“Come on, Andy,” Mr. Wright said with a noticeable quiver in his voice. “It’s all right.”
Constable Ward drew back the rifle, carefully aimed, and shot the bear in the center of his chest. Andy instantly collapsed to the ground. Ward shot a second time, the bullet entering near the bear’s large hind leg. Hettie held her stomach with both arms. Bile tickled her throat. Andy convulsed, frothy saliva gathering in the fine whiskers that bordered his mouth, before finally growing still. Hettie glanced over at Mr. Wright, who stared straight ahead with little expression although tears continued to travel down his cheeks. Hettie prayed silently that she wouldn’t retch again, as she had outside of St. George’s. Was that just this morning? She felt like she was losing her ability to track time. Instead, it seemed to be circling, a continuous spiral of violence and devastation, one trauma collapsing into another, with no beginning or end. Hettie looked up at Andy again. His pink tongue slipped from the side of his mouth. His eyes were open and still.
The next enclosure was the home of the black bears, Henry and his mate, Alice, who was due to give birth in early May. The pair lumbered across the dusty yard. Alice’s abdomen was noticeably swollen, like a large watermelon, and hung low as she walked and then dipped her nose into a bucket of water.
“Alice is pregnant with a pair of cubs,” Mr. Wright said, haltingly. “She is due in a few weeks.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wright,” said Constable Ward. “I cannot make any exceptions. Mr. Greene, please proceed.”
The bears paced the length of the enclosure.
“Mr. Wright—” Hettie said, her voice strangled.
Ferris grabbed her hand and squeezed it. She looked up at him. He shook his head, and she bit into her lower lip. She tasted her own blood in her mouth. Samuel took a step forward and steadied his rifle on his shoulder. He issued two swift shots, and the bears fell onto their sides, their chests heaving. Samuel took two more, and their large black bodies stopped moving. Hettie wondered if the babies were dead already, if the bullets had entered the placenta, or if they would die slowly from the lack of sustenance from their mother.
“Mr. Wright, should I recruit other men to help with the burials?” asked Ferris, blowing his nose into his worn handkerchief.
“Yes,” Mr. Wright said, mopping his forehead. “You’ll need at least four men.”
Ferris squeezed Hettie’s hand one more time and then headed off to the employee canteen. She felt the warm imprint of his palm against her own fingers as she watched him walk away.
Hettie clenched her hands into fists as she followed Mr. Wright and the group of men. If she couldn’t stop Violet’s death, it was important to her that she be present with Violet when the end of her life occurred, to be a witness when the elephant made her transition from living to dying. After all, she hadn’t been able to perform this intimate privilege for her sister, having arrived four hours after Anna took her last breath. At least she could provide this comfort for Violet. Her tears fell steadily. Hettie wiped her cheeks and nose with the sleeve of her coat. The outer rims of her nostrils felt raw and red.
The puma lived in the next paddock. The sleek cat prowled along the ground before jumping up onto the highest rock of the enclosure. He kept his body close to the boulder, as if he were preparing to pounce on his next prey.
“Greene,” Constable Ward said.
Samuel stepped forward again and quietly aimed his rifle at the majestic cat. This time, Hettie closed her eyes as she heard the now-familiar pop. Please, no, she said silently to herself. No. But when she opened her eyes, the cat was lifeless on top of the slate-gray boulder. His powerful body was now limp except for a single paw that briefly shuddered in the air.
“Rajan will be next,” Mr. Wright said.
Hettie stood at the edge of the enclosure, staring at the puma. She knelt on the pavement, clasped her hands together, and said a prayer for the dead animal. When she stood up again, Mr. Wright and the officers and Samuel Greene were already at Rajan’s enclosure. She walked toward the group even though a part of her wanted to turn around because she didn’t think she could take in another act of violence. The enormous elephant was standing in the corner with his broad rear facing the group. Maggie stood next to him, her long tail jerking from side to side. Soft pinks and grays flecked Maggie’s forehead. The three giraffes clustered in the other corner, their long necks extended, as they tore at the young leaves of the nearby trees.
