"I am asking, in your expert opinion, do they have souls?"
Merrian was flustered by both the nature of the question and the unpleasant way the Professor was trying to push her buttons. Worse yet, she had no pat answer. She had never seriously considered the question before. Her mental flailing was paralleled by a sudden wild swerve of the Rover in order to avoid a ditch. She had forgotten she was still driving the vehicle. “If we do,” she finally said, “and I don't necessarily grant you that point—but if we do, they do."
They found the elephants, two adult females and four young, grazing lazily at the edge of the swamp. Merrian stopped the Rover at a hundred yards, safely downwind, and suggested Falconer get out. She watched him unfold his gangly legs from the car, his lightweight suit of charcoal gray a poor choice of color in the heat.
"Be careful and slow,” she insisted, “and stay near the truck. The cows protect their young as fiercely as any human mother. One of those calves is very young and we don't want to risk an attack response."
Merrian recognized a torn ear here, a particular slope of tusk there.
"Let me introduce Belle,” she said grandly, pointing to a ten-foot behemoth, “and we call this other female Miss Daisy. Isn't she just beautiful?” Merrian couldn't say whether it was her proportions, or the set of her magnificent ears, or perhaps the haughty carriage of her massive head, but Miss Daisy was a particular favorite. “All these calves were fathered by Big Ben, the bull who was killed last week in Longido."
Silently, they watched as the elephants uprooted large clumps of dactylon grass with their trunks, knocking the dirt loose against their legs before stuffing the foliage into their mouths. Those long, writhing organs seemed so wonderfully alive, Merrian could readily believe the other ten thousand pounds completely inconsequential. The dull thuds of elephant footfalls were accompanied by soft rumbling noises of satisfaction as they shuffled off toward a small inland stream. The smallest calf, still as yet unable to maneuver the water into his mouth by way of his tiny trunk, knelt down at the water's edge and drank with his lips. When he'd had his fill, he rubbed himself contentedly against his mother's sturdy leg.
Merrian wondered how she could possibly convey to this stodgy Oxford professor all these magnificent creatures meant to her, their gentle power, the shows of genuine affection and sorrow she had witnessed, or what it felt like to watch a five-ton mother frolicking gaily with her young. As for the latter, fate provided them with a demonstration when the calves discovered a mud wallow in a small ravine adjoining the stream. Within moments, the calves were merrily rolling in the black mud, and the adults joined in, playfully flinging gouts of cool mud at each other with their trunks.
Sidestepping the formidable piles of elephant dung that marked their way back to the car, Merrian saw the impassive face of Dr. Falconer transformed with a sheepish grin. She thought perhaps there was hope for him after all.
"Let's hope tomorrow brings something more productive,” he said. “A visit to the zoo is not what I came here for."
* * * *
A few weeks earlier, she would have burst out laughing at the idea of such a scene, but the next day found Merrian Aprilwood winding her way through the bush south of Lake Amboseli in search of a phantom herd of elephants. This time of year the lake was dry except for its central depression, but the recent rains had left countless pools of muddy water in the shallow marshlands surrounding. The Land Rover crept along, its stuttering advance punctuated by frequent stops to check the bush. Their party consisted of Merrian, Parsitau, Ian Hartwick-Corning, and Dr. Falconer. Ian carried a Capchun rifle which fired gas-propelled tranquilizing syringes loaded with enough succinylcholine to take down a big cat if they ran into one. They might have been scientists, bushmen, and Rangers, but out of the car, on the long wilds of the savannah, they were potential prey.
Parsitau looked as though he'd just come off yet another rough night. His spindly legs were trembling merely from the exertion of getting in and out of the Rover, and every time he bent to inspect the bush he arose with a familiar weary groan. Merrian knew only a little about him. He was Tutai, acclimated to modern culture by the lure of a steady paycheck. He wore typical Kenya tour guide dress, knee-length khaki shorts, the green cotton shirt that was standard issue for Park employees, and a red bandanna sweat-catcher circling his neck. He spoke letter-perfect Queen's English with the identical North Country accent as Hartwick-Corning, which was no coincidence. The two had long been friends.
