by Ralph Helfer
Their muscles had been developed to lift and pull, not for the long strides and constant uphill movement for hours on end. The weight of the howdahs was burdensome to them all.
Though Bram had carefully fitted each to carry a proper load, the soldiers were ordered to put on more, thus the weight was too heavy, not balanced, and constantly shifting because of the unevenness.
“You must tell the captain to stop more often,” said one of the mahouts. “The elephants need to eat and drink or they will lose their strength.”
The soldier came back with the message, “Go to hell.”
It was four days into the climb when one elephant went down. Bram saw it was dehydrated from lack of water.
“They will all go down if we don’t let them drink and eat more often!” he said.
Reluctantly Mohinder gave in, for without the elephants all would be lost.
The Dullirah Pass loomed ahead. Usually covered in thick fog, it sometimes revealed itself in the early mornings. Many prayers were offered that night. All knew it would take a miracle to get through it.
Mohinder’s plan was to cross the pass into the valley below. At a town there he could regroup his men and become productive again. He knew from that position he would have the advantage and could advance on his enemy without their knowledge.
Bram spent a sleepless night thinking what lay ahead the following day: the entrance to Dullirah Pass. For the years he had been in the village, he had heard many speak of the lives it had taken, of its steep terrain, treacherous avalanches, and dark fog. His worry was centered on Modoc. For the first time her size would be a disadvantage.
The sun was casting its morning rays into the small glen that housed the men and elephants for the night. Their equipment lay everywhere. The elephants were enjoying the swamp grass and low brush that grew on the floor of the hollow. Suddenly they stopped foraging and stood stock-still. Something was happening. Bram stood up to share what they were tuned in to. Then he heard it. An elephant trumpeted from the valley down below! Bram ran to a nearby hill, raced to the top, and saw below a young elephant with two riders coming fast up the trail! The elephant was blasting away, telling all that it had arrived. The herd answered back in full accompaniment. Their tails arched, their ears bent forward, waiting patiently for the arrival.
As the trio came closer, Bram’s heart began to beat faster. How was it possible? Why? But as they neared he knew. It was Sian riding Swati. Seated with her was one of Captain Rajah Mohinder’s men!
When they arrived, Sian jumped off Swati and ran into Bram’s open arms. They smothered each other in kisses. He held her tight, so very tight. His passion was mixed with the pain of the situation. Now he understood what the captain had probably whispered to his man: “Stay behind. When she comes, bring her.”
“Well, my good friends, you can never say I don’t have feeling for my good comrades.” The captain could hardly contain himself. His eyes found Sian’s. “Enjoy yourselves for the moment until we pack up, then you ride with me.”
They sat under a nearby tree. Sian explained how she had waited. But when she came out to the valley the soldier was there.
“We hardly stopped along the way so we would catch up to you. And not carrying a load made it all the easier.”
Now, what to do? Riding with the captain was not a problem. The seats in the howdah were separated, and the only intimacy one could have would be to hold hands. It was the thought of the coming night that sent chills through Bram.
With the elephants loaded, the caravan headed into the pass. Sian rode with Mohinder. Bram took a position just behind. The captain seemed to like that, as he would constantly try to touch Sian and then look to see if Bram was watching.
The pass was as treacherous as Bram had dreamed it to be. Perhaps twenty miles long, it arched its serpentlike curves up the side of a thousand-foot cliff. The terrain was barren except for the odd oaken tree, leafless and skeletal against the sky.
The weather turned cold and the winds were constant. The elephants formed a single line. Their equipment was repacked so as not to jut out from their sides. The walls of the cliff housed large rocks that could hang up the equipment or, worse, bump it and send the elephant over the edge. Sometimes the walls arched over the trail, and the howdah had to be taken off and hand-carried until it could be put back on farther down the trail. Most of the elephants were shaking from the cold. Bram silently thanked Ja for remembering the quilted blankets. He saw to it that they were spread across the elephants’ backs.
