The White Elephant
by Sid Fleischman
Illustrations by Robert McGuire
For Sarah Conley,
girl of the elephants
Contents
Chapter 1
A Smile for Run-Run
Chapter 2
Run-Run and the Terrible Mischief
Chapter 3
The Curse on Run-Run
Chapter 4
Run-Run and the Runaway
Chapter 5
Run-Run and a Wave of the Hand
Chapter 6
Dangerous Mischief
Chapter 7
Run-Run and Fish Eyes
Chapter 8
At the River
Chapter 9
Tiger Claws
Chapter 10
Sahib in Danger
Chapter 11
Rice Flour
Chapter 12
The Attack
Chapter 13
Sahib’s Fate
Chapter 14
Run-Run Waits
Chapter 15
Run-Run Awakens
Chapter 16
The Vagabonds
Author’s Note
About the Author
Other Books by Sid Fleischman
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
CHAPTER 1
Run-Run and the tall elephant turned up the road leading to his hillside village.
A Smile FOR Run-Run
There, in old Siam, do you see the boy with dirty ears sitting as proud as a prince on the tall old elephant? Oh, how those two love each other! The boy, whose name is Run-Run, sometimes sleeps between the elephant’s front legs, safe from the world.
But what a terrible mischief the elephant got that boy into!
It happened on a day like today, hot as an oven with its doors flung open.
They were returning from clearing the tangled stumps of aged jackfruit trees for the new mango plantation over on the hillside. The tall elephant would get a stump between his great yellow tusks and shove with his padded forehead. Out came the stump, squealing like a bad tooth.
“Walking Mountain!” the boy shouted with a smile, for that was the elephant’s name. “A morning’s work under this sun is enough, big brother! Your old bones ache, eh? Come, let us have a bath, great Walking Mountain.”
Half a century old, was Run-Run’s elephant, with his final set of teeth! Walking Mountain had carried the boy’s father on his neck, and his father’s father. Brave mahouts, they commanded elephants many times their size. Mahouts had been Run-Run’s tutors. Now, only half grown, he, too, was a mahout, with his father’s colored headdress packed away under his grandfather’s porcelain amulet.
But how many years could Walking Mountain remain on his legs? One day he would lie down, lame and toothless, and refuse to get up.
In the river, Run-Run washed his ears and the red dust out of his hair, as if to avoid a scolding from his mother. He had been barely eight when she was mauled by a tiger. They say she’d fought the wild creature, even biting off his ear. Someday, Run-Run would meet that great cat, that awful, one-eared beast, and then, watch out, murderer!
“But, where are you, tiger?” Run-Run sometimes muttered. “Afraid to venture out of the jungle and show your ugly eyes around here, eh?”
Tight-lipped, he replied to his own question. “Dreamer! And what if he has been shot dead by a hunter? Aye, dead and eaten by flies!
“I bless the flies,” he added.
Now he gave his head a toss, and his long and black hair wrapped itself around his neck like a wet towel.
Run-Run and the tall elephant turned up the road leading to his hillside village. Tucked far below the hazy teak mountains to the north, shady Chattershee would be hard for anyone in the kingdom of Siam to find. No one except the pariah dogs who could be heard barking as Walking Mountain shuffled by; no one except the fruit bats, the wild green parrots, and a tiger or two.
Summer was brief with airless days, bringing heat as fiery as dragon’s breath. Dust rose in clouds like gnats.
Nevertheless, Run-Run had smiles for the world. The coins jingling in the pouch around his neck would buy grain for his elephant. Fresh hay, too, brought to the plantation by bullock carts from he knew not where. He’d slap his noisy coins on the counter and pick out a treat of spindly sugarcanes for his tall friend. And why not a fat, juicy piece of cane for himself, Run-Run, to chew?
Oh, how that great walking mountain could eat! Two hundred pounds a day. Three hundred! Hardly a blade of grass was left at the edges of the plowed fields to dine upon. For miles around, plantation elephants had browsed the tree branches up beyond reach. But being so tall, Walking Mountain could stand on his hind legs and stretch himself to amazing length to search out a high mango or luscious fruits dangling on the wild fig trees.
“Elephant boy!” called out the beekeeper, old Bangrak. He sat in the breathless shade of a flame tree. “Look! Here is a watermelon I grew for you in exchange.”
“A thousand blessings!” exclaimed Run-Run, running his tongue around his lips. “In exchange for what, sir?”
“My wind chimes haven’t struck a note in weeks. If I breathe more dust, I’ll spit mud bricks! Give this road a river splash, eh?”
“Two watermelons,” said Run-Run, for bargaining was as natural to him as breathing. Sometimes a trade in river water arose out of the choking April dust. He would be sorry to see the monsoon rains come and put his splendid business at an end.
“Did you say two melons?”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Thief!” The old man wagged a dried hand in front of his face as if to clear a swirl of dust.
Said Run-Run, “I am ashamed of myself! Nevertheless, a melon for Walking Mountain. Another for me.”
“Prince of rascals!”
