The Elephant Keeper Read online

  “O, Tom, it was dark and terrible, and endless. It was full of fear. I cannot talk about it.”

  “Yet you endured.”

  “I endured by contracting my being into a hard knot. I endured by holding to my memory of what life had been like before.”

  A crab scuttles over the dim silk of the sand. A third creature, no more fantastical than the other two.

  “What was it like before? What do you remember?”

  She does not answer.

  The moon has withdrawn behind a cloud. Cold water swirls round my ankles, fingering. I feel her great, breathing body at my side.

  “Shall we go back?” I ask her.

  “To Easton?”

  “To the Indies. If we walk along the coast, we shall eventually reach Portsmouth, where there are plenty of ships. I would take care of you on the voyage.”

  She again makes no reply; I turn to face her.

  “Jenny, it would not be like the last time, with the sailors. I would not allow it—we would be together. We would endure together.”

  “We would die together.”

  “We would not die. Jenny, we would not die! We would endure! And then, then—!”

  She regards me, blinking slowly. Criss-crossed by wrinkles, her face is a book of doubts. “We cannot simply leave. You forget, Tom. You forget that I am owned. I am not a free being, but the property of his Lordship. We would be apprehended, and you would be charged with stealing me. What is the penalty for stealing an Elephant?”

  The gallows. Transportation for life. Imprisonment. I turn to the ocean. The moon shines on the black water.

  “We cannot stay on this beach for ever.”

  “We shall return to Easton,” she says.

  “If we return to Easton, I shall be charged with killing Mr. Singleton.”

  “Not at all, Tom. Why will you be suspected? Mr. Singleton died of an unfortunate accident.”

  I cannot think. My entire face feels as though it has been torn apart. My nose scarcely exists as a nose.

  “Jenny, what shall we do?”

  “We shall return to Easton,” she repeats, very firmly. “We shall return to Easton, and perhaps we will be able to go to Lord Luttershall.”

  At these words I am suddenly glad. “Yes, we will go to Lord Luttershall’s, and see Timothy again, and everything will be all right.”

  I kneel to wash my bloody face. As I lean forward, cupping the sea in my hands, the ankus dangles from my neck, and since I never liked the thing, I slip it off and throw it away.

  Slowly we return to Easton. The woods are dank and heavy with moisture. We reach the Obelisk; the park is still dark, but the sky has begun to lighten. The last owls are hooting their farewells to the night, a redbreast twitters the first notes of the day.

  A dew has fallen; I think of the dead man, wet with dew and spray, lying in the thunder of the Cascade. Jenny is right: there is no reason for anyone ever to know the truth of his death. He fell from the Elephant, that will be enough.

  At the Elephant House, a small figure is waiting in the yard: Susan.

  “Where have you been?” she cries. “Tom? O, Tom, Tom, what has happened to your face?”

  “A branch.”

  “A branch?” She puts a hand to her mouth. “Your nose—your cheek—it is ripped open—it is horrible—horrible!”

  “It was a branch, Susan, a hawthorn branch. It will mend.”

  “I have been waiting for you, Tom. I have been waiting here all night, not knowing where you were. Where have you been? I have the letter. If you read it now, I will take it back before Mr. Bridge wakes.”

  “Have you read it?”

  “I have looked at it. The seal was already broken.”

  “And?”

  She hesitates. In that hesitation I feel a pang of fear.

  “Tom, you must read it yourself.”

  She hands me the letter. In the yard it is too dark, but I take it through the arch-way, and read in the light of dawn.