The fog had moved in, making any forward movement impossible. They were lucky and reached a small open spot where the elephants could crowd together for warmth. There was no food or water. They just stood absorbing their pain. The night wore on. One elephant tried to lie down and almost pushed another over the cliff.
The only sign that morning had come was that the fog had become pink rather than gray. Mohinder sent a soldier ahead to see if the trail was getting any better. When the soldier returned the news was grave.
“The trail is no more,” he said. “An earth slide has covered the trail for at least two hundred feet. The earth is loose so it must have happened recently.”
“Take twenty men, get the shovels out of the packs, and clear it!”
Bram and the mahouts tended their elephants as best they could, unloading a few at a time, as there was danger of slipping off the edge.
They stole some foodstuffs, bread, fruit, and vegetables, and distributed it among the weakest elephants.
When the trail was opened up they continued on their way. Both Sian and Bram were thankful that with Mohinder being so busy and uncomfortable, Sian was the last thing on his mind.
It rained that night and continued into the early morning, making the trail slippery. The mud caused small land falls on the trail. The elephants were starting to slip and slide, some falling to their knees. Many hours were spent getting them on their feet again.
Bram thought they had about two more days before they would be out of the pass.
The following morning the fog was the thickest it had been. Visibility was nil. Mohinder seemed to be a man possessed…he hit his men, swore, and made irrational decisions.
“Get him up and moving or I’ll shoot him!”
Sinja, the lead elephant, had gone down and refused to budge. There was no room for the others to go around.
“If he dies on the trail you will never get around him,” said Bram. “And there is no way of moving him once he is dead.”
“Oh no? I’ll move him. If I have to cut him into pieces! I’ll move him!” Mohinder took out his pistol. “Tell me where to shoot, Bram. I never shot an elephant before.” He pointed the pistol at Sinja’s head.
“Wait a minute! Look! These elephants are on the verge of panic. There’s a danger of them bolting and crashing to their death a thousand feet below and taking all of us with them! At least give us a chance to try. Okay? Okay?”
Mohinder seemed catatonic. Bram didn’t wait for an answer. He brought Modoc up to the downed bull, turned her around, and positioned her facing down the trail. Getting his pull sling out of his pack, he lowered the chest plate over Mo’s head, letting it settle on her chest. Then he carried the two pull ropes over to Sinja and tied them together under Sinja’s chest. Taking a bunch of rattan and blankets, he stuffed them between the pull ropes and his chest.
Bram knew Sinja had the strength to stand. He had just lost his will. He needed support from his friends. Ten mahouts got in front of him. At a command from Bram for Modoc to “move up,” the mahouts started to push, talking encouragement to him.
“Come on, boy, you can do it!” they yelled.
“Up you go!”
Mo pulled gently and, as the men pushed, Sinja got his front feet under himself and slowly began to rise. When he was standing on all fours, Bram released the ropes and slowly talked him into backing up. Once he reached a place he could turn around, Bram praised him, feeding him a bit of food from t
he soldiers’ packs.
The fog had taken away the ability to see one’s own feet, but the trail, small as it was, was there. Bram put Modoc in the lead position, placing her where the side of her body rubbed against the cliff wall. Then he had her slide her front foot along the trail. He figured keeping her side against the wall would prevent her from falling off the cliff on the other side, and sliding her foot would keep her on the trail.
As she moved, Bram had the other mahouts do the same with their elephants. The line moved slowly but it was enough to keep Mohinder from killing an elephant and maybe the rest of the party.
Hours went by until the fog began to clear. Bram noticed that many elephants were bleeding from sliding their feet in the dirt. An elephant with sore feet can be a serious problem, so the first chance they got, the mahouts treated their feet with a medication, then trimmed away any of the pieces of flesh that hung from their pads.
It happened so quickly that there was nothing anyone could do. Bram heard a cry for help go up somewhere back in the line. He looked back into the mist, and as if in slow motion, he saw one of the elephants going down on her knees. She bellowed her pain, her tired feet, her hunger and weakness. Then she lay over and fell…to her death. She never made a sound going down. All that was heard was her hitting the bottom, many light years away.
“She committed suicide,” said Bram to Sian.
