by J. F. Collen
“Mercy, would that I were more humble and grateful! The Lord has given us this fuel when we have no other. Moreover, today it was not made soggy or malodorous by rain. I am sorry to grumble, Mama. Here are the paltry chips I did gather.” Emma dumped her bucket on top of Elizabeth’s pile and threw her arms around her mother’s neck.
“My dear sweet girl, you needn’t chastise yourself so harshly—your cantankerous thoughts did not keep you from adequately performing your chore. I must confess, at the very moment you came upon me, I was resenting the endless work generated by this journey. We should never punish ourselves for our contemplations. Our thoughts are permitted to be free as the birds in the sky, even if they be not elevating thoughts. What we strive to attain is heartening and positive speech, so we cheer our fellow man.”
“Only men happy?” asked Elizabeth.
Nellie again repressed a smile. “Our language favors the men Liebchen, but we must employ benevolence and compassion for everyone.” Since Nellie saw that Elizabeth and now even Emma looked puzzled, she said, “When we say ‘men’ or ‘menfolk’ or ‘mankind’ we often mean all people—women and children included.”
“I say peeples,” mispronounced Elizabeth, “when I mean all people.”
Now giggling aloud at Elizabeth’s proclamation, Nellie could not help but agree. “Perhaps one day you shall set the menfolk straight on that score.”
“‘Tis good to hear the laughter of my womenfolk, when adversity tests the mettle of men,” said Obadiah.
“You must say ‘peeples’,” advised Elizabeth. Nellie turned toward her husband, awaiting his laugh, and when his scowl did not relax into a grin, she caught Elizabeth in a hug, and whispered, “Perhaps ‘tis not yet time to set the record straight.”
To her husband Nellie said, “What troubles thee, Mister Wright?”
“Tomorrow will bring us to the South Fork of the Platte, which is where our duly elected Captain Josiah Hines has decreed we must cross.”
“The very bend of the South Fork of the Platte? The one our guidebook advises has a rapid current and a quicksand bottom?” Nellie shuddered.
“The very same.” Obadiah nodded. “With its other salient features: 600 yards across, and according to our scout, water raised well above the medium stage, not aiding its appeal.”
“Then why must we cross here? Would not prudence demand we wait for a safer passage? Is there no bridge, or ferry, such as we have found earlier in our travels?” Nellies questions came one after another.
“Aye, well you should inquire. Those are the very same reasonable questions, sprung from an apprehension of the difficulty of the fording, I asked of the Captain myself. Has he a guidebook, I wonder? Does he base all his decisions on arrogant assumption and a false bravado?
“The rest of the men are uncertain as to how to proceed—nary a one with a guidebook, and all with an ignorance of the territory. The exceptions being Wells and Clayton, both smart men, with some sense between their ears. Wilburforce Wells, albeit a gregarious fellow, acknowledged our dilemma—the South Fork leads in a southwesterly direction from here, the trail winding among the highest peaks of the Rocky Mountains. It is far more desirable to follow the trail up the North Fork of the Platte, and from there, up its main branch, the Sweetwater, to the South Pass of the Rockies. A bit too flowery in his speech for my liking, Wilburforce concluded with his—what he termed—‘the proof of the pudding is in the eating’ statement: This northern path has been successfully followed by emigrants for years.”
Nellie nodded in silence, tugging at her stray lock of hair, listening. Obadiah continued, “At this point all the men nodded their accord with the sagacity of the route. But that still left the dilemma of the treacherous crossing. The here-to-for silent Mister Clayton proposed to send a scout further down the river to find a more suitable place for crossing. His direct economical speech, quite the contrast to Wilburforce, I might add, won the crowd over with its simple delivery and common sense.” Obadiah shook his head. “However, when Clayton proposed his logical and reasonable alternative to fording here in the quicksand, the Captain refused to allocate the necessary resources.
“Sometimes unfettered Democracy errs in its choice of leaders,” Obadiah gloomily stirred their fire in its trench.
Elizabeth asked, through a nose held by her pinchers, “What smells burning?”
“The seed cakes!” Nellie shouted in response. She jumped up, and grabbed her poker to pull the Dutch oven from the fire pit.
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Acknowledgements
Thank you to Kimberly Goebel, editor extraordinaire, for sharing my vision and believing in my characters. I could not have written this book without your support and guidance.
Thank you to my hardy band of travelers—Jess, Jocelyn, Alicia, Bennett, Abigail, Paul, and Lauren—for your continued love, support, and positive feedback.
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About the Author
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Jane Frances Collen has spent the last umpteen years practicing as a lawyer—but don’t hold that against her! She has made a career of protecting Intellectual Property, but at heart always wanted to be writing novels instead of legal briefs. She has written award-winning children’s books, “The Enjella® Adventure Series,” using fantasy as a vehicle for discussing the real world problems of children. She has tried to use her talent for storytelling for good instead of evil.
But her real love is history. One of her many hobbies is traveling to historical sites around the world and reading the biographies of the people who affected these places. Her books depict modern dilemmas in historical settings, with a touch of humor. Since only one of her parents had a sense of humor, however, Jane feels she is only half as funny as she should be.