  My Lord,

  I am grateful to you for your letter and for your best wishes for my health and that of my wife. You inquire about the Elephant which came here from the Earl of Ancaster’s estate at Grimsthorpe in Lincolnshire. This unhappy beast reached Langley in the Spring of 1772, and was placed in a coach-house, which had been prepared for its reception. Here it was attended by two grooms, whom I had appointed to care for its needs, and who did their best to make it comfortable; yet, from the start, despite the assurances which I had received concerning its good nature, it displayed an uncertain and vicious temper, trumpeting loudly, spurning all overtures of friendship, and threatening violence to any who approached closely. Though its legs were tightly manacled, it was judged too dangerous to be allowed out of its quarters; indeed, no one durst enter its quarters for fear of being attacked; and at times it would charge the walls of its enclosure, striking them with colossal force, recoiling with its brains dazed. I myself witnessed these charges, and can vouch for the ferocity of its behaviour. There was then a period in which, though its manner remained sullen, it grew calmer; which encouraged the grooms to renew their overtures. I had been assured that it had been broken to ride, but I fear that this must have been incorrect, for when one of the grooms attempted to mount the creature, lowering himself on to its back from the beams of the coach-house, it flew into a rage and bucked like a wild bull, and had the man not been supported by a harness, there can be little doubt that he would have lost his life. For their own safety, the grooms resolved to blindfold the Elephant, something which I understand they achieved only at great hazard, and after numerous attempts, by stupefying it with strong liquor. However, once the Elephant had recovered its senses, it swiftly removed the blind-fold with its trunk. I believe that some discussion took place among the grooms, as to whether its trunk should be trussed, until they understood that this would have left it unable to feed itself. Orders were given for the making of a large leather hood. The Elephant having been given a fresh quantity of liquor, this hood was slipped over its head, and secured round the neck. Frustrated by its inability to remove the hood, and finding itself in a perpetual darkness, the animal fell into a condition of listless despair, occasionally reviving enough to renew its attempts to beat out its brains. It refused to eat, contemptuously tossing aside the hay which it was offered. I was at this point consulted. Seeing the wretched condition of the animal, and of its quarters, which were by then deep in ordure, I resolved that the hood should be removed. My hope was that the Elephant would respond with gratitude. This was, I regret to say, a fond ambition, for as soon as its sight was restored it seized hold of one of the beams of the coach-house and, with an incredible display of strength, pulled down the roof; following which, it broke down the door and, dragging its manacles, ran screaming through the grounds, to the general terror. A large body of men, armed with muskets, swords, and pitch-forks, was assembled in order to capture the Elephant. These men courageously strove to force the creature back to its quarters, but its temper was so high and its behaviour so alarming that they succeeded only in driving it further away. They finally surrounded it near the chapel; but when the Elephant understood that its liberty was threatened, it made a charge—whereupon one of the men, bravely standing his ground, used his hanger to lop off the bottom part of the trunk. At this, the animal gave a terrible groaning cry, which is hard to describe, save to say that it was almost human in its quality. It shook what remained of its trunk, scattering showers of blood, and as an act of mercy, for it was greatly distressed, I gave orders for it to be shot. Rifles were promptly fetched from the house, while the Elephant was held at bay. The first ball, which was fired into a crease below the creature’s blade-bone, in an attempt to find its heart, seemed to make no significant impression; nor did a second and third, which were fired into the same spot. At the fourth, however, the creature stood still, as if stunned by some internal blow, before sinking slowly to its haunches; yet it continued to hold up its head, and to my astonishm
ent its eyes seemed to weep tears of pain or sorrow, which trickled down its cheeks. Eleven further balls were discharged into its skull before, with a last groan, it toppled to its side, and expired. In attempting to account for the Elephant’s behaviour, I had its body anatomised by Mr. Edward Deacon, surgeon, of Conduit Street, London; as a result of which, two circumstances came to light, first, that the shorter of the tusks was infected at its base with a large and purulent Abscess; in other words, the creature was suffering from the Tooth-ache, which must have caused it great pain; and, second, that the Brain itself was infected, for the Glands to the front of the skull were distended to the size of cannon-balls, and flooded with liquid. According to an account given by the grooms, this liquid gushed incessantly from the creature’s lower Temples during the last days of its life. Whether these facts provide more than a partial explanation for the Elephant’s violent actions, I cannot say; I fear that its ingrained nature was so set against humankind that it stood no chance of Redemption, but this may be to do the animal an injustice. The carcass was buried in the grounds of the chapel. The skull (somewhat damaged) I still have, along with the tusks, one measuring twenty-two and the other eighteen inches.

  I greatly regret that I have had to render your Lordship such a sorry tale; however, I am glad to learn that your Elephant is well…

  I can read no further. I stumble back into the yard, and hand the letter to Susan, who says something, I forget what. My mind is full of uncontrolled pictures. The blindfold, the hood, the slash of the sword, the spray of blood. O Timothy, my Timothy, how could they do this to you? Why did it happen? Why was I not there to protect you? As I fall weeping to the ground, I feel the pressure of Jenny’s leg against my arms. “It will be all right, Tom,” she says, loud and clear, “it will be all right.”