Without any delay, Constable Ward lifted his rifle and shot directly at Rajan. The bullet struck the bull elephant’s side. Rajan raised his long trunk into the air and gave a loud trumpet call. Maggie retreated into the far corner with the giraffes; the small herd huddled closer together, bowing their necks toward the ground. Rajan began to pace, his flap-like ears pinned to his head, and then jammed his trunk between the bars. A metal chain attached to the enclosure’s padlock knocked against the cage, and Hettie flinched. The concussive sound reminded her of the bombs from the night before, as if the explosions were detonating within the muscle memory of her system, a theater of flame-red pyrotechnics and deep vibrations that would always lie underneath her skin. Rajan reared and charged toward the group.
“He doesn’t appear to be even injured,” Sergeant Miller said with astonishment. “That can’t be possible.”
“Again,” ordered Constable Ward. “Shoot him again.”
Sergeant Miller lifted his firearm again, and Rajan released another roar and stood up on his hind legs. Miller rested the rifle against his shoulder and pointed it at the elephant. Hettie turned away. The sergeant made another attempt. Hettie looked back at Rajan. He released another guttural roar, pacing and swinging his trunk wildly.
“We need a more powerful gun for the bull elephant, sir,” said Sergeant Miller.
“Mr. Wright, does this surprise you?” asked Constable Ward.
“Rajan weighs over thirteen thousand pounds,” Mr. Wright responded, his voice subdued. “To be honest, I thought a rifle would manage it, but it seems, given his sheer size, weight, and determination, he requires something more.”
Maggie walked toward Rajan and began to lick the wound near his left ear. Rajan buried his large head into Maggie’s side. She continued to clean the blood from his rubbery skin.
“Good God, we need to put the poor thing out of his misery,” Hettie gasped.
“Quiet, girl,” Constable Ward said sharply.
Hettie stared at Mr. Wright. Tears continued to roll down his blotchy cheeks.
“We’ll return with a more powerful gun this afternoon,” continued Constable Ward. “Miller, go ahead. Shoot the other elephant now.”
“Can we wait until tomorrow?” Sergeant Miller responded wearily. “Perhaps she needs a bigger gun, too.”
“Miller, do as I say,” Constable Ward said curtly. “Now.”
Without another word, Sergeant Miller drew back his rifle again and shot Maggie with three consecutive blasts. The elephant crumpled to the dusty floor of the enclosure. Rajan gingerly suctioned the end of his trunk over Maggie’s large-lidded eyes and ears, bowing his head as he whinnied: at first softly, and then louder and louder.
Mr. Wright stepped toward Hettie and gripped her arm.
“Take Violet home,” he whispered urgently. “She’ll be safe there. Now, go.”
Surprised by Mr. Wright’s instruction, Hettie did her best to stifle her response, and quietly turned around and headed toward the Elephant House. In the near distance, she heard another distinctive pop of a rifle. Then another. Hettie ran down the winding pathway until she reached the Elephant House. There she found Violet. She stood near the center of her enclosure, tucking a small bundle of hay into her mouth.
“Morning, Vi,” Hettie said, her voice trembling. “Mr. Wright wants me to take you home. We can take the Crazy Path. Then you’ll be safe—and we can stay there together until Mum returns. And Maeve and Liam, too. And we’ll be all together.”
Another metallic pop perforated the a
ir. Violet walked toward Hettie and released a series of chirps. Her ears flapped in the morning breeze.
“Let’s go,” Hettie said, clucking her tongue.
Hettie unhooked the stick with the curled end that hung from a brass hook on the wall of the Elephant House and opened the gate. Its rusty hinges rasped like a waking voice. The elephant shook her head and kicked the gate with great force.
“Vi, what are you doing?” she said, nervous and startled. “Do you want to get yourself shot, too?”
Up ahead, a flock of gray pigeons pecked away at the pavement before lifting into the sky in one symphonic motion. For a fleeting moment, Hettie thought the elephant would refuse to move. But then she started walking, and Hettie breathed again.
“Steady, Vi,” Hettie said. “Steady.”
