Elephant Talks to God (8 page)

“You mean Himself.” The old cow also turned her head toward the clouds but as quickly dropped it again. “Just between us, I think He got a lot of His ideas from me. I've been around a long time.”

“Do you … ?” The elephant was very surprised. “I didn't know that you had conversations with —”

“Soon we'll be talking face to face.”

She stumbled slightly, but then, with a movement that had all of her weight on top of her, she crashed to her knees, pulling the elephant off balance and nearly down.

“Are you all right?” he asked in a panic.

“You can be quite daft with your questions.” She took ragged breaths and was staring straight ahead.
“Yes. That is familiar.” She moved her trunk in the grass. “Come closer.”

“What is it?”

“You're going to have to push me onto my side. I can't do it by myself.”

“Perhaps we can help you up.”

“That wouldn't be …,” the old elephant did manage a rough laugh, “… much help. It's my time which is up.”

“Gotcha.” The elephant rubbed his trunk over her head. Her eyes didn't blink as he stroked her, and he guessed that she was blind. “I'll come around and help the others.”

The elephant moved to the far side and positioned his tusks in line with three of the other elephants. Together they inched forward, their broad brows against the bulk of the dying animal and their tusks levering under the body. In a matter of moments they had shifted the old elephant off her knees, and she sprawled onto the ground with a great noise. The elephant stood by her head and bent over.

“Sorry,” he said into her big ear.

The old body twitched, and the feet kicked spasmodically in the air. She tried to raise her head, but it quickly fell back into the grass. She did, however, manage to speak loudly enough for him to hear. “You didn't have much of an option.”

“Do you want me to —”

“I want for nothing,” said the old, old elephant, gasping for breath. “Finally.”

The rest of the elephants now moved forward and formed a circle around the dying beast. They stood and watched while the sun moved across the sky and the shadows in the clearing changed direction.

The old elephant could hear and feel their breath as her own became more laboured. The members of the herd took turns to periodically rub her with their trunks, and she occasionally acknowledged their touch.

There was very little noise, for the surrounding jungle held only the most distant of animal calls. Often the only break in the silence came from the old elephant as she seemed to gag on the very air itself. Her whole body would shudder, and her head would shake erratically. Then she would lie quietly again. And eventually, one of the elephants rubbing her with his trunk discovered there was no breath at all.

The herd stepped a few paces back as the senior bull tugged at her trunk. He also jabbed his tusks against her neck and into her mouth. He sniffed the length of her body then abruptly turned and started walking away. The others followed.

The herd returned at its usual pace, which was much faster than their earlier progression. The elephant guessed that he was halfway home. He tried to make a more accurate estimation from the stars, and it was
while he glanced at the sky that he noticed the night shadows thickening above his head.

“You were noticeably absent,” accused the elephant.

“It wasn't you I was talking to,” said God.

“Oh.”

The elephant lowered his head to the path and trundled on through the darkness. He did not have to concentrate on much more than keeping behind the elephant in front of him. Which was fortunate, for his thoughts were troubled.

“You may as well say it,” pointed out the cloud.

“What?” The elephant was startled.

“Your mind is full of more than that elephant's backside.”

“It was a mean death.”

“It was an earned death.”

“She made me remember so much.” The elephant looked right at the cloud. “And I haven't had anything to do with her for so long. I would sometimes see her in the herd —”

“Doing what?”

“Looking after calves.” His voice was exasperated. “Helping other elephants. Even foraging food for them. All the things which I remember she did for us.”

“Living her life?” asked God.

“Yes.”

“A fulfilling life?”

“Yes.”

“The life she wanted?” asked God.

“Yes, I suppose. All those things.”

“Then why are you troubled?”

“Because I wasn't grateful enough.” The elephant snorted, and his voice rose. “Because I didn't pay her enough attention. When I saw her in the herd, I didn't go over and give her my greetings.”

“She probably wouldn't have found time for you.”

“What?”

“She was too busy,” said God. “Living.”

The cloud began to move away and the stars became clearer.

“But I —”

“Remember her,” said God. “And learn from her. Accept her gifts, even those as yet unopened. But slough off that guilt of yours just as she did her body. It is fair to neither of you.”

“I'll do my best,” said the elephant.

“She says,” the cloud actually laughed, “‘that sounds familiar.'”

The elephant was on his way to the special clearing. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, and his haste was evident as he waded through the jungle.

The other animals were wary of his travels at the best of times, so acted cautiously until he was well past. However, during these instances of more unfocused haste, they made themselves scarce as soon as the first tremors of his movements reached their sensitive feet.

And they made certain that it was only the distant echo of his passage which they felt before they returned to their regular routines.

As usual, the elephant was oblivious to all the consternation he created as he rushed forward with his single intent. At such times, the jungle became a green blur as he raced past, and the warning cries of the other animals were just a jumble in his huge ears.

He had trouble keeping on the established path and kicked out at any root or stump which impeded him. It was only as he approached the clearing that he slowed to a semblance of his regular gait. He wanted to catch
his breath so he would not be panting and incoherent when he reached his destination.

He even wondered if his appearance might not be important this time; so he spent several moments with his trunk addressing his toilette before he entered the clearing.

