by Jane Kerr
“I suppose you heard.” Robbie didn’t bother to lower his voice, but either everyone else in the room was asleep or they didn’t want to come any closer. “He wants to see you.”
Slowly, Boy dipped his head.
“You’re going to have to go. He’s bound to catch up with you sooner or later. And Mrs. Sweets says you can’t stay here. She says none of us can afford to get on his bad side. You have to be out by morning.”
It was what Boy had been expecting, but it still hurt. As usual, he was on his own. Almost without noticing, he began rubbing his wrist.
“Anyway, I’ve been thinking.” Robbie slid him a sideways glance. It hovered somewhere between pity and curiosity. “The King hates that you don’t talk, and he specially hates that you don’t talk to him. Maybe if you’d say something then he’d stop going after you.”
He leant closer, and Boy edged back. He hated being touched, every contact pricked like nettle stings. “Come on. Why don’t you have a go? Say anything you want. Don’t matter what.”
Boy wished it was that easy. Inside, there were whole speeches; an army of words just waiting for the right signal. But as hard as he tried, they refused to be heard.
Opening his mouth, he pushed out a stream of air, moving his tongue until it flapped like a stranded fish between his lips. Not a sound. It was as though everything had seized up inside him so nothing worked as it should.
“Bless me! I don’t reckon you can, you sad sprunt. The King’s got you all right. You’re never going to escape.”
Turning away, Robbie stretched out and pulled a dirty sheet across his chest. But Boy stayed where he was, knees bent, and tried to pretend the words hadn’t felt like a punch to the gut. He was trapped—trapped as surely as if he were still sitting on the stone column at Waverley Pavilion.
Boy knew sleep wouldn’t come easily. Or soon. When his eyes finally drifted shut, he dreamt of silk waistcoats and pocket watches. Then Scatcherd was chasing after him, a knife in one hand and a cigar in the other. And oddly, the only obstacle that stood between them was a large elephant, with warm gold eyes.
At dawn, Boy woke with his heart racing, pumping blood into muscles that were ready to run. It had seemed so real. He rubbed a hand across his face, trying to brush away the last traces of the dream. But as much as he tried, one stubborn thought refused to leave.
By leaping from Mr. Jameson’s carriage, had he just made the biggest mistake of his life?
Boy kept his plans simple. He had only two goals—to keep one step ahead of Frank Scatcherd, and to find out when Mr. Jameson and Maharajah were leaving Edinburgh. And he knew the best place to do both.
The market on Princes Street was far enough away from Cowgate to feel safe. It was also his favorite place to go thieving. The costermongers sold everything from eels and gingerbread to cough drops and crumpets. And better still, there was a newspaper seller on each corner.
“Herald. Buy your Herald here! Daily Record! The Scotsman! Read all about Wormwell’s menagerie. Get the latest on Maharajah the Magnificent! And more on the mystery of the boy who bought him!”
The stories covered the front page of every newspaper. Of course, Boy couldn’t read a word, but he recognized the cartoons. One even pictured Mr. Jameson and Albright in a fistfight. But his favorite was a sketch of Maharajah holding out his trunk to an angelic-looking urchin sitting on a pedestal. Boy was relieved to see that it looked nothing like him.
Impulsively, he stole the newspaper, ripped off the cartoon, and tucked it inside his shirt. The paper crinkled against his skin as he strolled through the stalls, eavesdropping.
“Did you hear what happened?”
“My husband says there was a fight over the elephant, and it only stopped when a wee lad climbed on to the pavilion gate and whistled.”
“Aye, that’s right. Now they’re going to give him the elephant.”
“Och no, ladies. The beast’s being taken to Manchester. They’re heading out by train tomorrow morning. About ten o’clock. The Lord Provost’s been invited to the send-off. I heard it from his cook.”
Hidden in the shadows, under the market canopy, Boy allowed himself a small smile. It was all he needed to know.
The next day, Waverley Station was louder and busier than Boy had ever seen it. He’d spent the night curled up behind a luggage cart, only to be woken by steam pulsing from the waiting train.
