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
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
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
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.