinkles of their necks and the folds of their ears; fat,
slow-footed she-elephants, with restless, little pinky black calves only
three or four feet high running under their stomachs; young elephants with
their tusks just beginning to show, and very proud of them; lanky, scraggy
old-maid elephants, with their hollow anxious faces, and trunks like rough
bark; savage old bull elephants, scarred from shoulder to flank with great
weals and cuts of bygone fights, and the caked dirt of their solitary mud
baths dropping from their shoulders; and there was one with a broken tusk
and the marks of the full-stroke, the terrible drawing scrape, of a tiger's
claws on his side.
They were standing head to head, or walking to and fro across the ground
in couples, or rocking and swaying all by themselves-- scores and scores
of elephants.
Toomai knew that so long as he lay still on Kala Nag's neck nothing would
happen to him, for even in the rush and scramble of a Keddah drive a wild
elephant does not reach up with his trunk and drag a man off the neck of
a tame elephant. And these elephants were not thinking of men that night.
Once they started and put their ears forward when they heard the chinking
of a leg iron in the forest, but it was Pudmini, Petersen Sahib's pet elephant,
her chain snapped short off, grunting, snuffling up the hillside. She must
have broken her pickets and come straight from Petersen Sahib's camp; and
Little Toomai saw another elephant, one that he did not know, with deep rope
galls on his back and breast. He, too, must have run away from some camp
in the hills about.
At last there was no sound of any more elephants moving in the forest, and
Kala Nag rolled out from his station between the trees and went into the
middle of the crowd, clucking and gurgling, and all the elephants began to
talk in their own tongue, and to move about.
Still lying down, Little Toomai looked down upon scores and scores of broad
backs, and wagging ears, and tossing trunks, and little rolling eyes. He
heard the click of tusks as they crossed other tusks by accident, and the
dry rustle of trunks twined together, and the chafing of enormous sides and
shoulders in the crowd, and the incessant flick and hissh of the great tails.
Then a cloud came over the moon, and he sat in black darkness. But the quiet,
steady hustling and pushing and gurgling went on just the same. He knew that
there were elephants all round Kala Nag, and that there was no chance of
backing him out of the assembly; so he set his teeth and shivered. In a Keddah
at least there was torchlight and shouting, but here he was all alone in
the dark, and once a trunk came up and touched him on the knee.
Then an elephant trumpeted, and they all took it up for five or ten terrible
seconds. The dew from the trees above spattered down like rain on the unseen
backs, and a dull booming noise began, not very loud at first, and Little
Toomai could not tell what it was. But it grew and grew, and Kala Nag lifted
up one forefoot and then the other, and brought them down on the ground
--one-two, one-two, as steadily as trip-hammers. The elephants were stamping
all together now, and it sounded like a war drum beaten at the mouth of a
cave. The dew fell from the trees till there was no more left to fall, and
the booming went on, and the ground rocked and shivered, and Little Toomai
put his hands up to his ears to shut out the sound. But it was all one gigantic
jar that ran through him--this stamp of hundreds of heavy feet on the raw
earth. Once or twice he could feel Kala Nag and all the others surge forward
a few strides, and the thumping would change to the crushing sound of juicy
green things being bruised, but in a minute or two the boom of feet on hard
earth began again. A tree was creaking and groaning somewhere near him. He
put out his arm and felt the bark, but Kala Nag moved forward, still tramping,
and he could not tell where he was in the clearing. There was no sound from
the elephants, except once, when two or three little calves squeaked together.
Then he heard a thump and a shuffle, and the booming went on. It must have
lasted fully two hours, and Little Toomai ached in every nerve, but he knew
by the smell of the night air that the dawn was coming.
The morning broke in one sheet of pale yellow behind the green hills, and
the booming stopped with the first ray, as though the light had been an order.
Before Little Toomai had got the ringing out of his head, before even he
had shifted his position, there was not an elephant in sight except Kala
Nag, Pudmini, and the elephant with the rope-galls, and there was neither
sign nor rustle nor whisper down the hillsides to show where the others had
gone.
Little Toomai stared again and again. The clearing, as he remembered it,
had grown in the night. More trees stood in the middle of it, but the undergrowth
and the jungle grass at the sides had been rolled back. Little Toomai stared
once more. Now he understood the trampling. The elephants had stamped out
more room--had stamped the thick grass and juicy cane to trash, the trash
into slivers, the slivers into tiny fibers, and the fibers into hard earth.
"Wah!" said Little Toomai, and his eyes were very heavy. "Kala Nag, my lord,
let us keep by Pudmini and go to Petersen Sahib's camp, or I shall drop from
thy neck."
The third elephant watched the two go away, snorted, wheeled round, and took
his own path. He may have belonged to some little native king's establishment,
fifty or sixty or a hundred miles away.