Elephants never stray too far from water, and Parsitau was betting that his ghosts held to the same standard of behavior. Early on, he expressed some excitement at finding a pair of demolished termite mounds, but Merrian was not impressed. An hour later they ran into a pair of disgruntled buffalo whose culpability in the matter was confirmed by a sheen of fine white powder dusting their hides. The buffalo became greatly interested in the truck, and only with much honking of the horn and a few well-aimed stones were they ultimately convinced to pass on.
A small Piper Cruiser on loan from the Kenya Wildlife Federation circled periodically above, and each time it passed she was reminded what a waste of a day this was. The heat was building to an intolerable incalescence, and despite heavy-duty repellant the swarms of mosquitoes erupting from the folds of the swamp were an unbearable nuisance. Falconer, initially apoplectic at the sight of them, sat hunched down in his seat, determined to keep them off by virtue of his burning gaze alone. He was not enjoying much success. Merrian was just about to insist that they had done enough damage to their skin for one day when Parsitau cried out.
The tracker, who had been putting on quite a show of exaggerated attention to every broken twig or displaced branch as if elephants could possibly be so subtle, called the group over to a lightly wooded area. Merrian followed the others, looking closely for elephant footmarks but finding none. Yet here were definite signs of elephant activity—baobabs knocked over, acacia stripped to the naked white trunks with shreds of bark hanging like flags of passage. Scattered about the ground were the characteristic fibrous balls of pulp the elephants had chewed and spat out. As per routine, Merrian radioed the main relay station at Amboseli Center to verify if any radio-tag transmitters had indicated known elephant activity in the area.
Before she could get a reply, an eerie whining caught her ear.
"Somebody's hungry,” she said.
The stomach rumblings of foraging elephants, audible as far as a mile away, filled the air. As searching eyes were denied, a more alarming set of sounds rattled through the bush—the loud snapping of wood as trees were tossed aside like fluff, the ponderous thundering of cyclopean feet, an occasional warning trumpet. It was certain. Elephants were coming this way and in quite a hurry.
"There isn't much that makes a herd move like that,” said Merrian. She thought someone might be driving the animals, perhaps luring them over the border to make a kill. Infuriated by the thought Merrian plunged forward, ready to take some drastic, ill-conceived action and angry enough to challenge an armed party of poachers. Just as quickly Ian Hartwick-Corning was shouting at her, warning her back.
The uproar had now risen to a deafening torrent, making speech impossible. Nonetheless Merrian, suddenly reversing her course, shouted back that they had best make a run for it. Their vehicle was only twenty yards away. As one, the party raced for what little shelter the Land Rover could offer. Except for Falconer. He stood transfixed, gazing quizzically toward the source of the elephant sounds. Maybe he didn't realize the danger of being squashed into pulp by enraged elephants, but Merrian certainly did. Even so, she ran back to him.
As she yanked his arm, she knew it was too late. Trees within their line of sight snapped and were tossed aside. A great cloud of gray dust rose up, but no elephants; a loud trumpeting not twenty feet ahead, but no bull. Foliage whipped about in a frenzy as the overbearing smell of elephant musk bore down on them. Though she still could see no elephants, Merrian didn't dare run for the Rover. Falconer seemed content to sta
nd his ground, remaining unruffled and quizzical.
Merrian closed her eyes and they were all around her, flapping ears and snorting trunks. The ground trembled. She felt the mammoth thud of pulverizing feet as they came on. Her hair blew wildly about her face. She staggered one step backward, driven by the sheer tonnage of animal momentum rocketing invisibly past. She could almost feel the rough elephant hide grating along her skin. Falconer's hand closed tightly about her forearm to steady her, but she felt no reassurance.
Her heart thudding in her chest, she opened her eyes. Nothing. The two were standing alone in the clearing amid a multitude of tiny balls of yellow fluff drifting down from the acacia, still swirling with the commotion.
Around them the deluge of broken branches and bowled-over trees made it seem as if a tornado had whipped through the copse. Falconer was bending over, spitting profusely into the bush. Merrian had swallowed a pungent bit of Africa herself but saw no need to replicate Falconer's comically undignified display.