  I look up, astonished; she is watching me with her sad, sagging eyes. “It is not all right,” I say, “it is not all right, it is all wrong, it can never be right.”—“No,” she says, speaking even more clearly, as clearly as any human being ever spoke, “believe me, Tom, trust me—it will be all right.” And she bows her head, and lays her heavy trunk in my lap.

  November 2nd

  For more than a week it has been raining. The leaves have fallen from the limes; they lie grey and blackening below the bare branches. The park is a sponge. A solitary heron hunches by the lake, while a stag gives a distant bellow. I put my hat on my head and hurry from the Elephant House to the stables.

  John Finch is sat on a bench in one of the stables. He is polishing a stirrup-iron with a soft cloth. He looks weary, but he has not been discharged, or not yet. “You will be leaving soon,” he says. “Tomorrow,” I tell him, taking off my hat, and he nods. “Where is it you are going?”—“Worcestershire.”

  A few weeks ago, this stable would have held his Lordship’s horse, but it has been sold, as have several more horses. Indeed, lately there have been rumours that the entire estate may be sold. Whether this is so, no one knows, not even Mr. Bridge. Neither her Ladyship nor Miss Singleton has been seen at Easton since the day after his Lordship’s funeral, when they left for London.

  I might ask John Finch if he has heard anything about the future of the estate, but from his expression I sense that he would prefer not to talk about the future. I am of the same mind. It is easier to sit in a dry stable, to polish bits and stirrup-irons, to rub oil into saddles and bridles, to pretend that everything will go on as it has always gone on. His Lordship is not dead, we are not going to Worcestershire, Timothy is well, my nose is as perfect as it ever was. No, it is not perfect, but it is improving steadily; that is what I tell anyone who asks. In truth, the nose continues to trouble me; it throbs and burns, and fluid dribbles from the base, and, if I sneeze, pain shoots through my entire body. I breathe through my mouth. Some parts of the skin on the nose remain dead to touch, and I have scarcely any sense of smell; while this last may indeed improve, the nose will never recover its former appearance. It hangs to one side of my face like a red trunk with a gaping eye, and strangers start at the sight of it, and seem either frightened, or fascinated. I am lucky not to have been blinded, for the hook of the ankus missed my right eye by a mere half inch.

  Finch knows, I am sure—all the servants seem to know—that my nose was injured not by a hawthorn branch, but by a blow from Mr. Singleton. I suspect that, in addition, he guesses Mr. Singleton’s death to be far from a simple accident, a man falling from an Elephant on a dark night; but he has never asked me directly. Now, on my last day at Easton, in the quiet of the stable, I am tempted to tell him the truth. This temptation is easily resisted, however. It is not that I do not trust Finch to keep a secret, for he has always seemed to me a very private man, but that I myself do not know the truth with complete certainty. No one save Jenny knows, and she refuses to tell me, although I have asked her often enough. “Tom, why does it matter?” she says quietly. “I have forgotten.” I do not believe her, of course. How can she have forgotten that night?

  “There is pleasant country in Worcestershire?” John Finch inquires.

  “I hope so. I have never been there.”

  “What do you know of your new master?”

  “Mr. Davies? He is a timber merchant. I know nothing else.”

  Finch glances up from his polishing. “A timber merchant?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why does a timber merchant want an Elephant? To haul timber?”

  “I do not know.”

  His eyes study me. “Well,” says he, “I must wish you luck.”

  “Thank you.”

  I leave him to his work, and walk toward the servants’ quarters, with the intention of saying farewell to Susan and the other maids. A thrush lands before me, a snail in its beak; I watch as it hops to a stone, and hammers the shell into pieces.

  Beyond the terrace I see Argos, staring along the drive, waiting for his master. His tail is down. Poor Argos; since the death of his Lordship he has been a lost soul, a shadow without its body. I call to him, “Argos? Argos?” and his head jerks in my direction, and jerks away. When I walk up and put an arm round him—his coat is wet, he has been here a while—he ignores me entirely. I am the wrong man. I am not his Lordship. Even so, I am happy to keep him company, to wait by his side. “Argos, you are a good dog,” I say. His Lordship once talked of his hope that there would be dogs in heaven. Perhaps his Lordship is waiting for Argos, just as Argos is waiting for his Lordship.

