Elephant Talks to God (5 page)

“For all those who hunger and thirst, I am here.” The cloud started to rise into the sky. “Bon appetit.”

The elephant wondered what it would be like to live in the city.

He had seen some films at the Mission showing various cities, and he found them fascinating. He thought of the gigantic buildings as towering trees, the streets as comfortable pathways, the multi-lighted nightscape as the starriest of skies. However, he thought that automobiles were probably very stupid creatures. And, without any doubt, there were too many humans.

He had heard many strange stories from the birds, who, by and large, tried to avoid flying over the city.

Because birds and elephants see things differently, he wasn't quite sure about the distance he would have to travel to reach the city. To hear the birds tell it (and he thought they might be boasting), they could go as far between sunrise and sunset as he could in half the cycle of the moon.

That was why he was deep in conversation with the toucan, who was perched a bit precariously on the elephant's right shoulder. But the toucan was not much help, for he was in no way fond of travel himself.

The elephant pointed out (unfortunately using the tip of his trunk, which made the toucan scramble further up his back) that toucans were not even supposed to be on the continent, so travel must be in his blood. The toucan replied that a flock of his ancestors had been caught in a hurricane and unceremoniously shuffled over the Romanche Fracture Zone at the Equator. And, although this accidental migration and the old country were part of his heritage, the toucan had no desire to go ‘home.'

The elephant became miffed and fell into an annoyed silence. He was very fond of the toucan bird and trusted him greatly, but he wondered if this was not a mild rebuke, hinting that he should stay where he was.

He felt tempted to irritate the toucan in some manner. He could wrinkle his skin and make the bird fall off or he could sneak his trunk up beside him and trumpet into his ear. A good blast would probably knock a couple of feathers off his tail. Serve him right for being a stuffy old bird.

While thinking of yet other ways to disturb his guest, the elephant suddenly felt an insistent tap against his ear. The toucan was hitting him with his big bill, and when he finally got the elephant's attention, he pointed his bill into the sky. A cloud was slowly settling through the trees. With a squawk of satisfaction, the toucan rose into the air, giving his best regards as he flew past the cloud. The elephant ambled to the middle of the clearing and waited.

“Had I desired my birds to possess fewer tail feathers, I would have arranged it myself.”

“I wouldn't really have done it,” said the elephant. “Just enough to startle him. He was being an old pooh.”

“Hardly a fair description of a creature who was only answering the questions you asked.”

“I didn't like what he said.”

“That's a reaction I often get,” said the cloud. “There's no sense asking a question if you only want one type of answer. With choice and free will comes the chance of disappointment.”

“Chance?” The elephant snorted.

“And don't fault the toucan his caution.” The cloud settled more comfortably. “There is a large place in life for the cautious approach.”

“Is that broad hint directed at my interest in visiting the city?”

“Could be.”

“You don't think I should go?”

“Have you ever heard the expression ‘bull in a china shop?'”

“Yes. But I've never seen a china shop.” The elephant added triumphantly, “Because I've never been to the city.”

“Your logic seems to sharpen when it serves your purpose.” The cloud moved ever so slightly. “You come and go as you wish. I can tell you that this quest is worth neither your time nor your effort.”

“A caution?” asked the elephant.

“No,” said God. “A warning.”

“Oh,” said the elephant.

“And, if I were you, I'd have a few kind words with the toucan bird.” The cloud was now rapidly ascending. “Friends are precious and should be well-treated.”

“A warning?” asked the elephant.

“A caution,” answered God.

The elephant had been waiting in the clearing for quite awhile and passed his time in a persistent, if somewhat odd, manner. He would stand stock-still, keeping even his tail motionless, then give his front legs a slight bend, turn his head from side to side, and make a racing gallop across the grass, coming to an abrupt halt for no discernible reason. He would then look around, shake his head, dig a tusk into the earth, emit a very unelephant-like snort, and start the whole procedure over again. In fact, he became so involved in these events that he did not notice a cloud move cautiously across the sky and come to a stop over one corner of the clearing. The cloud hovered a few minutes, and it was only as he was giving his head one of those series of shakes that he noticed it in the otherwise blue sky. He grinned foolishly and walked over to where the cloud was descending.

“How long were you waiting?” asked the elephant.

“I am a patient God,” said God. “I was prepared to stay until showtime finished.”

“I suppose I looked silly.”

“I'm always willing to give the benefit of the doubt,” answered God. “So let's say that you looked peculiar.”

“I have my reasons,” said the elephant.

“I've come to expect nothing less,” said the cloud. “Though I assume, hopefully, that there is more to this than meets the eye.”

“I want to be a bull.”

“Oy veh,” answered God.

“I'm wondering if you can help me?” asked the elephant.

“A bull?”

“A bull.”

“There have been many requests to be a bullfighter,” said God, “but you are the first who wants to be a bull.”

“I've been learning to snort.”

“There's more to it than that,” began the cloud.

“SNORT,” said the elephant.

“Not bad,” said God.

“And I've been running and learning to charge,” he gave a pause for breath. “And I even have a name for myself.”

“Can I guess?” asked God.

“El Elefante,” said the elephant.

“I was right,” said God.

“How did you know?”