Together they walked along the pathway that led to the rear entrance of the zoo. Hettie held the stick not far from Violet’s forehead, and the elephant followed as they continued along the curving path that bordered the aviary. Parrots rested in the crooked arms of the trees, and the peacocks congregated in a cluster near the back of the aviary. One of the parrots squawked: Good morning! Good morning! Another bird chimed in: Where are you going? Where are you going? Hettie picked up her pace.
“We need to move,” she whispered to Violet. “We need to get out of here.”
Hettie guided Violet through the gate that led to the Throne Wood and the Crazy Path. To the right, the clearing was obscured by the long shadows of the Cavehill, where Ferris and four other zookeepers methodically dug into the ground. The rusty heads of their shovels swung up into the yellow-tinged air before hitting the field with considerable impact and then hurling tangled clumps of dirt, grass, and roots over their shoulders.
Swing, dig, hurl.
Swing, dig, hurl.
Swing, dig, hurl.
Again and again.
Ferris and Jack Fleming and Bobby Adair and Daryl Griffins and Hugh Mallon moved in unison, as if they were a team rowing the flat blades of a scull together. Hettie and Violet paused at the clearing.
“Ferris,” Hettie said.
Ferris didn’t look up, his attention absorbed by the systematic movements of his shovel. Hettie glanced back in the direction of the zoo, knowing that the officers and Samuel Greene wouldn’t be far behind her once they discovered that Violet was no longer in her enclosure.
“Ferris Poole,” Hettie said, louder this time. “Over here.”
Ferris finally looked up, pushing strands of hair from his eyes. The other zookeepers stopped their digging and looked up at her, too, and expressions of astonishment opened up on their faces.
“Hettie,” he said, looking both relieved and surprised to see her and Violet together on the path. “What are you doing?”
“Taking Violet home. Mr. Wright told me to.”
Ferris stared up the path and then at the pile of dead animals before him—the lions and their cubs, and the puma. Pools of blood collected around the edges of their furry bodies. Buzzing flies and bees darted over the carcasses. The smell of rot was beginning to take over the field.
“Go, go,” Ferris said urgently. “Before the constable realizes Violet is gone.”
Hettie looked over at Violet. In the end of her trunk, she held a tuft of a buttercup flower, its yellow petaled bloom luminous like a bit of sunlight. The rain had ceased, and the overcast clouds still sat low above the rolling knolls of the Cavehill.
“When you’re finished here, come to my house,” she said.
“Go, Hettie,” Ferris said again, nodding toward the Crazy Path. “Before it’s too late.”
Ten
THE DIRT OF THE CRAZY PATH CRUNCHED UNDERNEATH THEIR feet, as they marched almost in step with each other. Tendrils of smoke lingered in the late-morning brightness. Once they reached the street, Hettie glanced back at Violet, who was a few paces behind her.
“Come on, Vi,” Hettie urged. “It’s not much farther.”
Violet clomped her feet against the street. Down the road, Hettie heard the wardens ringing handbells. This was the signal that it was now safe for the citizens to come out of their houses, as all unexploded bombs had been dealt with and many of the half-demolished buildings were now stabilized. Hettie cursed inwardly: This undertaking would be much easier with fewer people on the streets. Then from the direction of the Antrim Road came the distant whine of ambulances, military vehicles, police tenders, fire trucks, and the lorries of rescue workers. Hettie could also hear the constant murmurs of the crowds of desperate civilians still moving en masse northward and out of the city.
Suddenly, a shadowy weight moved toward her. She looked over her shoulder to see Violet skidding on the gray cobblestones of the Antrim Road. Her front feet were slipping out from underneath her huge body. The elephant was falling. She was tumbling in midair. Her presence seemed to take up most of the road.
Violet’s eyes became more pronounced, wide open, and alert.
Her large ears fanned, like a pair of eagle’s wings.
Her long trunk reached into the air.
Hettie jumped out of the way. Her feet slid across the street as she tumbled into the opposite curb. Pebbles and dirt pressed into her slick hands. Her head hurt. Hettie glanced over at Violet: She was on her back, her feet flailing in the air. Hettie jumped up and ran to her side, patting the elephant with trembling hands, checking for injuries and comforting her at the same time. Violet’s belly heaved up and down. She trumpeted again.