Minutes later, an army of animal keepers and railway workers had swarmed past. It took them a long time to sort through the waiting cargo. Not only were Mr. Jameson’s animals leaving for Belle Vue, but the rest of the Wormwell menagerie was heading off too.
Boy could hear squawks, grunts, and hisses spill from each crate. In one pen, a tiger paced from corner to corner. Every so often, he stretched open his jaws to show red gums and sharp teeth. Two goats bleated nervously from a neighboring cage, and a chained parrot beat its wings against the bars.
Alongside the animals were sacks of food—several hundredweight of meat, piles of fruit, and trays of bread. Boy’s stomach clenched hungrily. He was an inch away from grabbing a loaf when he heard a steady stomp. The big beasts had arrived. A line of camels, baboons, and bears. And at the rear was an elephant.
Boy’s heart beat a little faster. He’d been wrong. Maharajah was much bigger than his memory. And much bigger than his dream. Stronger. More powerful. And certainly far more magnificent. But that feeling of kinship—of some curious connection between them—was just the same.
Quickly, Boy ducked back behind the luggage cart, wriggling so he still had a clear view of the train. Maharajah was the final animal to be boarded. He watched as the elephant was led up a ramp to the carriage. The wooden planks bowed beneath the weight.
And then the miracle happened.
Maharajah stopped on the ramp. He didn’t move forwards; he didn’t go back. Balancing precariously, he stood on the creaking plank with the calmness of a cat choosing a spot to sleep in the sun.
Even from this distance, Boy could sense the panic among the keepers. Crimple shouted to another man and together they tried to push, but Maharajah wouldn’t budge. The train gave a whistle. Time was ticking away. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Perhaps this wasn’t good-bye after all.
Boy stayed as still as stone. Air leaked slowly from his mouth, but he didn’t open his lips. He had the ridiculous thought that if he moved, Maharajah would too. And this incredible beast—who half fascinated, half terrified him—would disappear.
Then Sandev dug into his pockets and pulled out an apple. He waved it in front of the elephant’s trunk. Maharajah rocked unsteadily forwards. One step. And another. And another.
Boy didn’t shift.
At the edges of his vision, he saw Maharajah step into the wagon. The doors shut behind him. Mr. Jameson patted the backs of his keepers and smiled broadly.
“All aboard! All aboard!” The train gave another sharp toot.
And finally the spell holding Boy was broken.
He sank down on his heels and curled his face into his knees. What had he been expecting? That somehow Maharajah would save him from Scatcherd, just like in his dream? Or that Mr. Jameson would forgive his escape from the carriage and welcome him with open arms?
No. Coming here had been a stupid idea. They were leaving, and he’d missed his chance of leaving with them. It was as though he were being slowly buried underground and the last chink of light had disappeared.
The wrenching noise that filled the station a moment later took everyone by surprise. Boy lifted his head. What was it? Not the train; it was still standing by the platform, puffing out smoke. The sound came again, angry and insistent. Standing, Boy strained to see through the confusion of people. They were staring at the last wagon. What was going on?
A splintering snap followed by a ripping of wood pushed the volume even louder, and suddenly, Maharajah’s head thrust out from the front of the carriage. Like a wet dog, the elephant shook himself before jerking back to smash his
legs through the rear door.
Boy’s heart slowed and he grinned. Most of Maharajah was still hidden by the wreckage, but his trunk and tail poked out from either end. It was a bizarre sight, almost comical. Then the elephant kicked a leg forwards, rolled back his trunk, and blared out a trumpet call. Long and loud. The last of the wagon frame fell apart. And with surprising grace, Maharajah stepped on to the platform.
Boy scrambled back.
“Watch it! He’s run mad!”
“Out of the way.”
“Move!”
The keepers had begun edging backwards, taking the passengers with them. One woman screamed, and a man—most likely a reporter—scribbled in his notebook. A rail worker, bristling with importance, pushed through the crowd. “Get that beast away from my train. I want him gone now. Before he kills someone.”
Boy’s pulse picked up again. Surely this couldn’t get any worse? But he was wrong.
Arthur Albright of the Yorkshire Zoological Gardens stepped down from one of the first-class carriages. He stalked along the platform, gold buttons gleaming and a whip swinging in his hand. He passed so close that Boy could see the fine stitching on his waistcoat.
