by Ruskin Bond
Accordingly, Poo Lorn, undisturbed by such trifles as pellets from a gun, pushed mightily at the swaying bungalow. It lurched over sideways, hung poised for the fraction of a second, then collapsed like a pack of cards. He trod and thrust savagely at the ruins, after which he turned his attention to the other big building in the compound. This chanced to be the company's office, which was built on a level with the ground. Since he could not knock it down, he contented himself with shattering one of the walls and ripping up part of the roof. The wall, as it bulged inwards, sent writing desks flying in all directions. Letter files, ink bottles, surveying maps, typewriters and foolscap littered the floor in a flaky, indescribable mass, and the records of years were rendered useless. By the destruction of the office Poo revenge was far greater than he realised.
At last, satisfied that he could do no more, he began striding around the compound, seeking for the white man. He was vaguely aware of figures flying hither and thither, and of a confused crying and shouting going on all around him, with the result that he himself became confused. He swung in uncertain fashion from one part of the garden to the other, and finally came to the conclusion that he was very, very tired. His trunk was sore and swollen, his sides were scarred, and his giant legs ached with weariness. The peace and quiet of the jungle called.
Abandoning all further attempt against these humans, he plunged into the forest that grew at the back of the compound. He passed some of the hobbled elephants of the company, who chirruped nervously, but these he ignored, and soon he was several miles away from the village. Selecting a patch of long, thick grass, he halted and brooded.
On the morrow he would return to his deserted grazing grounds, and there he would stay alone for the rest of his life. No more company for him! The presence of wild companions might bring humans to the spot again, the humans that ever threatened his freedom and his return to that distant goal far away in the north. No, he would remain solitary, but—should these humans ever attempt to recapture his own giant body, he, being unhampered by any timid herd, would deal with them in dire and terrible fashion.
Poo Lorn the Terrible brooded alone in the teak forest. Five miles away brown men wept, cursed, squalled and yelled, but the whites wasted no time bemoaning their fate. They comforted the frightened, succoured the homeless, worked all through the night and far into the following morning. And Richard Cairns, as for hour after hour he toiled, carried two visions in his heart. They were glorious visions, that quickened his puke and sent the hot blood surging richly through his veins.
One vision was that of Poo Lorn the Terrible, the great bull elephant beneath whose mighty shadow mere humans shrank to futile insignificance. Clothed by the night, he had appeared to be of almost uncanny size and grandeur. Trumpeting, bellowing, tearing down huge buildings as if they were stacks of cardboard, Poo Lorn had, indeed, resembled some terrific God of vengeance, and the sight of him had been awe-inspiring to the last degree. Though he lived for one hundred years, young Cairns would never forget that night. Its impressions were seared on his soul as if written in letters of fire.
From Poo Lorn of the Elephants, 1930
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1 now Thailand.