Bram knew that when an elephant dies, the others announce the death with a great deal of commotion. This time none said a word. They knew…and so did Sian. Before the day was out two more had chosen the same fate. There was no need for Mohinder to kill. They were doing it themselves. By now the soldiers themselves would have turned back, but it was too late. They had to make it or die trying.
The day broke bright and sunny. Everybody cheered and surged ahead with renewed strength. The end of the pass was in sight.
It sounded like the droning of bees. They came out of the east. Several biplanes came up out of the valley, flying low. Each had a machine gun mounted on the wing.
“Ready the guns! Move! Move!”
The captain was his old self again. His men moved like well-oiled robots. It was too late to take the machine guns off the elephants’ backs, but guns were cocked and waiting until the planes were in range.
“Wait! Wait! Don’t shoot!” pleaded Bram. “We’re like sitting ducks out here. There is no cover! No place to go. Surrender!”
“You’re such a stupid man. We are fighters. We are here to fight to win. This is what it’s all about. To win.”
By the altitude of the planes, they were coming in to see the situation, not to fight.
“Shoot! Shoot!”
The machine guns opened up rapid fire. The elephants that had been sleeping woke with a start. Fire bursts filled the air. One plane caught fire and was going down. The others had veered off and were coming back…this time to check out things.
“Oh my God! The elephants! Sian, get on Mo!” yelled Bram. The trail had opened up at that point. Modoc was in the lead. Bram jumped to her. “Leg up, girl!” She raised her foot. Bram hopped to her shoulder. The man operating the machine gun never saw what hit him. Bram’s choon had found its mark. Sian hung on to Bram as he yelled, “Move up! Mo, move up!”
Mo moved with a vengeance. Her legs stretched out, trunk held high. She was running for her life!
The machine guns opened fire, as did the planes. Men fell from their positions. A few elephants were going down. The rest followed Modoc in a panic of trumpeting and screaming. They ran full out. Machine guns fell off their backs, men hung from the straps. Equipment was strewn everywhere.
The planes came back again, strafing everything that moved! The thud of bullets hitting flesh was heard…Modoc!
Two bullets had found their mark. They had gone straight into and through Mo’s head. Blood poured from their small but lethal openings. Her body crumpled; she went down on her front knees, twisting her head back and forth in agony, roaring her fury, her trunk uncontrolled, wallowing in the dirt. Bram started to dismount but Mo regained her feet and, wobbling sideways, trumpeting, blood gushing down her trunk, she careened into the protection of the trees and collapsed. Bram and Sian were thrown into the underbrush. Mo’s scream was that of a wild entity caught between two worlds. A maddened being, crying from the pain itself, the horror of seeing the yin and the yang in all its terror. Bram raced to her side baby-talking, caressing: “Mosie, Mosie girl, it’s okay. Easy now, lie down. That’s a girl.” He ran his hands over the two bullet wounds. They were up high on the forehead. One of them had ripped through the lower part of her ear. She lay gasping, blood still pouring from the wounds. Her breath held for too long, a scary period of time, then released in an explosion of air. Bram was covered in blood. His shirt, pants, the whole front of him. He didn’t give it notice until he realized that only his hands had touched Mo. He checked himself for wounds. None were of any significance. “Sian, honey, give me a hand!” yelled Bram, his voice shaking. “We have to stop the blood. Sian? SIAN…!”
He raced to her side. She was lying in a pool of blood, her own! Bram picked her up gently. He put her hand over his shoulder. It slid off.
“Honey, come on now, baby.” He checked her mouth, eyes, pushing, squeezing. “Sian, honey, look, we made it! We made it! We…Honey?…Honey? Talk to me, baby. Say something, please…please! Say something!” His tears burst in a gush, drenching his face. “Papa, help me! God, please…someone!” He was shaking uncontrollably. “Oh my God.” Bram hugged her to him. She hung limply in his arms, blood oozing from a number of bullet holes across her body. Her beautiful eyes were staring at the infinity, her hair strewn out across Bram’s shoulder.
