The Mourning Parade

by Dawn Reno Langley

  When Natalie came into the pen, Apsara came running, swinging the trunk she hadn’t quite learned to control yet, tripping on her feet as excited as a toddler. Every time she did so, Natalie felt like she’d become a grandmother who could easily spoil the delightful child, yet she forced herself to remember how important it was to discipline the rambunctious youngster, even though the calf got her feelings hurt regularly.

  “Elephants not forget,” Khalan told her. “Make friends again. Not be mad.”

  She listened to him and allowed him to teach her that taking care of adult elephants was often easier than caring for babies.

  When she told her parents about what had happened, about rescuing Apsara and about the cobra attack, Sophie’s death, and what she’d learned about Peter, it was easier for them to understand why Natalie couldn’t leave the sanctuary when her time was up. She had to stay. Though Maman cried, she told Natalie, “I know you’re happy. I know you have to be around the animals, so we understand.” And a month later, Maman called to say that she and Pop wanted to come for what she called “a vacation to Bangkok” in the fall. Natalie couldn’t wait to introduce them to everyone who’d become her Thai family.

  Not a day went by when Natalie went to the pen to help the other mahouts that she didn’t think about her old girl. Her brave old girl. The program that Seth and his crew had shot aired a couple of weeks ago, and the last moments were dedicated to her in memoriam. Since that time, hundreds of people had called or emailed, wanting to send their abused elephants to her or to learn her training program. Andrew often joked that he’d be quite happy if they’d send him their cash so he could continue his work. He was opening another sanctuary and wanted Peter to run it, which made Peter giddy and proud. Though he and Natalie had come to terms with their relationship and could even work side by side, it was best that Peter be in charge of his own reserve. Ironically, the first thing he’d asked Andrew was whether he could have several protected contact buildings at the new place.

  She adjusted the blanket on Apsara’s back now, and the calf naughtily snatched it off with her trunk. She’d become more adept at using her trunk within the past month and had yanked Natalie by her braid so many times that Natalie finally cut it off. She shook her newly-shorn hair now and giggled as she picked up Apsara’s blanket, tied it around the calf’s neck and wagged her finger at the baby. “Don’t do that.”

  “You need to make your voice a bit stronger if you’re going to discipline her. I would laugh at you if I were her.” Mali was behind them, leaning against the fence that surrounded Apsara’s pen. She pulled the black turban from her head and rolled it in her hands. “Have you seen Siriporn? He’s supposed to bring Sivad to see her new school.”

  “He was taking Ali to the river then heading your way.” Natalie popped Apsara’s bottle into her mouth and stood beside her, holding to the railing as the baby leaned her whole three hundred pounds against her human nanny. “How long’s he staying?”

  Mali screwed up her mouth. She still wasn’t happy with Siriporn’s decision to stay in Bangkok to take on the leadership of the Red Party’s base there, but he was an adult, and she was trying to learn to let go. She was trying to work off the guilt she felt for not being there for her sons when they were younger, trying to make up for lost time. Besides, since becoming one of the Red Party’s leaders, he’d become determined to infuse some of the good and bad he’d learned about American history into the party’s structure. And he was equally determined to work toward freeing the elephants who’d been in chains, serving humans, for most of their lives. It would take a while, he’d told Natalie, but it gave him a focus.

  “Maybe a week this time, then he’s going back,” Mali said. “I told him he needed to be here for his sister’s first day at school. She won’t know what to do without him.”

  Natalie raised an eyebrow. “Neither will his mother.”

  Mali grunted, her favorite way of not engaging in a subject she didn’t want to discuss.

  “Do you want to have tea when I’m done?” Natalie asked, adjusting Apsara’s bottle so the calf wouldn’t pull it away.

  “I’d love that. I have something to tell you.” Mali smiled mysteriously.

  “Why not tell me now?”

  “Over tea.”

  “You always do that to me,” Natalie said, adding a little childish whine to her voice.

  They shared a laugh and some chit chat until Apsara finished her bottle with a burp and a sigh, as a toddler would. She followed them up the road to the platform, wandering off with Anurak and Decha to play with the big tire Andrew had given them. The women sat on the platform and watched, marveling that three species could play together as though they were all siblings: a dog, a little boy, and an elephant.

  “I think if Apsara hadn’t had the friendship of those two, and nannies like Thaya and Pahpao, she would’ve died after Sophie was killed. She really needed to be with other youngsters. Other elephants.” Natalie sipped a bit of the hot, sweet tea Hom had brought over to the two of them.