“It’s all right, me girl,” Hettie soothed. “It’s all right.”
She rubbed the elephant’s side. She looked around. Despite their presence in the middle of the street, strangers continued to stream along the Antrim Road. She wondered where they were headed: No doubt some would seek refuge for the night in the rounded foothills and fields of the Cavehill. But it was evident that others were evacuating the city altogether, heading toward Carrickfergus, Whitehead, Larne, and beyond that to the Glens of Antrim. An elderly man pointed at her and Violet.
“What are you doing with that elephant?” he yelled. “Police, police. Somebody.”
“Get up,” Hettie whispered. “You can do it, Vi. You can do it.”
Hettie looked at the older man again; he had continued up the road. And thankfully there were no police around. Pain glowed inside her wrist. Heat rose in her chest and sweat dampened the back of her blouse. Come on, Violet, she pleaded silently. I can’t lose you, too. Hettie rubbed circles along Violet’s broad side, and the elephant released a soft cry. Several strangers walked around them in the middle of the road.
“Look, Ma,” Hettie heard a young boy say. “It’s an elephant. It’s an elephant on the road.”
Hettie felt the shadows of other people fall on them. There was a high-pitched whistle. A charge of fear barreled through Hettie’s body that it might be the constable coming after Violet, that she had lost her chance to save the elephant, that soon she was going to be dead, too.
“Come on, Vi,” Hettie whispered again. “I need you. I really need you.”
A runnel of sweat traveled down her cheek, and Hettie wiped it away. It felt like a rash of pebbles were embedded in the skin of her face. The tips of her fingers tingled. She glanced down at her hand and saw that her fingers were smudged with traces of blood. She wiped her forehead again, and more blood appeared on her fingers.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” Hettie said to herself, feeling she wouldn’t have gotten hurt if she had been paying better attention to Violet. “How could you be so bloody stupid—”
Several more people continued to walk around them, their arms full of personal belongings and cherished items. It was as if the sighting of this unusual pair was customary on the Antrim Road, as if the bombing had recalibrated daily life into a different kind of normal, where anything was acceptable, including a young elephant lying in the middle of a public road during broad daylight. Others cycled past her as fast as they could pedal. An overcrowded bus—with the tired faces of youn
g children pressed against the windows—motored north. An army lorry swept by, its rear rammed full of frightened children with their mothers, many of them clinging onto its sides. A middle-aged woman, still dressed in her tattered nightgown, clutched a large clock in her arms as she trudged up the road.
Violet blinked, and then folded onto her legs and stood up in one fluid motion. Hettie rubbed her eyes. She could barely believe it: Violet was standing again. She flapped her large ears and then shook her entire body.
“Yes, Vi,” Hettie said, encouraged that they might make it safely home. “Yes!”
Hettie clucked her tongue again and then waved the stick. Violet followed her across the Antrim Road. The pain in her wrist smarted again. Hettie touched it, gently squeezing her thin wrist. The ache pulsed, like a heartbeat. For a moment, Hettie imagined another scenario that could have just played out: Violet landing on top of her, crushing her with a single impact, her ribs snapping, her back breaking in two, her skull cracking in more than one place, her brain matter splattering against the cobblestones. Hettie trembled at the irony of it, how she could have died being crushed by an elephant rather than by a collapsing shelter or a falling bomb. Hettie thought of Rose again, praying that her mother would be home when they arrived.
“We’re almost home.”
“What on earth—” an elderly man said, approaching them.
Hettie kept her gaze on the bend of the road that led to the Whitewell Road. A layer of ash coated the leaves of the trees. Passing pedestrians stared at Violet and Hettie while others barely glanced in their direction.
After what seemed like a very long time, they turned down the Whitewell Road. The scorched couch still sat in the middle of the street, which was now half deserted. Scrawled notes were pinned to the doors of some of the vacated houses, letting worried friends and neighbors know that the former occupants had taken refuge in the countryside. Much of the broken glass had been swept up, but piles of debris and rubble were still strewn across the road. Soldiers and rescue workers were combing through the shattered ruins of houses, searching for survivors and exhuming the dead.
The Elephant of Belfast Page 22