Elephant Talks to God (2 page)

“OK.”

The elephant stood a long time and watched the reflection of the sun. It spread its golden path across the surface of the ocean directly at him. He then turned and started walking home to the jungle.

“Are you coming with me?” he called over his shoulder.

“I'm always with you,” said God.

The elephant was dozing on the verge of the grasslands.

He occasionally shifted his bulk from one side to the other and took a leisurely gaze at his surroundings. He did not have far to retreat to the safety of the jungle, so with an open eye and an attentive ear, he felt his precautions were enough. He had not, however, taken into consideration an assault from the air.

“Gotcha,” said the cloud.

“Snort,” said the elephant.

“Let's be up and away.”

“Us?” queried the elephant, as he struggled to his feet.

“You've heard of the royal ‘we,'” said God. “You can imagine how I feel.”

“I,” said the elephant, looking at the cloud, “perhaps can't imagine it.”

“Perhaps.” The cloud paused in its movement. “But with your imagination, I would say the jury is still out. What I am is approached more closely through imagination than any other door.”

“More than faith?”

“Faith is an engine of belief. Imagination is the path to understanding.”

“And what path are we taking?” asked the elephant as he followed the cloud into the jungle.

“Tried and true,” laughed God. “Each step secure for a large fellow such as yourself.”

“Much appreciated,” said the elephant. “I know your affection for waysides.”

He calmly continued along the trail, keeping his eyes where he put his feet yet with an occasional glance at the cloud. They went on for a long time, and the jungle became thicker and more quiet.

“I don't know this place,” said the elephant.

“No,” answered God. “You don't.”

“Do we have a particular destination?”

“No.”

“Just out for a walk, then?”

“Yes.”

“Hmmm,” said the elephant.

“Hmmm?”

“You don't do things without a purpose,” said the elephant. “It is a trait of yours.”

“I think,” said the cloud, “that the doing of something is always purpose enough.”

“But we do something to achieve an end.”

“You forage for food when you are hungry?”

“Yes.” The elephant raised his head hopefully. “Is that where we're going?”

“Yet you know,” said God, ignoring the question with a smile, “you will be hungry again and eventually have to start all over.”

“Yes.” The elephant answered doubtfully. “But that's the way of the world.”

“Yes.” The cloud stopped abruptly. “Continual progression. Every time you think something ends, there is no end. It is only a landmark showing where you've been and where you go. Every ending you perceive guides you further through life.”

“If we don't eat food — we die.” The elephant spoke firmly. “So life does end with death.”

“Oh,” said God, who parted an immense tangle of vines to reveal the most lush field the elephant had ever seen, “ye of little faith.”

The elephant rammed into a tree. He looked up with some surprise and then stepped back, shattering a wooden fence. He turned around to see what the noise was and gouged another tree with one of his tusks. The birds were, by this time, in an uproar, the monkeys were scaling the nearest vines amid much chattering, and a passing hyena was laughing uproariously. The elephant ambled unconcernedly away from the havoc he had created and started along the narrow path. He broke off branches, stomped bushes into oblivion, and uprooted a tree for the sheer joy of it. He gently snatched a startled toucan bird out of a branch with his trunk and started to tickle him with little snorts of air. The bird began to giggle, and the elephant let him fly away. The whole jungle was now frantic, and it was not long before a cloud came scudding across the sky.

“What the hell?” asked the cloud.

The elephant looked up and smiled.

“You're drunk,” said the cloud.

The elephant filled his cheeks as full as they would go and trumpeted very loudly.

“Oh dear,” said the cloud.

The elephant marched around in a tiny circle and then trumpeted again.

“You're in love,” said God.

“You got it,” said the elephant, nodding vigorously.

“It had to happen sometime,” the cloud sighed.

“Birds do it, bees do it,” the elephant started singing.

“Even elephants with knees do it,” chimed in God. “I know, I know.”

The elephant grinned foolishly and stopped moving about. “Any lessons to be learned?” he asked.

“Oh yes,” God sighed again. “So much.”

“Well, I'm ready.” The elephant kicked up his heels, a difficult task at the best of times. “Teach me.”

“Oh no.” The cloud started to rise into the air. “You're on your own this time. Love is for lovers to teach.” The cloud moved away, casting a shadow across the elephant, who was now trying to dance on his hind legs. God had to chuckle, knowing only too well the feelings: warmed by the joy.

The elephant sighed, looked around, and felt that not enough notice was being taken. So he pointedly, loudly, sighed again, ruffling the water in which he sat.

“If you knew the sighs I've heard,” said the boulder, patiently waiting in the river.

“An elephant's sighs are as good as any.”

“Yes, of course,” said God as the boulder was nudged by the elephant's shoulder. “Uniquely laced with peanut but heartfelt nevertheless.”

“You don't like peanuts?” asked the elephant accusingly.

“I like everything I made or else they wouldn't exist.” The boulder settled more profoundly. “I can't, however, be held responsible for your reactions to things. I made other elephants, and you fall in love.”

“Not anymore.” The elephant slapped his trunk on the water.

“Don't interrupt your God,” said God. “You fall in love, and that's your own doing. My job is making elephant number one and elephant number two. From then on it's up to your own designs and devices.”

“She's a bitch,” said the elephant.

“Wrong species,” pointed out God. “You know what I mean.”