  As I stand here, I think of the three happy years that Jenny and I have spent at Easton. I think of the park, the lake, and the Elephant House, which we will be leaving tomorrow at dawn; and indeed, it feels as though we have already left this paradise, that the beauties of Easton lie somewhere in our pasts, that we are hauling cart-loads of timber through the muddy lanes of Worcestershire. I also think of Gulliver, who hoped to stay for ever in the Land of the Houyhnhnms, and found himself banished. Yet I cannot remember why he was banished. Had he committed some crime, or was there some other reason? I stand in the rain, failing to remember, facing the empty drive, with the dog pressed against my leg. The rain is not heavy; it falls softly, in sheets of tissue. I walk on, to the servants’ quarters.

  Part III

  London, 1793

  1

  The monkie sits, legs crossed, smoking his pipe, eyes closed in ecstasy as the fumes intoxicate his brain; the bear rests on his haunches and scratches fleas. Jenny stands and watches, blinking slowly, thinking—though what she thinks of her life here, I do not know. I have asked her many times; she will not say. That is, she will not give me what I believe to be a true answer. What she always says is that we are here, that there is nowhere else that we can go, since she, like the other animals, is owned by Mr. Cross.

  “What if you were not owned by Mr. Cross?”

  “Tom, there is no prospect of anyone buying me.”

  “But what if the Menagery were to shut down?”

  This is far from unlikely. Mr. Cross has made it clear, upon any
number of occasions, that the Menagery is a commercial affair and that, if it does not make enough money to cover its costs, it will be brought to an end. In which case, she will be sold again, if someone is willing to buy her.

  She says, “Tom, if I am sold to someone else, then I am sold to someone else. If it happens, it happens. If not, not. There are many possibilities.”

  We have now been six years with Cross’s Famous Menagery. For the first, it was located at Gravesend; for the next, in St. Albans; for the last four, in London. During these years, many animals in the Menagery have died, for various reasons which I will not set out here, except to say that it does not seem to suit every species of animal to be kept in close confinement and put on display for twelve hours every day. Among these animals are a zebra, a hyena, an eagle, a giraffe, a porcupine, and a series of man-eating lions, since Mr. Cross holds that, in order to draw in the crowds, a proper Menagery must have a ferocious lion, for preference, one that roars loudly. When a lion dies, he engages some merchant to procure him another.

  The lion at present in the Menagery does not roar, to Mr. Cross’s chagrin. The merchant told him that he was a Roarer, and a Man-Eater; however, he is, or has become, a sad, owl-faced creature, with hollow cheeks and staring eyes, and a mangy, thread-bare coat. Nonetheless, a notice is displayed, which reads: Man-Eating Lion. Beware, and the wall at the back of the cage is covered with the painting of a bloody-jawed lion, standing over the body of its unfortunate victim. People sometimes inquire of me, or Mr. Scott, how many humans the Man-Eater has eaten. Dozens, we reply. Hundreds. In truth, we do not know whether he has ever tasted human flesh. Perhaps, years ago, in another country, in another life. His present diet consists, for the most part, of horse bones, which he gnaws moaning, on account of his rotten teeth. He will not last many weeks more.

  Mr. Cross likes every creature in the Menagery to have a history. The small brown bear, which lives in the cage next to the Man-Eater, is said to have been found in a mountainous cave in Russia, in confirmation of which the wall painting has Bruin lurking in a gloomy cave, among the snow-clad peaks. The next cage—Pray, Sir, let me walk you this way—contains a large, striped snake, known as the Prince of Wales, supposedly from the swamps of Madagascar. Whatever it may do in the Madagascan swamps, here it sleeps much of the time, waking only to eat dead rats and live mice; the latter, even after having been swallowed, may be seen struggling within its digestive coils. We then come upon the little monkie, Stephen, with a face like that of a human child, but horribly wrinkled in anxiety. He mops and mows, and attempts to hide from the publick gaze by burying his face in his hands. His right hand is a claw; no one knows why, but Mr. Cross has devised for him a complicated tale in which he was rescued at sea, being the sole survivor from a Spanish privateer loaded with treasure, and there, Sir, behold the scene itself, in which he survives on the vast ocean, clinging to a single spar among the billows.