by Ralph Helfer
He sat on the bed trembling. He didn’t feel fear. Strange, yes, but he felt his reactions were due to the shock of what had happened, but not the happening itself.
He fell back asleep, feeling Atoul was there to protect him, and would someday let him in the mystical door his father had spoken of. Perhaps Atoul might even speak with him, as Modoc did now.
For the next few months, when the arena was available, Bram would work Modoc, teaching her the ways of the teak elephants. He noticed her body changing, new muscles developing, and her outward physical appearance seemed to improve.
Early on a Sunday morning when Bram was taking Mo for a walk, Kelly came to say goodbye. He walked alongside the two and they finally rested at one of the pools. Kelly looked up at the blue sky and sighed deeply.
“I’m going to miss this place, you, Modoc—all of it. It’s been quite an experience.”
Bram felt uncomfortable. It seemed to him he was always saying goodbye to friends.
“Kelly, I don’t know how I can ever repay you for all you’ve done. I don’t think anyone has had such a good friend. But I always wondered why you did all those things.”
Kelly cleared his throat and ran his hands through his hair. He laughed. “When I first saw you, I remember how hurt you were by Mr. North’s comments. I felt kinda sorry for you. Your father had just…passed on, and then you were about to lose Modoc, and, well, if it had been me, I would’ve done the same thing.” He picked some grass and played with the blades in his hand. “Of course, no one needs to know all this, huh, Bram—I mean, I don’t want the world to know ol’ Kelly has such a soft heart. I got a reputation, okay?”
Bram smiled. “It’s all right, Kelly, I won’t tell a soul. And neither will Mo. But I think a lot of people already know.”
Kelly finally drove off with a wave and good wishes for the future. The last thing Bram remembered him doing was a simpleton’s gesture, saying “What’s a Mo?” Bram knew his secret would be kept.
Weeks passed into months. Bram was becoming a member of the family, at least as far as the staff was concerned. He drank of the knowledge they could give, and he in turn shared the many secrets his father had taught him, plus things he’d learned along the way. Modoc became an inspiration to all who had the good fortune to live within the sphere of her life.
Bram lived as a Hindu, wore the clothes, ate the vegetarian diet, and was slowly learning their language.
All the letters he had written to his mom, Gertie, and Curpo had washed away in the mighty storm. Since his rescue he had not written…not even once. He was afraid to. A letter to Gertie or the others would reveal his location—and that Mo was alive. One slip and the whole town would know. God forbid, Herr Gobel or any of his friends might learn, too. When he was first caught, Bram was sure that the ship’s captain had radioed ahead to the police so they would pick him up when the ship docked. He probably had sent a message to Mr. North as well, telling him about Bram’s stowing away on the ship. If North heard any report about Mo’s survival, he would link it to Bram, and what better source to find Mo than through his family?
In the middle of the palace’s private forest flowed the beautiful Agra, a mystical river of dark blue water. It writhed through the forest like a giant serpent, angling through the trees, changing in width, in girth, never ending, sometimes multichanneled, splitting into many tributaries.
Each morning found Bram astride Mo, ambling through the forest on the way to the river. Others would join them, and sometimes as many as thirty elephants could be seen at one time. As they passed close to the edge of its azure crystallike surface, their images would reflect as clearly as if they were looking in a mirror. Only the leaping of a occasional trout broke the still waters, shattering the reflection into a thousand pieces. On both sides of its shore rose gigantic vine-covered trees and tropical plants with leaves the size of Mo’s ear. The blooming flowers were on loan from God’s Blanket.
Soft red clay trails meandered throughout the forest, occasionally coming to visit the pleasant coves along the water’s edge. Hundreds of huge circular footprints were embossed into the clay path where the elephants had trod for many years.
Each mahout was free to take his hathi on the trails. As they arrived at the lake, bellowing and trumpeting could be heard for miles.
