الفصل الفصل 6 · Toomai of the Elephants

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!

Shiv and the Grasshopper

(The song that Toomai’s mother sang to the baby)

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!_

Wheat he gave to rich folk, millet to the poor,

Broken scraps for holy men that beg from door to door;

Battle to the tiger, carrion to the kite,

And rags and bones to wicked wolves without the wall at night.

Naught he found too lofty, none he saw too low--

Parbati beside him watched them come and go;

Thought to cheat her husband, turning Shiv to jest--

Stole the little grasshopper and hid it in her breast.

_So she tricked him, Shiva the Preserver.

Mahadeo! Mahadeo! Turn and see.

Tall are the camels, heavy are the kine,

But this was Least of Little Things, O little son of mine!_

When the dole was ended, laughingly she said,

“Master, of a million mouths, is not one unfed?”

Laughing, Shiv made answer, “All have had their part,

Even he, the little one, hidden ’neath thy heart.”

From her breast she plucked it, Parbati the thief,

Saw the Least of Little Things gnawed a new-grown leaf!

Saw and feared and wondered, making prayer to Shiv,

Who hath surely given meat to all that live.

_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!_