Elephant Song

TWENTY-FIVE

Little Will sat upon the kraal fence, staring at the isolated grove of angelhair trees among whose roots Shiner Pete's body now rested. She swung the gold and mahogany bullhook by its handle, absentmindedly tapping the hook and goad first against one sandal, then the other. The angelhair hung from the trees in long, lazy swirls, stirring themselves only slightly in the heat of the afternoon. Around the small grove was the lowgrass growing between the rotting stumps of the timbered out forest that once surrounded Miira. In time, thought Little Will, even the evidence of the stumps will be gone.

She heard a snort and turned to see Reg pulling up trunkfuls of dried lowgrass as the bull rested from her morning's workout with Standby. Young Bigfoot would show for her turn in a few minutes. Little Will sighed. It would be another two months before her turn with Reg. She turned back to look at the angelhair grove. A figure wearing the bullhand's striped robe moved from beneath the trees. Little Will frowned and shielded her eyes from the sun. It was Dorthidear, the daughter of Great Waxy and Great Dot.

Little Will nodded. Sometimes she forgot that Shiner Pete's father was also buried in the angelhair tree grove, as well as several others—Mange, Butterfingers, Packy, Cowboy, Snaggletooth, Skinner, mere.

After Dorthidear had walked out of sight, between the houses of Miira's newly named Mange Street, Little Will came down from the fence and began walking toward the grove. Halfway down the hill, she turned toward the town and looked at the barn in which, at her instruction, a crew of bullhands attempted to clean and assemble the skeleton of the bull Gonzo. Of the five bulls Johnjay had stampeded from the cliff's edge almost a year before, Gonzo's skeleton had the least broken bones. Reg would die—some day. Then the bullhands would have nothing but May's pictures, Gonzo's skeleton, and their memories to pass down to their children.

Little Will smacked her bullhook against her leg and continued downhill until she came to the edge of the grove. Once into the shade, she noticed a figure in bullhand's robe seated by Great Waxy's grave marker.

"Dot?"

The figure turned toward her, then opened her mouth in an almost toothless grin. "Little Will? Come closer. It is you."

Little Will walked more deeply into the grove and stopped next to the old woman. "You're not well, Dot. You should be in bed."

Great Dot shook her head as she reached out a shaking hand to pluck weeds from her husband's grave. "I won't get any sicker being here. Besides the fresh air and sun's probably good for my bones." She glanced back at Little Will. "Dorthidear'll be back to haul me to my bed in a couple of hours. Can't reason with that girl."

"She has more sense than you." Little Will sat next to the old woman. She looked across Waxy's grave and saw the fresh-turned soil that covered Shiner Pete. New blades of lowgrass were already springing from it. The paint on the wooden marker at one end of the grave was already beginning to crack. Its words read: Shiner Pete Adnelli, Master of the Miira Harnessmen, Born June 16th, 2135; Died Winter 20th, YSC 32nd. Little Will felt Dot's hand on her arm.

"Child, child. Don't worry. Dusty has the rock for the headstones quarried. He promised to begin very soon."

Little Will smiled and shook her head. "That isn't it. I just can't believe Shiner Pete's gone. He was so young."

Dot withdrew her hand and resumed plucking away at the weeds. "Child, did you and Shiner talk much?"

"Of course." Little Will shrugged. "Well, we used to talk. Before Johnjay's trunk was put on the lot. Not much since then, I guess."

The old woman nodded, then sat up and rested her hands in her lap. "He would come to me and talk."

"You?"

"I was his stepmother."

"What would he say to you that he couldn't say to me?"

Great Dot leaned forward and straightened her husband's weathered grave marker. The letters were illegible. "Losing Johnjay ate out Shiner Pete's heart, Little Will. That's what killed him. The fall from the horse was his excuse."

"He didn't want to live? I don't believe that."

Dot shook her head and laughed—a laugh of sympathy, not of scorn. "Child, at times you're as thick as your old man was. I can't count the number of women in the old show that would've married that man in a second. But he just didn't know. Didn't even imagine that anyone but the Lion Lady could love him."