When Falconer stood up, he was beaming.
"Glorious!” he exclaimed. “Absolutely glorious! I've never experienced anything remotely as powerful as that."
"Neither have I. I feel like we should be squashed flat."
"We're in luck. Your skepticism is apparently reciprocated. Those ghosts don't believe in you, either."
Merrian laughed with him for a moment, but her hands were still trembling.
"Or perhaps,” added Falconer seriously, “the situation is quite the opposite. Perhaps they think rather highly of you."
Merrian refused to answer, turning instead to inspect the forest dynamic. After taking a few minutes to settle her nerves, she said, “There aren't any tracks. It's possible some kind of funneling activity was forcibly propelling wind current through the area, carrying the scent of a nearby herd—"
Falconer inclined his head, casting a caustic look over the tops of his glasses. “Ms. Aprilwood, if you try hard enough I'm sure you can concoct some pseudoscientific explanation, no matter how wildly improbable it may be. And having done so, you will fixate on that theory rather than accept a truth that disrupts your organized little view of the universe. Please don't do that. You stood here right next to me. Don't rationalize this wonder away. Accept what you have just witnessed, or we'll get nowhere with this."
He was absolutely right, of course. All protective self-delusion and denial aside, she had stood there. She had stood there, and that was enough.
The radio, hanging clipped to her belt, crackled to life. It was the pilot of the Piper cruiser returning her call. He confirmed there were definitely no elephants in the area, then began grousing over his wasted time and could he please head back to base camp now?
* * * *
"I need a drink,” mumbled Parsitau, for what must have been the third time, as he propelled the Rover along the dirt track. Even at their moderate pace, the best the rough terrain would allow, they were treated to every jounce and bump as they raced nightfall back to the camp.
"And I'm buying,” said Ian. “I've got a fresh bottle of Glenlivet primed and waiting on my desk.” He sat beside Merrian in the back seat, the Capchun rifle trained lazily out the open rear of the Rover. Not many beasts would bother a moving vehicle, but an overly aggressive lioness had occasionally been known to attack from the rear. Ian leaned toward the front seat, placing a hand on Falconer's shoulder. “Is it true they passed right through you?"
"Oh, yes,” he said. “Imagine a locomotive bearing down on you, and you stand helpless, certain to be killed, and then it hits. It hits, and you're still left standing! Unbelievable."
"Picture us running for our lives.” Ian chuckled. “Seemed a good idea. Now I'm sorry I missed out on all the fun."
"It was anything but fun, Ian,” Merrian said flatly.
"I told you they were angry,” grumbled Parsitau.
Falconer grunted his dissent. “I wouldn't say angry. More like truculent. There's a difference. It's important we define their emotional state as precisely as we can in order to get a handle on this. I'd appreciate as many impressions as possible. We each see ghosts differently, like individual facets in a prism. I'd especially like to know what our resident skeptic thinks?"
"I don't know what to think,” said Merrian. “It's like some bizarre kind of wrestling match going on in my mind. I keep trying to pretend it never happened, that I haven't just witnessed proof of the definite existence of ghosts.” She pouted at her own silliness. “I've long been a confirmed atheist. Now it's as if I've been tossed into a tankful of angry piranha, with theological conflicts and unreasonable implications nibbling at me from all sides. If ghosts exist, do they also necessitate belief in a heaven and hell and all that other religious window dressing I've already dismissed?"
"If it helps,” offered Falconer, “rest assured that nothing we've witnessed is metaphysical, nor even supernatural. These were passive ghosts, not active spirits. There's a difference. As an expert in the so-called paranormal, the scientific basis for passive ghosts is well known. They are best described as persistent echoes in space-time, extensions of consciousness that linger beyond death. Not souls."
Merrian found this to be a steadying concept, as Falconer had no doubt intended. Space-time echoes. This much she could accept. Heavens, hells, immortal souls, and avenging gods were on their own.