Much to her husband’s dismay, they still live in New York.
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More from J.F. Collen
Shivers of delight raced through Cornelia Rose's entire body as she thought, Stroll Flirtation Walk with my escort, unchaperoned? How could this be permitted, much less condoned?
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FLIRTATION ON THE HUDSON
Journey of Cornelia Rose – Book 1
THE JOURNEY OF CORNELIA ROSE Series at Evolved Publishing
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Cornelia Rose decides early in life, almost instinctively, not to allow anyone to limit her to the few choices available to women in New York in the 1850s. Marry well and become a proper lady—is that all I can do? She surreptitiously pursues learning 'not meant for young ladies,' and begins the journey to become a midwife.
Flirtatious and sexy, Cornelia attracts suitors everywhere she goes. Flooded with invitations after her 'unofficial' debut, her courtships take a dramatic turn when invited to the West Point Military Academy as the guest of a cadet. Will her romantic escapades compromise her choices? Who will decide her future?
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When fifteen-year-old Hemit breaks family tradition by learning the mysterious soother's gentler ways of training elephants, he unlea
shes his own mystical powers—powers his parents have tried to conceal, and which are capable of destroying his entire family.
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CHAPTER 1 – CHANGE IS IN THE AIR
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Hemit understood that in the Indian jungle what you didn’t hear could signal the worst kind of trouble. As he scrambled to catch up with his father, the natural movement and chatter of wildlife tapered to muffled birdsong. Hemit’s heartbeat quickened, and he searched past trees and over bushes and ferns. A hushed stillness often signaled a nearby predator. Snap. Not again. He had caught up to his father just in time to dodge the branch his achan had shoved out of his way. Hemit, distracted by the quiet, moved too late. The branch whipped across his arm like a good lashing.
Hemit wiped away the blood but didn’t dare complain. His achan wouldn’t stand for a boy of fifteen whining, even if his scratches looked like claw marks from a tiger. “Mother says the cycle of life has halted. The tips of the mango leaves have shriveled and died. Everyone moves as if in a trance, even the monkeys are still.”
“Your amma is a wise woman. Indra, the God of Rain, must be very angry. If we don’t get rain soon, the rice paddies will dry up and our crops will wither. Tonight we will pray for the clouds to deliver the blessed rain.”
How could Achan know praying worked? With a set jaw, Hemit vowed not again. No more starving from empty bellies. He had only been eight when the Great Famine of 1876 devastated his village, and seven years later the dream gods still tormented him with visions of emaciated bodies with sunken cheeks and bony fingers. He bit his lower lip. He didn’t even want to think about it.
They froze as leaves crackled, twigs broke, and an agitated kingfisher flew overhead with a shrill, rattling cry. Chi-keeee. Chi-keeee. Achan had trained Hemit to heed the jungle’s warnings of a roaming tiger: the thunderous trumpeting of elephants, the khar-takaao-khaar of an alarmed langur monkey, scattered pugmarks and gouged tree bark. The hair on the back of Hemit’s neck stood up. Achan held his finger to his lips.
“Achan. Hemit.”
At his older brother’s voice, Hemit let out a huge breath.
“Over here,” yelled Achan.
With as much grace as a marauding crash of rhinoceroses, Dhaval banged his way down the trail, smashing through thicket and brush until he reached them, breathless. Bent at the waist and with his hands on his knees, he gasped, “Another woodcutter’s been mauled.” His breathing slowed and he stood bamboo-rod rigid. “Carted off by a tiger.”
“When?” asked Achan.
“While walking home at cow dust time.”
Hemit’s eyes widened. Cow dust time, the point between day and night when everything turned a golden hue, had always occupied a special place in his heart. Not any longer. The same low light that lulled his senses to sleep could also hide a tiger’s stripes. He eyed the fringes of the jungle, searching for movement. Stillness. “Who was he?”
Dhaval shrugged. “Don’t know, yet.”
“That makes three in three weeks,” Achan said. “Until this tiger is caught, I don’t want either of you traveling alone.”
Hemit didn’t argue. Tigers often attacked goats and cattle, but a man-eater hadn’t hounded their village for over a decade. Although the attacks had happened several towns away, Hemit could barely breathe. When they reached a bend in the trail, a squirrel darted by, and he lurched almost three feet off the ground.
Dhaval covered his mouth, but his laughter echoed through the jungle. “Don’t worry, brother. That furry beast won’t attack you. Even if it did, what harm could it do?” He tousled Hemit’s unruly black hair. “Mess up your already ratty hair?”
Achan roared with laughter.
Hemit frowned at them. “No need for either of you to own a weapon when your tongues do such a good job.”
“Come on, son.” Achan slapped Hemit on the back. “We mean no harm.”
Hemit tottered behind, fuming. They always teased him. They looked like two seeds in a cardamom pod with how they held their heads high and walked with purpose. They even swung their arms in unison. He ducked his head just in time to miss a low hanging branch and tripped over a tree root, instead. Not having fun, he grew impatient to arrive at the elephant camp. Animals expressed themselves in a way Hemit understood, unlike his family. His bare foot scuffed the soil, and Hemit choked on the dust. Dhaval and Achan turned and gave him a look.