"You?"

Dot shook her head. "No. Not me. I had my bull." She looked at Little Will. "Do you remember Siren Sally?"

"No. The name, but I can't remember her face,"

"She was one." Dot looked across the clearing at an overgrown pile of rocks that served as a grave marker for the original troupers buried in the trench cut by Number Three. Beneath that pile was Bullhook Willy. "Maybe I was one. I can't really remember." She looked back at Little Will. "From the day Shiner Pete saw Johnjay's trunk put on the lot, he was a dying man. It just took him a while and a fall to make him lie down."

Little Will shook her head as the tears began to fall from her cheeks. "I had to do what I did. Johnjay killed the bulls!"

Dot nodded, then gestured with her head up the hill toward the kraal. "I know what bulls mean, Little Will. I pushed bull long before you were born. I was there when Bullhook Willy got his name with the old show. But Johnjay was more important to Shiner Pete. He didn't have anything else."

"He had me."

"Did he?" Dot studied Little Will.

Little Will stared for a moment at her husband's grave, then she closed her eyes. "I thought... I thought he did." She slowly shook her head. "I don't know. I just don't know." Dot lifted her arm and put it around Little Will's shoulders, drawing Little Will's head against her breast. "Dot, I shut him out. I felt he blamed me, and I shut him out!"

Dot stroked Little Will's hair. "Honey, now listen to me. You were right in what you did. Shiner Pete was right in how he felt, but you were right in what you did."

"Was I wrong when I asked the town today to let me bring Johnjay back?"

"No. Not in your heart, Little Will. Shiner Pete is gone, and someday Reg will be gone. Now that you have to share Reg with all of the other bullhands, she might as well be gone now. You need someone, and you want your son. There's nothing wrong with that. It's just a damned shame the town voted you down."

"Shiner Pete needed someone, and I shut him out."

"He had me." Dot put her hand beneath Little Will's chin and lifted her head. Then, with the same hand, she wiped the tears from Little Will's face. "That's all in the past, now. You must think about the future."

"Dot, what should I do?"

"What do you want, child?"

Little Will collapsed against Dot's breast. "I want my son! I want Johnjay!" Her shoulders heaved as she freshened her cheeks with new tears. "Where is he, Dot? All the towns have blackballed him. He's been in the wild for almost a year. I don't know if he's even alive. I couldn't live if I found that he's dead." She looked up at Dot, the old woman's image blurred by her tears. "How can I get the town to change its vote."

"You can't. Little Will, no one can forgive what Johnjay did. Don't expect them to. But you can tell your son that you love him. Send your mind across the face of this planet, find him, and then tell him."

"What if he won't forgive me? I couldn't bear it, Dot. What if I can find him and he won't forgive me?"

"Still he must know. And you must tell him. Remember your father."

Little Will sat up and sniffed. "My father?"

"Bullhook fought with his dying breaths to be with you. To let you know that your father loved you. I was there and saw him. He didn't make it, but he tried." Dot held Little Will's chin, forcing the Master of the Miira Bullhands to look into her eyes. "And you hated him for dying—for leaving you. Didn't you?"

Little Will pulled away from the old woman's grasp, but continued to stare at her. She stood, wiped the tears from her face, then looked toward the kraal. Bigfoot was making her way up the hill for her turn at the bull. "For a while." She looked at the woman. "Am I so awful, Dot?"

"No." The old woman resumed plucking the weeds from her husband's grave. "You are not bad. Just human."

Little Will looked down at Great Dot, then turned and looked at the overgrown pile of rocks that covered the dead from Number Three. She walked to the grave, squatted down, then began pulling the weeds from it. "I'm sorry, Daddy. I'm so sorry."

Far west of Miira, No One stood on a highgrass-covered rise looking up at the tall trees that rose straight from the mud and water of the Great Muck Swamp. The high leaf cover darkened the swamp, making the air still and dank. Here and there a slender shaft of sunlight would break through briefly illuminating the dust, vapor, dancing waterwasps and punksquitoes before the wind at the top of the trees shifted the leaves, cutting off the beam.