“Two watermelons, large and sweet, or good-bye, friend of my father,” the elephant boy replied.
Like an actor playing a part he loved, old Bangrak gave a snarl in disgust, but with a smile tucked into his white beard. For him, too, bargaining was a skill and an entertainment to be admired. It was relentless bargaining that had allowed him to send his son off to the city and to school. It was rumored that the boy could already read and write. Such an achievement was the talk of the village.
“Two watermelons are too much!” Old Bangrak insisted.
“Three would be more to my liking,” said Run-Run.
“Scamp! Two! It is agreed!”
Run-Run called to his elephant. “Give an ear, Walking Mountain! To the river, magnificent one!”
Run-Run climbed to the elephant’s neck and took his familiar place. With a light touch of the bull hook left to him by his father, Run-Run turned the elephant toward the river below. “Go!”
There Walking Mountain filled his long trunk with water. He hardly needed a command from Run-Run to lumber back to the village and spray. After several trips the red dust was settling over the road like a fresh coat of paint.
The village children had gathered to watch and now yelled out.
“Elephant Boy! How about a splash for us, eh?”
Walking Mountain gave the children a cloudburst of rain. They screamed and pranced about with delight. Between the elephant’s huge flapping ears, Run-Run sat smiling, with his arms folded like a young monarch. The pariah dogs came trotting over to have a look. Then the elephant and his young mahout returned to the river for another trunkful of water.
That was a mistake. How was Run-Run to know?
CHAPTER 2
“It is me, the careless mahout, who deserves to be shot!”
Run-Run AND THE Terrible Mischief
Moments later, one of
the king’s many princes—the one called Noi the Idle—came thundering through the red dust on his gaily decorated elephant. Leading a small hunting party, he rode standing up in a wicker basket, a howdah. Strapped to the back of his elephant like a great saddle, the elaborately woven wicker had the appearance of a swaying garden gazebo.
But no! Wait! Could this be the very instant Walking Mountain’s trunk was full of river water—his trunk raised high in the air?
With a roar, the tall elephant emptied his trunk. Water and a small fish or two sprayed out as if shot from a cannon. A typhoon of water splashed over the prince.
Under a golden headdress rising to a point, like a temple spire, Prince Noi erupted. He rumbled. He roared. He slapped off a tiny river eel tangled among the medals rattling like coins on his chest.
“Shoot that insolent elephant!” he commanded.
Run-Run awoke from his surprise. “Ten thousand sorrows, excellent lordship!” he cried out. “We did not see your beloved shadow through the dust! It is that stupid Run-Run who is at fault. Ten thousand apologies! It is me, the careless mahout, who deserves to be shot!”
“You?” The prince paused, pinching water off his great hawk’s nose. A dark fury, like a storm approaching, advanced across his face. “So! Shall I squash your worthless life, instead? Shall I use you for target practice?”
“Ten thousand—”
“Spare me your blessings, elephant brat!”
“As you command.”
Bemused by a stroke of an idea, Prince Noi threw his shoulders back and burst into a startling laugh. “No! You must set an example! A prince is not to be made a fool! I shall send a gift to punish you!”
Run-Run couldn’t hold back a baffled gaze. Did he hear right? “A gift, my lord?”
He allowed a hopeful smile to escape. Could Prince Noi be kinder than his reputation?
“A gift can be sharper than a rifle ball between your scrawny ribs! You will see! Yes, yes, a gift to curse you and to curse your father and to curse your children for generations to come!”
The smile slid off Run-Run’s face. Bowing his head, he said, “Great prince, surely you are too generous. Would you go to so much bother for a lowly dung beetle like Run-Run? A buzzing summer fly? A flick with the back of your hand will be sufficient.”
“Shall I take advice from an elephant brat?”
The prince gave a signal to his mahout, and the royal elephant swung away. Others in the party followed.
Run-Run let out a great sigh. He gave his old elephant a light tap and turned back for the two watermelons waiting under the flame tree.
“What gift could be sharper than a bullet?” he asked old Bangrak. “And a curse, too?”
“He is vengeful and hot tempered, our idle prince,” replied the village elder. “Let us wait and see.”
Run-Run rolled a watermelon toward Walking Mountain’s feet. “One for you and one for me,” he said. “Eat, big brother!”
CHAPTER 3
“Full of himself, is that white elephant!”
The Curse ON Run-Run
Run-Run watched Walking Mountain enjoy his watermelon. The elephant stomped a foot, as if cracking open a nut. He curled the tip of his trunk around the random hunks of melon. Within moments, there was nothing left but a dark stain in the dust.
Run-Run, eating his own melon, kept throwing Walking Mountain the rinds. A piece or two he tossed to the pariah dogs, who always seemed to expect their share of village scraps.
He recalled the dogs barking at the district doctor. The foreigner had come to ease his mother as she lay in pain after the tiger mauling. Run-Run had never before seen such a fellow, with papers to show how clever he was. How did one become a doctor? It would take baskets and baskets of coins, wouldn’t it? Only wondering, Run-Run thought, finishing the melon.