Hemit scowled. “What?”
“Just checking you haven’t been attacked by a ferocious rabbit,” Dhaval teased with his dazzling smile that got all the village girls wobbly-legged.
Hemit rolled his eyes. Amma said Hemit and her muttacchan resembled two sides of the same rupee—two men with big hands and feet and sensitive souls. And even though he never met his great-grandfather, it didn’t matter. His valiya muttacchan’s spirit lingered, powerful and wondrous, in the tales his amma told.
Branches and boughs cracked in the distance. Hemit halted in his tracks. Probably just a monkey. The sound of gibbering eased his mind, but he picked up his pace and shadowed Achan and Dhaval the rest of the journey. Two hillocks hung low beneath the hazy clouds announcing their journey’s end. They took the snakey trail that led from the jungle into a dell. Orange-red flowers shaped like bells lined the path. Achan pointed to the spangled stalks that reached for the golden light. “Pagoda is in bloom.”
“Amma calls them the crown of Lord Krishna,” said Hemit. “We used to string them together to make crowns.”
“Yes, I remember.” Achan led the way up the hill to the elephant camp. Flanked by high ranges and near the southern banks of the Periyar River, the protected location offered everything they needed: water for drinking and bathing; banana, coconuts, bamboo, and figs for foraging; and large trees for shade during the hot summer months.
Hemit stood tall, shoulders back. Achan and Uncle Ajay had built the business with just two elephants and two men. While not on the grand scale of the famous Hampi Elephant Stable in Northern India, which had ornate domed chambers designed for royal elephants, their stable more than suited their needs. In fact, many British huntsmen visited Thekkady just to pursue tigers using their family’s elephants. Most mahouts performed their duties solo, but Achan and Uncle Ajay operated with bigger dreams. When Ravi and Hemit got their own elephants, their herd would grow to five, unheard of in these parts.
The elephants’ housing consisted of three thatched thans, one for each of the herd. Behind the thans were nine more buildings. One oversized hut housed their howdahs and blankets. Another one kept their hunting gear and tools organized. And a third contained several bedrolls, a small kerosene stove, some pots, and utensils for those times when they needed to stay overnight. To the right of the cluster of huts, another structure housed their animals when sick. Medical supplies and special plants and herbs lined the shelves in clear glass containers. Closer to the thans, three smaller outbuildings had been constructed out of bricks made from mud, dung, and grass. Hemit, Ravi, and Amita had shaped the bricks by hand and dried them in the sun. Once the bricks had finished baking, everybody had worked together to build the two new buildings, in which they stored fodder and bedding material for the elephants. Although harder and longer to build than huts, the brick buildings kept out hungry rats and snakes.
He couldn’t see them from here, but closer to the jungle they had three permanent huts where the sahibs slept when staying for long excursions. At first they had only one, but they had added two more last year after word of their camp had spread.
Hemit dragged his hand through his mess of a mane, wriggling out the tangles as he searched for Jani, eyeing the thatched-roofed thans, which were op
en on each side. Built to provide shelter from the overbearing heat, they formed a straight line and faced the sandy courtyard. He smiled. Although Kari and Maya both preferred sleeping standing up, Jani did not. Inside her than, she lay curled on her side in a deep, sloping impression, which he had helped hollow and line with rocks. “Jani,” he yelled. She lifted her head, staggered onto her feet, and stood still on the dusty earthen floor. Each than faced the barred courtyard, which allowed the elephants to roam free during the day, rather than stay shackled and chained at all times.
Inside the pen, rocks, trees, and stumps for rubbing and scratching kept the elephants entertained and engaged. Hemit wondered when the pool built to collect rain water would fill again. Now the elephants used it as a dry wallow for dust bathing instead.
“Hi, girl,” Hemit said, and Jani walked near the gate of the barred enclosure, where Hemit stood.
“Are you asleep over there?” Achan yelled. “Come help me and Dhaval. Five British officials scheduled an overnight expedition next week. There’s lots to do. ”
“Yes, Achan.”
Sahibs from far and wide traveled to Thekkady to seek their services. To bag big game, hunters needed an elephant and experienced mahout. Considered two of the best mahouts, Achan and Uncle Ajay didn’t need maps to locate the elusive big cats and bears and horned beasts that the English wanted to kill. They had lived in South India their whole lives and knew the secret spots. Hemit thrust out his bony chest. Achan and his elephant, Jani, are one of the best tracking teams in all of India. One day, my elephant and I will be just as good.
"Check the elephants, Hemit. Dhaval, help me pack the gear.” Their voices faded as they disappeared up the hill. “We need tents and blankets, some mosquito netting, stoves, and utensils.”
Grateful for the easier of the two tasks, Hemit opened the gate to the fenced-in pen that confined their small herd of three elephants. Soon, there will be four. No, five! First Cousin Ravi, and then me! Next month when Uncle Ajay returned from the Sonepur Cattle Fair where they sold animals of every size, including elephants, Ravi would have a new elephant. I wish Ravi could go. He shook his head. What did Uncle Ajay mean? Ravi would slow him down? His excuse makes no sense.