“Sian, my Sian…my love…my baby.” Bram cried his anguish. Sian lay dead in Bram’s arms. Soft, warm. The life spirit was still leaving. Hesitantly, not quite sure. But the cold death spirit won out. The warmth left: the life that was in her hair, the sparkle in her eyes, the softness in her skin turned bland. The Death Spirit had taken her personally, her smile, her laughter, her future. It had taken her from Bram.
By this time, most of the elephants had found cover in a grove of trees. The planes circled overhead, coming in low, spraying the area with gunfire. Elephants were still coming in, some dragging a leg, others hopping. Bodies of men, both mahouts and soldiers, hung from their backs, some dead, some injured.
Captain Rajah Mohinder’s foot hung from the bottom of his howdah, bullets having ripped through him and into the elephant behind him. His body had been dragged and kicked by the elephants’ feet into an unrecognizable mass of blood and body parts.
The war was over. The suffering and pain of those around him was seen, heard, and felt. Bram covered Sian with a silk cloth the people from the slanted village had given him. For the next two hours he sat with Mo. She had righted herself into a sphinx position. Her head rested on the ground. The blood had stopped, the heavy breathing had subsided. Bram saw that the bullets had left her body on the side of her skull in the large bulbous area of her cranium. He washed the wounds with cool water from a nearby stream, hoping that they would not become infected. At first he had been amazed that Mo still lived until he remembered that the brain of an elephant is down low—in fact, behind the eyes. Many a hunter has been killed shooting into the large head of a charging elephant, not knowing that the bullets were only going into a mass of spongy tissue. There are no vital organs or large blood vessels there. Bram remembered his father telling him that if the head of an elephant was made of solid bone, the elephant couldn’t carry it. It would weigh too much. The spongy tissue made it lightweight.
By evening Modoc was standing. She had lost a lot of blood and seemed to have a huge headache, but she walked. Slowly, unsteadily, but she walked.
The dead were buried. Elephants that were beyond help were put to rest. The guns and war equipment were left. The soldiers who were able, along with the remaining mahouts, followed Bram up the ravine heading for a town that he
hoped was there.
And so it was, not far. Just over the ridge. He found a great old tree and it was there that he buried Sian, in the early morning, so she could see her way into the hereafter. He and Mo stayed with her until the sun went down.
He sat on the ground and wept openly. A hand clutched his shoulder. He looked but his tears blurred his vision. Slowly the figure came into focus.
“Mr. North!”
31
BRAM’S MIND AWOKE long before his body, to a slow-turning kaleidoscope of smells and noises. The smells became the scent of his surroundings, bringing a musty odor filled with old rags, dried blood, elephant stool—dead things. The noises became the sound of people yelling, commotion, screams of pain, the squeal, the trumpet of an elephant.
Modoc!
He sat up with a start, only to be racked with pain that sent him collapsing back on the bed. He was lying on what appeared to be an old ragged army cot. It was one of many, set out under a large palm-frond roof high above his head. There were no sides to the structure and he could see people bustling in and out in all directions, some carrying buckets of water, others with bandages and medical supplies.
Bodies lay everywhere. From one end to the other a maze of arms and legs jutted out from under the covers, some bloody, some writhing in agony, others just stiff. Rigor mortis had already set in. They were mostly the members of the Peoples Liberation Army, but the mahouts had suffered as well.
He spotted some of his friends. Neither he nor they had the strength to do more than flash a faint smile of recognition. Women with Red Cross armbands scurried between the cots, helping the wounded. The day was hot, mucky, sticky. Flies availed themselves of the wounds on the bodies. Bram raised up on his elbow to see outside, around the edge of the canopy.
Old dilapidated trucks rumbled by, their tires kicking up a storm of dust that settled on everything, including the wounds of the injured. Two-wheeled carts, loaded with the wares of the day, were pushed or pulled by men and women alike. They were filled with melons, bananas, slabs of precut wood, rolls of burlap, tin pans banging together, jostled by the rutted dirt road. Unattended chickens, pigs, goats, an occasional Brahma scurried in all directions.