Early the next morning a mist hung over the river when Run-Run called out a command and touched a rear leg. “Up, beloved!” The elephant raised the foot, and the boy set to work filing the animal’s tender toenails and leveling the pads of his feet. He had learned in earliest childhood that a mahout’s first duty was to care for his elephant’s feet. A thorn, a split nail might let sickness and death slip in. In his young life, Run-Run had seen many a mahout unable to keep his footsore animal alive.
Finishing with Walking Mountain’s feet, Run-Run gave the animal a final pat. “How about a mud bath, eh?”
The boy rode the swaying elephant down the path to the river’s edge and the heavily shaded mud shallows. Jumping to the ground, he turned Walking Mountain loose to roll about in the wallow.
Run-Run helped cover the animal’s hide, for a plastering of mud protected the skin from ticks and mosquitoes and sunburn. Soon the young mahout and his old elephant would be ready for the day’s work.
But who was coming? With his arms muddy to the elbows, he looked up.
Three girls from the village came running down to tell Run-Run that his gift from the prince had arrived.
“What is it?” he asked.
“You’ll see! White as a cloud!”
Run-Run began washing the mud off his arms. A gift that was also a curse? How could that be? He gave the girls a bold smile. Why let the world know he was worried and even frightened?
At Run-Run’s command, Walking Mountain kneeled. Run-Run scampered like a mouse from wrinkled knee to hairy neck and seated himself. The two quickly followed the hill path to the village.
There stood the prince’s gift, giving a flap of its great ears. It was an elephant. Run-Run gazed at it, wide-eyed with amazement and quick admiration. Not just a common elephant—no. A white elephant! Yes, white as a cloud.
The animal looked young, perhaps only on its second set of teeth. It was slim and fit, with tusks as sharp as crescent moons. His eyes glistened like princely pearls, shaded by long, rusty eyelashes. He peered at Run-Run and then dismissed the boy without further interest.
“Doesn’t he give himself airs!” the boy muttered to Walking Mountain. “Full of himself, is that white elephant! And look at that tail.”
The beast’s tail ended with a white tuft of hair, afloat like a fine silk handkerchief, to brush off flies, as it was doing now.
The palace mahout, wearing a tight red jacket, handed Run-Run an ankus to prod the elephant. Such an ankus! Engraved with vines that the village boy had never seen before in the jungle. Was it silver?
Said the mahout, his words giving off sparks as if sharpened at a grinding wheel, “You! He’s yours! Bathe him! Brush him! Check his feet for thorns! File his nails! His name is Sahib.”
“Sahib?” The name struck Run-Run as a curiosity. He had only heard the word addressed to foreigner bosses. Was the animal named because he was like a foreign sahib, white and proud?
The mahout was rattling on. “And you will feed him sugarcane! Coconuts! The finest grain! The cleanest hay! And he loves peppermint!”
“The sweepings of old hay at half the price will have to do,” Run-Run replied. “And where am I to get peppermint? Out of thin air?”
“Idiot!” shouted the mahout on behalf of the prince. “Hay sweepings! You do not feed a white elephant like a pig. Respect what I say!”
Run-Run cocked an experienced eye at the cloud of an elephant. “He has good tusks,” he said. “Clearing tree stumps pays rich for fast work. Sahib will earn himself fine dinners.”
“Are you both an idiot and a fool?” The palace mahout now broke open a laugh, displaying a junk heap of black and broken teeth. “Stumps! Nay, young worm! You may not work a white elephant! Do you think they were born to carry logs and clear fields like jungle beasts?”
“An elephant is an elephant,” said Run-Run confidently. What nonsense was the man talking?
The mahout’s voice raised itself to an impatient shout. “Mud head! White elephants are sacred!”
“Sacred? Like a holy man?”
“A gift from the heavens!”
“Truly?”
“Scrub him! Water h
im! Feed him generously! Do you hear?”
Run-Run whispered for none to hear. “I am deaf with hearing you.” He bowed his head out of habit rather than respect.
“Wash the hair at his ears! Brush it! Use no harsh words. Do not scold him. Treat him like an honored guest! If you value your own skin, you will be a servant to Prince Noi’s gift—this high-born white elephant. The prince will have his eye upon you, sharp as arrows!”
Run-Run raised an eyebrow. “And tell me, Great Mahout of Us All, how am I to feed him if he cannot work, this noble Sahib?”
The mahout in his red jacket again cracked open a black smile. “That is the prince’s curse upon you!”
CHAPTER 4
Run-Run rose from his bed to push them apart.
Run-Run AND THE Runaway
That night Run-Run lay on the hay that would be tomorrow’s breakfast for the two beasts. The elephants filled the log stable as snugly as two feet in one shoe. He had chained one of Sahib’s hind feet to the stout teak picket driven deep into the ground by his grandfather long ago, when time began.
Walking Mountain regarded the new elephant with curiosity. When Sahib crowded him, there came a loud clacking of tusks. Run-Run rose from his bed to push them apart.
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