“It just seems to fit, somehow,” answered God.

“I think I'm getting pretty good,” said the elephant, none too modestly.

“Tell me something,” said God.

“What?”

“Do you, er, know what happens in a bullfight?”

“Pretty well,” said the elephant. “I've been watching some travelogues at the Mission, and one was about Spain.”

“But do you know,” asked God, “what happens at the end of the bullfight?”

“Well …,” the elephant looked slightly perplexed. “No, not really. The projector broke down before it was over.” The elephant brightened up. “But there was talk about something to do with ears, and you know I have the largest set of ears you'll find.”

“That's true,” smiled God. “But …” The cloud lowered even more. “Come over closer,” said God. “I think it's time we had a little chat.”

The elephant was singing to himself and watching the butterflies. They swarmed around his head and fluttered beneath his trunk, sometimes brushing against his tusks. His small eyes darted excitedly about, lost in the colours. Even so, he did not fail to notice the cloud moving slowly across the sky.

“It's like eyelashes,” said the elephant.

“I beg your pardon?” asked the cloud.

“They feel like eyelashes when they touch me,” explained the elephant, who raised his head to look at the cloud. The movement caused the butterflies to float away on the air currents.

“I see,” said the cloud.

“Sometimes they touch my eyes,” said the elephant. “With their wings.”

“Yes?”

“It tickles,” said the elephant.

“And do you laugh?”

“I giggle sometimes,” answered the elephant. “They give me a funny look.”

“Have you ever stopped to think what you sound like to a butterfly?”

“No,” answered the elephant.

“Probably like the voice of God.”

The elephant chuckled at that for a moment and then grew silent. He blew a little gust of air to help a few tardy butterflies along and looked up at the cloud.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Everyone else does,” answered God. “What have you got for me this time?”

“It's about the butterflies.”

“Yes?”

“How come they only live for just a season?” The elephant looked down at the ground, then back to the cloud. “They're so beautiful and so light … and friendly. And they do a great job of taking pollen everywhere and helping the flowers and plants. Why, they're even making sure there's going to be food for me, isn't that right?”

“That's right,” answered the cloud. “From the butterfly to you with a few extra stages thrown in.”

“So why do they die so soon?”

“Butterflies don't live a season,” said God. “They live a life.”

“But they're gone when …”

“They're gone when it's their time,” answered the cloud. “To a butterfly the season is their life. They expect
nothing more and fulfill their existence. To the trees, your life is brief.”

“You mean a butterfly thinks of its season like I think of my years?”

“Seconds or hours, long shadows or short, it's all the same kind of time,” said God. “The butterfly feels he has as long a life as you.”

“Really?” asked the elephant.

“Yes,” said God.

“I'm glad,” said the elephant.

And then God spoke to the elephant, and called him by his name, and filled his heart full of his beloved butterflies, and they soared through his blood, wing tip to wing tip, until he understood the power of their life.

The elephant was standing knee-deep in the river.

It was not the usual place he would go if he wanted to cross to the other shore. Nor was it the wide section after the bend, where he romped in the water with little danger. No. It was the place where the rapids were numerous and the water frothed past.

He had to brace his thick legs against the current and occasionally lean into the force of the water. He was gazing intently at the river, his trunk trailing beneath its surface. Often the splashing water leapt in his face. He would straighten, coughing and shaking his head. Then he would wipe his eyes with the tip of his trunk. He tried to judge when a particular surge of water might cover him, but it was to no avail.

One time, as he raised his head while sputtering and dripping, he noticed the cloud. It hovered over the riverbank where it was safe from the wet extravagances of the rapids. He rubbed his trunk against his back and then ambled to the shore.

“Dare I even guess what you're doing?” asked the cloud.

“Fishing.”

“And that …” began the cloud, tentatively indicating the elephant's trunk.

“Fishing pole.”

“You don't —” The cloud paused, then repeated with some surprise. “Your fishing pole?”

“Yes.” The elephant nodded his head with enthusiasm, splashing the cloud. “I put it in the water and wriggle it back and forth like a worm. It's even the right colour.”

The elephant tried to wipe some of the water off the cloud but found it a futile venture.

“Sorry.”

“Right colour,” agreed the dripping cloud. “But rather the wrong size, don't you think?”

“Light refraction,” said the elephant. “Things look smaller in the water.”

“Not if you're in the water with them,” pointed out the cloud.

“Oh.” The elephant paused in thought. “Yeh.”

“You don't even eat fish.”

“You know,” the elephant spoke with some exasperation, “for a God who so admires logic, you made an awful lot of illogical creatures.”

“It might be said,” said the cloud, “that a fishing elephant
using a segment of its body as a luring apparatus goes beyond the realm of even the illogic.”

“Well,” said the elephant, “I wouldn't have said it.”

“You see, something cannot be created without creating its opposite.” The cloud seemed to be warming up to the subject. “Nothing can be understood, without the existence of its opposite.”

“Like life and death,” suggested the elephant.

“Perfect example.”

“You can't have one without the other,” said the elephant.

“I believe it has even been put to music,” said the cloud.

“So.” The elephant spoke with deliberation. “You've made things simple by making them complicated.”

“Exactly.”

“That can be pretty confusing,” said the elephant.