He brought his gaze down and looked for sweetwater bubbles among the death-white bulb lillies floating close to the spongy rise upon which he stood. "Bah! The sweetwater comes up everywhere except at a convenient place." He looked back at the trail his steps had made through the highgrass. "I've come far enough, and spent enough time. I hope that woman has sense enough to stay at the camp."

He looked back at the water, grimaced, then put down the water jug, shucked his robe and kicked off his sandals. Picking up the jug again, he stepped off of the rise and sank up to his chest in the swamp's rot-smelling ooze, and half-paddled, half-walked his way through the bulb lillies to the nearest of the ripples marking the sweetwater. As he reached it, his skin was chilled by the sweetwater's lower temperature. He uncapped the water jug, lowered it into the water, and stood quietly waiting for it to fill.

"Magoo, magoo."

No One frowned at the sound of the deep-pitched words; then he heard more sounds—muck being sloshed, small trees and brush being broken and crushed. He glanced back at his robe, then turned in the direction of the sounds and lowered himself until the water covered his shoulders.

"Mm, borg borg, da magoo."

The sounds of sloshing and crashing grew louder; and No One sank further into the water until the surface was just beneath his nose. Between the distant trees, he could see movement. Whatever it was had to be enormous. By Momus, thought No One, it is one of the swamp monsters! Smaller trees were pushed aside, then a beam of sunlight illuminated the thing's massive head for a second. It was green and scaled, the mouth lined with many sharp-looking teeth.

"Dorry borry, bung bung, foo magoo."

No One caught a snootful as the creature swung its great tail around, then planted its fat behind into a sitting position. It had arms and hands, and the creature placed its hands upon its knees and looked around. "Stooba dooba, de da ma," Its tongue whipped out, bringing down probably several water-wasps. "—goo."

It reached down a hand, plucked a bulb lilly from the water, then popped the ball-shaped flower into its mouth, severed the plant's long stem and root, and tossed it aside. After eating several of the bulb lillies, the creature belched, then began gathering a number of the bulbs in the crook of its huge left arm.

"Mm borg borg, mm borg borg, da da magoo."

No One frowned as he realized the monster was singing. He frowned more deeply as the creature's harvesting operation caused its huge hand to begin plucking bulbs closer and closer to No One's head. No One was torn between diving and breaking for the highgrass; hence, he did nothing. The creature's hand reached out, the scaled fingers grabbed No One's head, then No One began kicking and shouting as he was pulled by his head from the water.

"Oz?"

The creature's eyes widened as its mouth fell open. The monster bellowed a scream, dropped No One, then threw up its arms and fled in a shower of scattered bulb lillies. By the time No One had surfaced, coughed the water from his lungs and cleared his eyes, the monster was gone. No One retrieved his water jug, shivered, and began making his way toward the highgrass.

Back at their camp that evening, Tarzaka cooked the cobit and watched No One's preoccupied stare into the fire's flames. The light from the fire made the shadows of the swamp trees dance as though they were alive. "You have been very quiet since you brought back the water."

"Yes." No One looked up at the fortune teller, then back at the flames. "I met one of the swamp monsters. I never thought they were real." He slowly shook his head. "Huge. As big as two bulls."

Tarzaka held her hand to her mouth. "What... what should we do?" She leaned forward. "Are you certain?"

"Hah! The thing picked me up by my head! A closer look I can do without."

"What should we do? How do we cross the swamp to the Arcadia-Miira Road?"

He clasped his hands together and shrugged. "We walk, as before." He again looked at the fortune teller. "A strange thing... I felt that it was not dangerous—at least not by intention. It sang."

"Sang? The monster?"

"It sang. At least it sang until it discovered that this bulb," he pointed at his head, "is attached to something more lively than a lilly stem." He shook his head. "I think the thing was more frightened of me than I was of it. I cannot imagine why something that large would ever be frightened."