A cloud eased out of the eastern corner and descended to meet him.

“Hi,” said the elephant.

“I have noted,” said God, “that the supplications of my other creatures increase tenfold during the span of one of your hasty progressions.”

“Ah.” The elephant felt a slight loss of his enthusiasm. “Sorry.”

“And that some of the comments surrounding my name would be frowned upon in more genteel society.”

“They can be a disrespectful lot,” agreed the elephant.

“So. Although your personal hygiene does not do much to redress the situation, the thought is appreciated.” The cloud came very low over the elephant's back and touched him between the shoulders. “You missed a spot.”

“Thanks.”

“Now.” The cloud returned to the elephant's line of vision. “What can be done for you today?”

“You know I have a couple of kids?”

“Yes,” said the cloud. “One of each.” There was a slight pause. “Your son is twice as old as your daughter. Both are healthy and vigourous.”

“Yes.” The elephant nodded his head.

“And they're not far from going out on their own.”

“Yes.” The elephant sounded rueful. “The girl has already foraged by herself a couple of times.”

“Good.” The cloud paused again. “So what do you want to —”

“Can they meet you?” The elephant's words burst out of him in a rush.

“No.” God's answer was equally abrupt.

“But I —,” began the elephant.

“It must be earned,” said God. “In fact, it must be earned without trying.” The cloud started to move. “You can't have a dynasty.”

“I want to share my joy.”

“As children …” The cloud halted in its ascent. “As do all children … they have seen me. That is the right of children. And although they call me by many names and see me in many forms, they know there is a friend who is with them.”

“I don't remember you,” said the elephant.

“No. You are not to remember.”

“And then do you go away?”

“No,” said God. “They leave me.”

“Why?”

“To live a life,” said God, relenting as he once again
approached the elephant. “As your children will with you.” The cloud chuckled. “As it sounds your girl is already beginning to do.” God laughed outright and startled the elephant. “As you have done so … extravagantly … with your life. I never heard such fervent entreaties as those which came from your own parents.”

“I was a pain,” said the elephant.

“In the resounding elephantine buttocks,” agreed God.

“They wanted to stop me,” said the elephant. “They wanted me to be like everyone else.”

“That isn't fair,” said God. “Nor is it accurate. I heard from them enough. They desired neither of those things.”

“But —”

“They wanted you to be safe,” said God. “They wanted you to be healthy. They wanted you to be happy.”

“My girl says I want her to be too careful and safe.”

“Yes,” said God. “I know.”

“Is she talking to you?” The elephant snorted in surprise, and a foolish grin crossed his face.

“It's a good thing,” said the cloud, as it once again started into the sky, “that I am an eternal God existing in infinite time. Your family alone has seen fit to keep me well occupied.”

“Will you answer her?” asked the elephant.

“Of course I'll answer her, as I answer all who come unto me.” The cloud began to move across the sky. “But in this case, I think I'll let you do the talking.”

The elephant surveyed the remnants of shattered trees, the gouged earth, and the still turbulent waves.

“You know,” he said, looking up at the storm cloud hovering overhead, “a herd of us on the rampage have got nothing on you when the mood strikes. You trying to tear down in one night what it took seven days to create?”

“Six days,” noted the cloud. “On the seventh …”

“… day you rested,” finished the elephant. “You gotta be patient with us lumbering beasts; after all, you didn't give us fingers so we could count.”

“But I did give you memories,” said the cloud.

“I know,” said the elephant. “I haven't forgotten.”

“And this display,” added God, “looks far worse than it is. Natural forces occur to keep my earth in a happy balance. Life is already reviving and reasserting itself.”

“Could you not be a bit more gentle?”

“My winds must go somewhere,” said God. “As you already mentioned, even elephants go upon the occasional rampage.”

“I've never done anything like this,” said the elephant.

“You've not seen yourself from the ant's point of view,” answered God.

The elephant was staring at the stars.

It was well past his usual time for sleeping, but he did not feel tired. He stood away from the other elephants and, with much concentration, picked out the various constellations.

With each one he recognized, he would tap his trunk against his knee as if counting. In some ways he looked upon them as old friends, for they had been there every night of his life. He knew them by their names, but he also knew them by the private names he had given them. Yet, for all their familiarity, he realized they were also the pathway to the furthest distances he could imagine.

As he carefully moved his head to take in all the shapes throughout this sector of the sky, he wondered (as he often did) about those individual stars which seemed to be part of no group. He knew that if he had access to one of the huge telescopes or if he could go in a spacecraft, he might find that each of these stars had hundreds of their fellows around them. Perhaps the
heavens would prove to be as crowded as the jungle. But the elephant knew something about the deepness of space, and he thought they would probably be alone. He realized he could not tell, if he had to live that way, whether he would find it frightening or comforting. The elephant moved his big body so he was looking to the north.

Here, the universe was darkest, for the stars appeared to be smaller still, and he thought he better understood the coldness of space by looking at them.

Part of this was his point of view, for he was not just looking up but straining to gaze over the far trees. But then, what did he ever look at which was not encumbered by his point of view? To him, the stars were as tiny as the glow-worms on the furthest hill, and the light ached just a little more as it entered his eyes.