Two hours later, as Petersen Sahib was eating early breakfast, his elephants,
who had been double chained that night, began to trumpet, and Pudmini, mired
to the shoulders, with Kala Nag, very footsore, shambled into the camp. Little
Toomai's face was gray and pinched, and his hair was full of leaves and drenched
with dew, but he tried to salute Petersen Sahib, and cried faintly: "The
dance--the elephant dance! I have seen it, and--I die!" As Kala Nag sat down,
he slid off his neck in a dead faint.
But, since native children have no nerves worth speaking of, in two hours
he was lying very contentedly in Petersen Sahib's hammock with Petersen Sahib's
shooting-coat under his head, and a glass of warm milk, a little brandy,
with a dash of quinine, inside of him, and while the old hairy, scarred hunters
of the jungles sat three deep before him, looking at him as though he were
a spirit, he told his tale in short words, as a child will, and wound up
with:
"Now, if I lie in one word, send men to see, and they will find that the
elephant folk have trampled down more room in their dance-room, and they
will find ten and ten, and many times ten, tracks leading to that dance-room.
They made more room with their feet. I have seen it. Kala Nag took me, and
I saw. Also Kala Nag is very leg-weary!"
Little Toomai lay back and slept all through the long afternoon and into
the twilight, and while he slept Petersen Sahib and Machua Appa followed
the track of the two elephants for fifteen miles across the hills. Petersen
Sahib had spent eighteen years in catching elephants, and he had only once
before found such a dance-place. Machua Appa had no need to look twice at
the clearing to see what had been done there, or to scratch with his toe
in the packed, rammed earth.
"The child speaks truth," said he. "All this was done last night, and I have
counted seventy tracks crossing the river. See, Sahib, where Pudmini's leg-iron
cut the bark of that tree! Yes; she was there too."
They looked at one another and up and down, and they wondered. For the ways
of elephants are beyond the wit of any man, black or white, to fathom.
"Forty years and five," said Machua Appa, "have I followed my lord, the elephant,
but never have I heard that any child of man had seen what this child has
seen. By all the Gods of the Hills, it is--what can we say?" and he shook
his head.
When they got back to camp it was time for the evening meal. Petersen Sahib
ate alone in his tent, but he gave orders that the camp should have two sheep
and some fowls, as well as a double ration of flour and rice and salt, for
he knew that there would be a feast.
Big Toomai had come up hotfoot from the camp in the plains to search for
his son and his elephant, and now that he had found them he looked at them
as though he were afraid of them both. And there was a feast by the blazing
campfires in front of the lines of picketed elephants, and Little Toomai
was the hero of it all. And the big brown elephant catchers, the trackers
and drivers and ropers, and the men who know all the secrets of breaking
the wildest elephants, passed him from one to the other, and they marked
his forehead with blood from the breast of a newly killed jungle-cock, to
show that he was a forester, initiated and free of all the jungles.
And at last, when the flames died down, and the red light of the logs made
the elephants look as though they had been dipped in blood too, Machua Appa,
the head of all the drivers of all the Keddahs--Machua Appa, Petersen Sahib's
other self, who had never seen a made road in forty years: Machua Appa, who
was so great that he had no other name than Machua Appa,--leaped to his feet,
with Little Toomai held high in the air above his head, and shouted: "Listen,
my brothers. Listen, too, you my lords in the lines there, for I, Machua
Appa, am speaking! This little one shall no more be called Little Toomai,
but Toomai of the Elephants, as his great-grandfather was called before him.
What never man has seen he has seen through the long night, and the favor
of the elephant-folk and of the Gods of the Jungles is with him. He shall
become a great tracker. He shall become greater than I, even I, Machua Appa!
He shall follow the new trail, and the stale trail, and the mixed trail,
with a clear eye! He shall take no harm in the Keddah when he runs under
their bellies to rope the wild tuskers; and if he slips before the feet of
the charging bull elephant, the bull elephant shall know who he is and shall
not crush him. Aihai! my lords in the chains,"--he whirled up the line of
pickets--"here is the little one that has seen your dances in your hidden
places,--the sight that never man saw! Give him honor, my lords! Salaam karo,
my children. Make your salute to Toomai of the Elephants! Gunga Pershad,
ahaa! Hira Guj, Birchi Guj, Kuttar Guj, ahaa! Pudmini,--thou hast seen him
at the dance, and thou too, Kala Nag, my pearl among elephants!--ahaa! Together!
To Toomai of the Elephants. Barrao!"
And at that last wild yell the whole line flung up their trunks till the
tips touched their foreheads, and broke out into the full salute--the crashing
trumpet-peal that only the Viceroy of India hears, the Salaamut of the Keddah.
But it was all for the sake of Little Toomai, who had seen what never man
had seen before--the dance of the elephants at night and alone in the heart
of the Garo hills!
Chapter 12 |