  Mali nodded and studied her friend. “You’re okay, aren’t you?”

  “I’m better than I thought I’d be,” Natalie answered. “I’ve done a lot of thinking, and I’ve come to one conclusion.”

  Mali waited.

  Natalie wrapped her hands around her cup. “I’ve come to the conclusion that what Oscar Wilde said about the truth being rarely pure and never simple pretty much sums up life.”

  Mali nodded again and the women simply sat with each other.

  “What did you want to tell me?” Natalie asked.

  Mali smiled and held a hand over her stomach. “Andrew and I are getting married. There’s another baby coming . . .”

  Natalie reached to hug her friend. “That’s wonderful!”

  “And I want you to be maid of honor and godmother.”

  Natalie’s eyes filled. “I’d be honored.”

  “Good,” Mali said. “Good.”

  In the distance, Apsara gave a baby elephant roar and Decha barked. And further away, the rest of the herd grazed in the meadow near the mountains, a tableau of grayish-pink humps against the lush green of the jungle. The denim-blue sky rippled with the heat of a late morning thunderstorm in the distance. Several of the mahouts, their brightly-colored rugby shirts a shock of red and orange and blue against the dark green vegetation, called their elephants together, then the herd started moving through the gently swaying grasses, heading for home.

  Acknowledgements

  It is true that the first people I want to thank are the members of the incredible Amberjack Publishing team. From the moment I spoke with Dayna Anderson and Kayla Church, I knew they were the publishers for me, and my editor, Jenny Miller, has been supportive and helpful throughout the process, as has Cami Wasden, the office assistant. Sometimes you think you’re going in the right direction, but you’re not sure. With the Amberjack crew, I’m definitely home, and I can’t thank them enough for their editorial direction, help with marketing, and their overall spirit.

  Throughout the process of writing The Mourning Parade, my writing community supported me. I started the novel while in the Algonkian Novelists Workshop, and Michael Neff, the founder, and I had several long conversations about where the story was going. Literary agent and developmental editor extraordinaire, Elizabeth Kracht, suggested the new title and helped me reshape the story’s arc. Damian McNicholls and Laura Rennert also made suggestions that were helpful in developing the story.

  Ron Jackson inspired at least two of the scenes that made the final cut and his rich way of interpreting scenes strengthened my words. Carolyn Burns Bass, Christine Mojica, Shannon Capone Kirk, and Lolita Guevarra have all heard bits and pieces of the storyor have read the entire novel (sometimes several times). I don’t know what I would have done without them! Carolyn’s voice rang through my head as I wrote, Shannon boosted my ego when
I needed it, Christine read the early drafts of the book, and Lolita sat with me when I wrote the final draft. And my Facebook family has cheered me on, helped me choose photos and graphics, and listened to all my trials, tribulations, and celebrations. My heartfelt thanks to each of you.

  The folks at the Elephant World in Kanchanaburi, Thailand taught me more than they’ll ever realize. Their old bull, Rom Sai, was my inspiration for Ali. Lek Chailert and her sanctuaries have done an incredible job bringing attention to the plight of elephants in Chiang Mai, Thailand. She’s well known all over the world for what she’s done for Asian elephants. In a different part of the world, Dame Daphne Sheldrick is equally as well known in Kenya for her work with saving baby elephants. These incredible women formed the basis of my research on elephants, and I counted on their expertise – as well as my experience at the elephant sanctuaries in both Thailand and Africa—to complete this work.

  The Weymouth Center for the Arts and Humanities gave me space and time I needed to finish the final draft of the book, though I needed to compete with spooky stories to do so! Thank you, thank you, thank you!

  And finally, my family and friends have put up with my crazy work schedule and habits of disappearing to jot something down on a napkin for too many years. You all know I love you.

  About the Author

  A writer, theater critic, mosaic artist, and educator, Dawn Reno Langley has devoted her life to literature and the arts. Born an Army brat to a WWII and Korea vet and his wife, Dawn spent her childhood scaring her younger siblings with stories of monsters under the bed. Her first published works, an essay on the Cuban missile crisis, revealed a deep sense of social justice that has never waned. Since then, she has written extensively for newspapers and magazines, has published children’s books, novels, nonfiction books, short stories and poetry, as well as theater reviews and blogs.

  A Fulbright scholar with an MFA in Fiction and a PhD in Interdisciplinary Studies, Langley lives in Durham, North Carolina, a small city where people present her with new stories every day. She is always amazed that one finds most stories in small places rather than large cities, and she appreciates the warmth of the friends she has made in the town she calls “funky/artsy.”