“Let me handle this! What that animal needs is a hard lesson to show him who’s master. It’s just like punishing a child.” With a flick of his wrist, Albright raised the long, leather crop.
Boy didn’t even hesitate. He had only one thought: to get the whip.
Quickly, he scrambled up to the top of the luggage cart. From the top, he looked straight down on to Albright and his plume of gray hair. He took one quick breath. And jumped.
Albright had no warning, so despite his size, it was easy. He crumpled like paper when Boy’s weight landed heavily on his back. The whip slipped from his grasp. Boy rolled upright and grabbed the handle. Victorious, he clutched it to his chest.
Only now did he stop to wonder why he’d even bothered. What had made him be so stupid? To risk everything—and for an elephant?
Albright was already staggering to his feet, his face red and furious. “Give me that, you little runt.”
“No!” Mr. Jameson was pushing through the crowd. “Leave him.” Boy’s heart skipped with relief, but he didn’t let go of the crop. It was the only weapon he had. Should he stay and fight, or leave and run? Indecision kept him frozen.
“Jameson! I might have known the brat would be with you. It appears you’ve taken on another troublemaker for Belle Vue.”
“He’s no troublemaker. In fact, you’d be amazed at how helpful he’s goin’ to be.” Mr. Jameson folded his arms. Boy shuffled nearer. Of the two men, instinct told him who was more likely to be on his side. He just prayed he wasn’t wrong.
“Is this another one of your ridiculous schemes? Don’t you ever learn?”
“There’s nothin’ ridiculous about what I’ve got planned. You’ll see.”
“Well, no one cares about the boy. He’s not important.” Albright stabbed a finger in Maharajah’s direction. Spittle flew from his mouth. Boy could almost feel his fury. “It’s that elephant who’s a dangerous menace. Someone could have been killed. You ought to have him destroyed.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. He was just scared of that tiny carriage space, that’s all. No one would want to be stuck in there for seven minutes, never mind seven hours. He’s harmless.”
“It didn’t look that way to me. He’s caused complete chaos. People are terrified. You’ve wasted your money on a beast you can’t control. I’m only grateful you’re stuck with him, and not me.”
“Give over! He destroyed a wagon, not a person. He’s as gentle as a lamb. He’d never hurt anybody. Why, even a child could control him. And I can prove it.”
Boy flinched when Mr. Jameson grabbed his shoulders. He tried to pull free, but the grip was too hard. What was going on? A strong shove pushed him along the platform towards Maharajah.
“Go on, lad. Show them there’s nothin’ to be scared of.”
Bewildered, Boy stood within a few feet of the elephant. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. Nothing about this was making sense—even his own decision to come here seemed muddled. Then to his horror, Maharajah began to rock and wail. It sounded worse than it had in the carriage. Nerves rattled in his chest like marbles in a tin box.
“The birch. Get rid of it.” Mr. Jameson’s sharp whisper carried easily through the station. And Boy realized he still had tight hold of the whip. Hand trembling, he placed it on the floor and kicked it backwards. Maharajah stopped wailing. His ears fanned out. They stared at one another. For once in his life, Boy had no ideas. He waited for more instructions, but Mr. Jameson said nothing.
Over the elephant’s broad back, Boy spotted a man standing in the remains of the wrecked carriage. It was Sandev, hiding so far into the shadows that it was unlikely anyone else could see him. Silently, the keeper lifted one arm in the air, spread his hand wide, and brought it down in a smooth, sweeping motion.
Boy stared, confused. Sandev did it again. And finally Boy understood; but would it work? He lifted his chin, looked into the elephant’s eyes, and copied the movement. A faint whistle blew through the station, gentler than a breeze in spring. And Maharajah dropped to one knee.
Somewhere behind, there was a cheer, but Boy didn’t turn to look. He was too stunned. Sandev pushed his other hand firmly downwards, so Boy did the same. Immediately, the elephant’s right knee bent and he lowered his head to the floor. And then there was only relief as Maharajah bowed before him, as obedient as a scolded child.