There they took their hathis to a special cleaning area at the edge of the water where they had to “come down” to be scrubbed clean. Once finished, one by one, each rose and headed for the open water. It was playtime! Tails up, trunks held high, they launched into the lake. Modoc joined the others in part of the daily ritual, but when the others ventured into the water, she stood at the edge, ears at rest, her trunk hanging loosely, the tip nosing the mud gently as small waves lapped at her feet. Bram stood by her side, gently running his hands up and down her legs.
“It’s okay, Mosie, sometimes I feel the same way.” She ran her trunk up his arm. “Those were horrible days, and we’ll never forget them. But someday you’ll know what was then is not now and, well…you’ll see.”
He washed her down with some water from a tightly woven basket dipped in the lake. It was tedious work, but eventually she was fresh and clean, and together they headed up the trail. Mo’s ears followed the sounds as she listened to her new friends play in the water.
Bram saw him from afar…rushing across the grassy slope at the edge of the forest. He and Mosie had been relaxing there in the warm sun, enjoying the soft breezes, feeling the happiness of being there.
“Bram! Bram!” yelled Sabu. “I have news for you that is great!” He flopped down, exhausted from his run.
“What is it?”
Sabu tried to catch his breath while telling Bram the news. “The maharajah…has given you permission…to meet Atoul!”
Bram sprung to his feet and paced a circle around Sabu. “What? Where? When? That’s wonderful—that’s incredible!”
Breathlessly Sabu revealed, “Tonight…at sundown…you are to meet Jagrat at the edge of the lake, by the great mimosa tree. He will take you to Atoul!”
Bram bathed, slipped on his best jacket, and was at the foot of the mimosa tree long before sundown. What would it be like to see a white elephant? Why was he white? What was his sacred origin? These questions and more raced through his mind, whirling in anticipation.
When the sun set on the horizon, a man dressed in a white turban, white kurta, and white sandals appeared on a slope just near the tree. He stood quietly enough to make one think him a statue. The imminent darkness seemed to do little to affect the stark whiteness of his attire. He was looking off into the forest, and only when Bram’s nervous foot crunched a pebble did he turn. With the slightest rise of his chin, he beckoned. Bram reacted with a start and headed up the small grassy hill. As he approached, he noticed the man was thick of stature, had a mustache, and carried a golden choon. On the left side of his jacket was the Elephantarium insignia, and on the front of his turban was a spherical gold brooch. A leather pouch hung from his neck. Placing the palms of his hands together, he slowly bowed.
“I am called Jagrat. I have been instructed to take you to meet Atoul.”
Bram greeted Jagrat in the same way, just as Sabu had taught him. “My name is Bram, and I wish to thank you for allowing me this pleasure.”
They walked deeper into the forest where it was unkempt, left to its natural growth. As they walked, Bram saw the golden-domed roof of the Temple of the White Elephant. Instead of walking to it, they were walking parallel with it. The forest became thicker and harder to move through. The moon in all its fullness appeared low on the horizon, backlighting the surrounding forest into dark silhouettes.
Out of the darkness came a sound, the sound of a chime. A piercing single note of high resonance reverberated through the forest, through Bram’s being, and through the dark itself.
Then, standing on a ledge some twenty meters above them, silhouetted against the moon, the elephant appeared huge and jet black as the forest around him. The monarch
stood still, listening. As they approached from below, Bram looked straight up at the gargantuan figure. A beam of moonlight hit the tips of his tusk and blasted back a whiteness that held its own against the white Patriarch.
Jagrat circled the ledge abutment, walking up a small, narrow spiral path cut into the hill. When they rounded the hill, the moon was at their backs, illuminating everything, and the dark shadows were left behind. Atoul slowly turned his magnificence toward them, emerging into the lunar glow.
Bram looked up at this colossus of nature. Atoul’s body was thirteen feet tall—a height hitherto unknown to Indian elephants. His body was the purest white, his great tusks like daggers, thrust out, the tips with a glistening sheen, honed sharply. His trunk was twice the thickness of any other. Bram could have walked under him without his head touching the broad girth of the belly. The majestic elephant stood before them as if from a fable, frozen in time and space.