“I don't like inaccurate talk,” said God. “I never have. I look upon speech as one of my greatest gifts.”

“I'm sorry,” said the elephant, who really was sorry but especially for himself. “Things were going so well; we were even hosing each other's backs in the evening. And then she took it into her head to go and forage by herself, to leave me as she explored other mudholes.” The elephant's voice became very indignant. “And I even saw her flapping her ears at other elephants. She has no right to do something like that.”

“No right?” The boulder rumbled. “Birth gave her rights, and you rights, and everything else on this earth rights.”

“I'm sorry,” said the elephant.

“Possessiveness,” snapped God. “I meant possessiveness to be guided by affection, not power.”

“It works both ways,” said the elephant. “I'll just ignore her; that's what I'll do.”

“Even if she happens to come this way?” asked God.

“Why?”

“I feel waves against me,” said the boulder. “She's entered the river above.”

“I don't care,” said the elephant, but he turned his head. “Upstream, did you say?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” the elephant lumbered to his feet. “I suppose I …,” he looked at the boulder and smiled, “… I have as much right to be there as she does.”

“Definitely,” agreed God. “The river belongs to everyone.”

As the elephant splashed his way up river, a toucan bird settled comfortably upon the boulder.

“You want to know something?” asked God.

The toucan cocked an attentive ear.

“If we stay here, we're going to get swamped.”

The elephant carefully left the herd when the first light of dawn streaked the sky.

He picked his way through the grass and trees, doing his best not to make a sound which would alert the other elephants. He was unsure about his enterprise, and he wished to avoid either their questions or speculations.

They would soon be poking each other with their tusks and whispering fervently into half-raised ears, when his absence was noted. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. He was doubtful enough as it was; he didn't need the knowing nods of his herd mates.

The elephant was heading for the special clearing he had not visited for years. It was far and away, and although the route was still visible, it had never been clear or defined. And it was obviously not often used, for traces of other animals were few.

Since he had left early, he had not eaten breakfast, so he stopped occasionally to tug at some of the grasses. He munched thoughtfully while trying to decide how to
ask his peculiar — and perhaps disturbing — question. How far, after all, do free will, free thought, and free speech actually go?

He came to a small stream and took his time to wash down his morning meal. The water had a chill to it, and he guessed some deep spring fed directly into its flow. It tasted as if it had been purified on its way through layers of earth, and he was certain he could feel bubbles on his tongue.

Sated and refreshed, he took note of the angle of daylight and began to trot with haste. He had set out early to avoid the glare of the midday sun, and if he could reach the clearing when planned, he would have the light behind him. It would make his task of staring into the sky that much easier. One less distraction in an already anxious day.

He became slightly less careful on the path, and a tree or two cracked as he hurried past. Since the other animals felt it prudent to keep their distance, it was with a minimum of havoc that he reached the clearing. As he had hoped, a cloud awaited him at the end.

“Mad dogs and elephants,” said the cloud.

“Pardon me?”

“Go out in the midday sun.”

“That's ‘Englishmen.'”

“Ah, yes.” The cloud came closer. “It would be.” There was amusement tracing the words. “Have you taken an interest in show tunes now?”

“Well.” The elephant looked slightly embarrassed. “There seems no order or reason to the types of entertainment they show at the mission. And I'm quite fond of music.”

“So am I.”

“Even Noel Coward?”

“I'm partial to the first name.”

“That's a joke,” said the elephant.

“A pun,” corrected the cloud.

“A technical distinction,” said the elephant.

“Much of what I do is technical,” said God. “It's part and parcel of life.”

“I've heard that technology can destroy the soul.”

“No. The soul is immutable.”

“But …” The elephant was confused. “To lose one's soul is the worst thing which —”

“You cannot lose your soul.” The cloud approached across the clearing. “You can, however, renounce your soul. It is not done unto you — you do the doing.”

“With all due respect,” the elephant, in spite of all his haste and worry, had now completely forgotten his original query, “the destruction which living a life can do to your hopes and dreams and desires eats away at your soul.”

“You talk of ephemera,” said God. “Just as you do not call a blade of grass a tree, you do not compare these wisps to the soul. Hope and —”

“But I —”

“Your God speaks,” said God. “Hold your tongue and attend.”

“Sorry.”

“Hope and desire give better service when verbs — not as nouns. You can covet so much that you refuse to recognize the satisfaction of achievement. Such a state of existence is known as greed.”

“Greed doesn't destroy your soul?”

“No.” The cloud came almost as low as the elephant's head. “Greed can only destroy life. It is a choice you make.”

“I like things,” said the elephant.

“So do I,” said God. “Everything.”

“Then it's not wrong?”

“No.” The cloud eased back into the sky. “But things are just things. Desire is only desire. Fear is but fear. They are all pathways through the jungle. Some are more difficult than others.”

“Leading where?” asked the elephant, who, when he realized how high the cloud had really become, decided he had better shout. “LEADING WHERE?”

“To me.”

The elephant was sitting in the dark, listening to the voices.

He could tell which animals were settling in for the night, which parents were quieting their young, which hunters were on the prowl, which prey were on the dodge.

The sounds possessed a sharpness which could startle and make it sometimes seem that these vignettes of life were happening beside his head. But he knew the tricks of the dark and was not alarmed when a snort or squeal broke through. The night, for all its echo and hustle, was mainly a time of silence.