"All right, Dr. Falconer, I'll grant you the ghosts are real,” said Merrian. “A real pain in my ass. Now how do we get rid of them? Can't we send them trundling off to wherever it is that spirits go off to, and everybody's happy?"
"Persistent space-time echoes generally represent an unfulfilled emotional need,” he explained. “Such a void is best canceled out by supplying the polar opposite."
"You give them what they want,” suggested Ian. “Ah, but what if it's revenge they're after?"
Falconer shook his head. “I don't think so. You said they haven't hurt anyone, and they certainly could have. Anyway, it's not very likely we're going to be able to give them the poachers, is it?"
"No,” Merrian conceded, wishing it were otherwise. “Now that the ban on hunting has been lifted, we can't even pursue them legally. So we'd better find another answer."
And if I stand any chance of getting rid of them, thought Merrian, it would sure help to find out what they want. She felt put on the spot here. She was the expert on elephants and their behavior, yet she had no inkling as to what they might be after. Second-guessing ghosts was just not her business.
A thought came, completely unbidden, in the ensuing silence. A scene she had witnessed several years earlier, a poacher kill. A group of slain elephants lying about, their tusks and feet hacked off.
"The ivory,” she suggested, “if their ivory was taken from them, perhaps they want it back."
"That's a good thought,” said Falconer. “What happens to the ivory?"
"Smuggled out of the country. Cut up. Distributed to retailers and craftsmen across the globe."
"Then it's not likely we're going to return their ivory to them, is it?"
Merrian let out a weary sigh. The situation felt hopeless. “What else can we do, Dr. Falconer?"
"I'm not sure. I've never dealt with anything quite so....” He paused, bringing a tightly knotted fist to his jaw. His eyes, sharp and bright within their time-worn sockets, roamed uncertainly across the dusty plain. “Well, so huge. I'm afraid you have me at something of a loss."
They sat in silence for a moment. Merrian tried again to think of what an elephant's ghost might desire, what unfulfilled need could keep a spirit angry even beyond death. She kept coming back to the image of a huge bull, defiled by a poacher's chainsaw.
"And you haven't answered my question yet,” said Falconer. “Can you describe their emotional state? It's important."
Merrian sighed. “Desperation."
* * * *
The next day brought two dreadful bits of news. Another estate in Tanzania had been wrecked by a presumed elephant rampage, the
chickens and cattle scattered with fright. The property damage was formidable.
Even worse, another young bull had been killed. That made two prime breeders lost in one week, out of only thirty males of reproductive age—a severe blow to the Amboseli herd. Worse yet, the bull had been brought down inside the Park itself. Merrian rushed to the scene to find Broken Tusk, a five-ton giant, lying crumpled over on his side among the leafy suaedas like some twisted version of a deflated Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon. The sight sickened her. Broken Tusk had been one of the friendliest bulls in the herd. He was well used to humans and their vehicles, and was even known to roll a beach ball playfully back and forth with Merrian and her staff on occasion. She could not help thinking that his timidity had ultimately caused his destruction.
The killers had tried to conceal their work by slicing open the elephant's hide, which encouraged lions to feed and obscure the site. A killing within the boundaries of the Park was clearly illegal. Merrian would alert the National Park authorities as soon as she made it back to her office, but she knew damn well the perpetrators would never be caught.
She slowly circled the lifeless wreck, moving away from the shredded meat and thick tubes of exposed intestine. When she noted his tusks had been cut from him, the irony was not lost on her. She had dubbed him Broken Tusk because early in his rough and tumble, misspent youth, both his tusks had been snapped off fairly close to the jaw, leaving only two jagged stumps. This bull would certainly not have been a target of ivory poachers; he was infinitely more valuable to them as a breeder. This had been an act of retribution.
Damn the ivory trade, she thought, though she knew the ivory quotas were only part of the problem. In truth, the acacia and fertile grassland were being depleted by the animals themselves at an alarming rate. With the wholesale destruction of their habitats and the expansion of human settlements, there just wasn't enough available land to support wild elephants anymore. Merrian felt the inevitable crush of hopelessness. She would never save them.
FSF, July-August 2010 Page 23