“Approach him from the front…slowly, then stand close.”
Bram was as if possessed. Standing in the light of God would have meant no more to him than this moment. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and advanced. In five steps he found himself within a few feet of the great elephant. Then he noticed the chimes hanging from his neck, one silver, the other gold. Each had the same sphere engraved on it as was on Jagrat’s turban. Bram peered up into the face of the old monarch. He was immediately pierced by the black orbs that gazed down upon him.
As he stared, Bram recalled the experience he had had while lying on his bed. It was the same, happening over again, only this time he stayed and looked back. Atoul seemed to be moving toward him. Bram allowed himself to be swallowed up into the bottomless black eyes.
His mind reeled, all his senses were filled. Time and space did not exist. He felt himself being lifted, his hands held firm on hard smooth cylinders…then a bright whiteness filled his vision. He had the sensation of being in a great sphere, floating among the atoms of all living things—the forest, the animals, the earth itself. All things knew one another, and were in harmony. As he was transported through this snowfall of life and vitality, there was a wonderment of sharing…
…and there was music. It came from the multitude of atoms, each expressing its individual song of Creation, blending into a natural symphony of the most exquisite kind…and then, silence except for the melodic, breathy sound of a flute.
20
BRAM AWAKENED IN A BASKET CHAIR, hung from the high arched ceiling of a temple. Jagrat appeared carrying two glasses filled with a golden bubbly liquid and offered one to Bram.
“Here, drink this,” he said.
Bram drank it down, enjoying the smooth sweet taste. “Where are we?” he asked.
“We are in the Temple of Atoul. This is…the room of metaphysics and meditation,” began Jagrat. “Only things that come from the mind and heart are talked of here.”
The room resembled a miniature temple. Above, a high domed ceiling; below, walls covered with inlaid tiles; the floor, marble; and in its center a copper and teak table surrounded with cushions.
“How did I get here?” Bram asked.
“It is not important. How do you feel?”
“I feel…wonderful.”
“And your memory, what do you recall?”
Bram thought for a moment. “I remember being so close to Atoul. I could smell incense, and then his eyes…and a feeling of…of…floating, I guess, but it was wonderful. And then I was in a kind of bubble of living energy that began to whirl and”—Bram broke into a sweat—“and I remember music…beautiful music, music that my mind has heard before but none that I have ever seen played.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes, I think so. What does it mean?”
Jagrat took a final sip from his glass. He paused, as if weighing his thoughts. “They say each man has a path. A path to God. It is inside here,” he said, pointing to his forehead, “and here,” he said, pointing to his heart. “There are those among us who search for truth and learn these great ways by hard study and teachings; there are but a few who have it in them as you do…naturally.
“The maharajah has chosen wisely. I am to share with you some of our most sacred beliefs. He feels these things will be of help to you in your quest for fulfillment in this life, and the next.”
Bram listened intently, knowing that he was privileged to be the one so chosen.
“Many Hindi believe in the Cosmic Law of the Universe, that to seek truth and God in silent meditation for many years will bring enlightenment, the Nirvana they seek, and many do indeed encounter heavenly bliss in this solitude. But just as there are many rivers that lead to the same ocean, so are there many paths that lead to God.
“But here we know the law of nature,” Jagrat said. “God created it. God is nature and as He is perfect, so is nature perfect.
“Those of us who are in tune with nature and animals know it is our way of life, Bram. There is a connection to all living things, a vibration of Life. Animals were not given a power of choice. A lion does not try to eat legumes nor an elephant meat. We believe the best way to communicate with nature, God, is through a liaison: the animals.” Jagrat reached over and touched Bram’s shoulder. Bram saw the same intensity in his eyes that he had seen in Atoul’s.