“Here, lad.”
Instinctively, Boy caught what Mr. Jameson had thrown. An apple. This time he didn’t need Sandev to show him what to do. Opening his palm flat, he inched a little nearer. And then a little nearer still. Quicker than a wink, Maharajah lunged and grabbed the fruit with his trunk.
Boy reached out, heart slamming. With the tips of his fingers, he stroked the wrinkled skin around one tusk. It felt warm. Rough. Comforting. Curiosity overcame the last of his nerves. He leant forwards to rest his cheek in the same spot. He could feel the elephant breathing.
In and out.
Out and in.
This close, Maharajah’s eyes were as deep and gold as fire. Behind them, Albright snorted. “Circus tricks. That’s all. It doesn’t mean anything. He’s still dangerous.”
But Boy could feel the tension ease. There was some laughter and a ripple of applause.
“Take a bow, lad,” Mr. Jameson said quietly. Boy did as he was told, even though he felt ridiculous. The clapping grew.
“Delightful!”
“How charming.”
Albright frowned. “So the beast’s calm now. But he’s not much use to you in Edinburgh. How d’you think you’re going to get him to Manchester? There’s no rail company that would be willing to take him after today.”
Mr. Jameson was silent. Boy watched his face. He appeared deep in thought, but in his eyes Boy thought he saw a glint of triumph. His mouth curved into a sly grin.
“He’ll walk. He’ll walk to Belle Vue!”
“You’re going to walk that elephant more than two hundred miles through Scotland and England?” Albright was scathing. Boy wasn’t surprised. It sounded like a ludicrous idea. “You’re a madman, Jameson.”
“He’ll do it, and he’ll be quick about it. I bet you anything. Anything you like.”
“So you’d stake your reputation on that?” Albright’s gaze flickered over the crowd. He looked to be making a quick calculation. Something about it woke Boy’s sixth sense for trouble. “Perhaps you’d be willing to make a small bet in front of these good witnesses?”
“Go on. I’m listenin’.”
“I say you’ll never make it there in less than seven days. But if you’re so confident, perhaps you’d care to wager all you’ve bought in Edinburgh? Better yet, what about all of the animals at Belle Vue?”
“That would close us down.”
But Boy noticed Mr. Jameson didn’t refuse. Perha
ps he was weighing the odds. There was silence—the kind of silence that comes before big decisions are made. With every breath in his body, Boy willed the menagerist to say no. Why would anyone risk losing all he owned? If he had only half as much, he’d be rich. Sometimes people didn’t know when they were lucky.
“Put your money where your mouth is, Jameson. I’ll stake my menagerie against yours. But if that beast is not at Belle Vue by the nineteenth of April at ten o’clock in the morning, then your livestock is mine.” Mr. Albright extended his hand. “You start tomorrow. Agreed?”
Mr. Jameson hesitated, then reached out. They shook. And so when Boy watched the 10:05 express roll out of the station fifteen minutes late, Maharajah was not on board. Because he would be walking to Manchester.
“James Fredrick Henry Jameson, you’re a fool. And an idiot. And I don’t know why I married you.”
The woman who spoke had her hands on her hips and towered above her husband. She was also furious. Boy could understand why. As far as he could tell, Mr. Jameson had spent seven hundred guineas on an elephant that he might end up giving away.
“What do you think you’re playing at? You’ll cost us everything.” She prodded Mr. Jameson’s chest with a sharp finger. “All that we’ve worked for.”
To Boy’s embarrassment, the couple had begun this argument on the platform at Waverley Station. Or at least, Mrs. Jameson was arguing. Mr. Jameson just stood like a child waiting for a hoop to stop spinning. Boy wished he felt as calm. He still had no idea what was going on.
Mrs. Jameson was tall and thin, with faded brown hair pulled so tightly to the top of her head that the skin across her narrow face stretched tight. At the moment, she reminded Boy of a spitting alley cat trying to protect her territory. All claws and hiss.
She’d emerged from one of the carriages just before the train set off and announced that if Mr. Jameson was staying in Edinburgh, then so was she. A conductor had to be sent scurrying to retrieve her luggage from first class.