"It is said that bulls can be frightened by small things: a noise, a gust of wind, the flash of a piece of paper."

No One nodded. "True. Still, the thing was so huge." He turned and looked over his shoulder at the shadows. Were great slitted eyes looking back? He looked back at the fortune teller. "My father used to tell me of the time he and my mother sent their minds into the swamp. My mother said she actually touched one of the creature's minds." He looked down at the fire.

"Well, what happened?"

"The monster fled. She had frightened it."

The fortune teller cocked her head to one side and frowned. "No One, do you have this power? Can you send your mind?"

He shrugged. "I suppose. I haven't done it since May... since my sister and I were children. The feeling is unpleasant."

Tarzaka stared at No One. "Unpleasant," she repeated. She spat into the fire. "What a waste, you are, No One! What a terrible waste you are!" She stood and turned to go to her sleeping place.

"Mind your tongue!"

She faced him. "What will you do, No One? What will you do, bull killer? Will you hurt me again? Is that all you can do with your wonderful gifts: kill bulls and hurt people?"

She stood next to the fire. "What I could do if I but had one of your gifts! What I could do!" She shook her fist at him. "For all the use you make of your gifts, it would have been no loss had that monster torn off your head!" She lowered her arm to her side, turned, went to her sleeping place, and stretched out in the highgrass, her back toward No One.

"It is good that you paint your face, No One. You are truly more clown than fortune teller."

No One glared at the fortune teller's back. A score of excuses rushed to his mouth, but he stopped them and looked down into the flames.

I will develop my powers, Tarzaka. A bull named Reg and I have a date.

He turned and faced the shadows, closing his eyes. It had been so long. Slowly the feelings of his body dropped away, one by one. Then he could again see the shadows. The mind alone is so lonely.

He let his mind drift upwards, above the light and shadows, above the trees, far, far above the swamp. He looked up at the sky.

Can I fly to those other worlds? Do I have the power? Up he went, faster and faster. The stars became very bright, their twinkle ceased, then the full light of the sun washed him. Still the stars remained visible. He looked down. The edge of the planet toward the sun was brightly lit. Beyond that edge, where the Great Muck should have been, was nothing but darkness. Lost! Lost! He began toppling down toward the darkness, a fall that he could not control. Down and down, a sickness called fear opened his mouth and forced out a child's scream of terror at the unknown.

No One opened his eyes to find himself back at the fire. He glanced at the fortune teller, but her back was still toward him. The scream, he guessed, had been in his mind. He stretched out and watched the flames until the sleep drifted over him.

"Johnjay. Johnjay. Can you hear me?" He floated in gray aether, the threads of the voice speaking at him, a breath against his mind. "Who... Mother?" "I've been searching for you, Johnjay. For so long—"

His gray turned to black. "You have nothing to say to me."

"Wait!" A ghostly white swirl ate at one edge of his blackness. "Johnjay, wait!"

"Is Reg dead?"

"... No."

"Call for me when Reg is dead. Until then, you have nothing to say to me." He began forcing the white swirl from his blackness.

"Johnjay, it's your father."

He paused. "What... what about him?"

"Johnjay, he's dead. He's—"

"Then you are alone, too." That which should have been grief glittered before him—a shining altar of hate. "Good."

"John—"

"Call me when Reg is dead, Mother. That's all I want to hear."

"Johnjay, I lo—"

"Call me when the bull is dead."

His eyes opened. He sat up and looked at the fire's smoking embers, then up at the few stars that had yet to be washed from the sky by the morning's light. He felt something touching the outlines of his thoughts. He placed a wall of coldness against the something, then looked down at the fortune teller. "Tarzaka." He shouted. "Tarzaka!"

She turned over and looked at No One. "What is it?"

He pushed himself to his feet. "Get ready. We are going now."

She looked at the sky, then back at No One. "Now?"

"Now!" He hefted his pack. "We have a lot of swamp to search. The sooner we start, the sooner we find Waco's eggs."