“Nature hears one voice and obeys it,” Jagrat continued. “That is why ten or ten thousand birds may rise from the surface of a lake at the same time and yet never touch one another. Man hears only his own voice. He constantly bumps into another. Even his voice mirrors his erratic walk, jealousy, hate, ego, pride, lying, cheating. He makes his own judgments and falls prey to his greed.” Jagrat smiled, a twinkle gleaming in his eyes. “Remember, the moon is reflected in one drop of water as is the entire ocean—so it is with God. He is reflected in each living thing—in a grain of sand as the entire shore, one star as the whole universe. Each animal as in all creatures.”
Jagrat moved slowly around the room. Bram’s eyes were riveted as he watched and felt a power within him listening, understanding—and knowing. He heard Jagrat’s words: “Man’s power of choice to rely on himself rather than being one with nature has been disturbing. If something is not used properly, such as the ability to tap into the vibration, it becomes weak and loses power, it atrophies. Man is losing his ability to hear the voice.”
He stopped and gazed at the light from the distant moon as it streamed into the room, revealing exquisite patterns on the marble floor.
Bram spoke for the first time. “But, Jagrat, is it not as natural for man to have the power of choice as it for the animals not to have it?”
Jagrat nodded. “We all were given a set of rules to live by,” he explained. “The only difference is that man must use his intelligence to organize and control his directives, and learn to use his power of choice correctly. Man is like a child with a new toy; he hasn’t yet figured out how it works. He understands the principle, now he must learn the controls.
“When man chooses to develop his innate power of communication with nature and therefore hear the voice, all will be right with the world—we will be as one. What you have been able to do with your Modoc is what man has been seeking for a long time. To communicate with nature through the animals. Treasure it.
“I end by telling you to listen and hear the vibration, the song of nature. The sounds of nature are its music, its lyrics, and it comes from all living things. The subtle violin whispers of the wind in the pine forest, the howling bassoon of the violent monsoon, the clarinet of the birds, the drums of the earthquakes and volcanoes, the cymbals of lightning and thunder, the harp of the oceans, together they play God’s song—early morning dripping of water from a night storm, the songbirds in the meadow during the sunny afternoon, the owl, the roar of a lion, the evening breezes blowing through the trees. It is a true song. Not a story. Not a fable with a point made at its end. But a song that sings within and without all living things.
“I hear the music; I learned it through A
toul. I know it is always in sync—the harmony, the melody are perfect and are always there to hear. That is the way it is. Perfect. It is everywhere at all times.
“It can never be stopped or disrupted. It is in our sleep, yet does not awaken us. We are all musical instruments in God’s orchestra. The music is never the same, it changes from minute to minute.
“Man must learn to tune in. It will be his nature to try to change it, but he can not create something better than the Creator. Teach your fellow man to listen, especially your enemy. Hear nature’s symphony. The blind can see it, the deaf can hear it. To listen to the sounds of nature is to hear Creation at its beginning, middle, and end at the same time, together and apart. For man, nature and God are one.
“Your experience with Atoul was to see if you had the power to reach into him; as he and you together merged into one natural thought, Atoul created the passage to learning and you were able to go there, see, experience, and return. You have the power of communicating with animals. Use them as a conduit, listen to the voice of nature.”
21
THE SUN BROKE INTO DAYLIGHT like an egg being cracked against a window frame. A strip of bright yellow-red rays lay firebranded across the bed. The bed moved! Bram rolled over, covering his eyes from the brightness.
“Okay! Okay! I’m up!”
It was six o’clock. Modoc always thumped his ceiling at that time—a sure way to get him up. Bram spent a good hour cleaning Modoc’s area, telling her everything that had happened last night. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed unreal. He rolled the philosophy over and over in his mind, comparing it to his own thinking, and was pleased that it was so similar.
The previous night had changed Bram. It seemed he had grown from a boy to a man overnight. His attitude, speaking manner, the way he carried himself, all said: “I have matured!” Knowledge and experience do that.