Elephant Talks to God (9 page)

“I can feel your distance,” said the elephant.

“Is that true?” said the stars.

“I can feel your chill.”

“The coldness of my light. The fire in which you will never burn.”

“I can see so much.” The elephant paused. “But can I see too much?”

“Perhaps.”

“And what happens then?”

“Then,” said the stars, with a twinkle in their voices, “then, I suggest you close your eyes.”

“But you will still be there.”

“Yes,” said God. “I'll still be here.”

“Then I'll keep them open.”

“That would have been my guess,” said God. “You have a penchant for exercising your free will to the point of exhaustion.”

“A warning?” asked the elephant.

“No,” said God. “Admiration.”

And the elephant found himself in a state of grace as he stared unblinking at the stars. Their coldness became warm, and their fire turned to ice. He could see them moving while the earth moved, and he could feel the movement of the earth in his toes. The black sky went beyond the darkness of night and became the comfort of sleep.

“But no dreams?”

“No,” said the stars. “You don't need dreams.”

And the elephant raised his trunk high to wave at the stars and to welcome them and to touch their light after its long voyage through the distant centuries. And the starlight …

“… star bright, first star I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might …”

“Might what?” asked God.

“Have nothing more …,” the elephant said as he watched the starbeams slide along his trunk and make his ivory tusks glow, “… than to be right here. Right now.”

“Granted,” whispered the stars.

And the elephant found himself in a state of rapture as he stared unblinking at the stars. Their coldness inflamed his blood, and their fire froze him to his place. He could have become as deeply rooted as the trees, and he could have made his roots grow right through his living planet to come out the other side. To sprout from the earth to gaze at other stars in the black sky which went beyond the darkness of night.

“And I'd still be right here.”

“Yes,” said the stars. “Your wish fulfilled.”

And the elephant found himself as far as he had ever travelled.

And the elephant felt himself as familiar here as he was at home.

And the elephant giggled as the starlight tickled his trunk and cast its incandescent path along his tusks.

And the elephant saw one star and nineteen stars and forty-four stars and as many stars with as many zeros as any elephant who talks to any god can possibly see. And he saw them all separately and knew them all separately and yet understood it was all the same starlight which so filled his eyes with sparkle and colour and joy that he finally — finally — had to blink.

“Thank you,” said the elephant.

“No,” said the stars. “Thank you.”

The elephant was on his side in the river, where he had flopped without much ceremony beside the boulder.

He raised his left front and his left hind leg into the air and his trunk trailed in the current like an eel. He sloshed water over the exposed parts of his body with an erratic fortissimo.

“So.” The elephant gulped water. “Explain fish to me.”

“I beg your pardon,” the boulder sputtered, for it had been caught in the back spray.

“Fish,” said the elephant. “Marine animals; sub-aquatic creatures; denizens of the deep: puffers, scuppers, suckers, guppies, herring, flounder, anchovies —”

“An elephant,” interrupted God, “has many attributes. But very low on this mammoth list is the ability to be cute.” The boulder paused significantly. “So get to the point.”

“When you're ponderous, it's known as being profound,” pointed out the elephant.

“I'm the Creator, so I get to make the rules,” pointed out God. “So. What is it with the fish?”

“Well, they're so weird. They look strange, they're poor conversationalists, they breath in water, and they choke on air.” The elephant finally scrambled to his feet. “And they never stay still. It's always ‘moving with the current' or ‘moving against the current.' I mean no disrespect, and we're all God's creatures, but they're real losers.”

“I wonder,” asked the boulder, after a moment's thought, “if you've heard about the group of blind men asked to describe an elephant.”

“No,” said the elephant. “I haven't.”

“Each man touched a different part.”

As God began, he raised his voice for the benefit of the fish, who were ranged in concentric circles around the oblivious elephant. They were going to enjoy this.

The elephant was tugging down branches and stuffing leaves into his mouth.

It was a clear morning, yet the air promised not to get too hot during the day. He munched contentedly and thoughtfully looked around him to choose the trees he would try later. He felt that variety always enhanced his dining.

The other elephants were spaced among the trees, and although ever wary of the active jungle, they were more or less minding their own business as they ate.

The general chatter of the smaller animals came through the undergrowth while the antics of the frolicking monkeys filtered down from the upper branches. They were glad that the food was abundant, and they were thankful just to be left alone.

It was, therefore, with some consternation that they were shaken out of their reverie by agitated noises within their midst. Snorts and grumbling and then the abrupt snap of a branch made them flinch and look cautiously around.

They all, in almost one motion, turned in one direction. And none of them were surprised to see who was at the centre of the commotion.

The elephant stood with his trunk wrapped around a whole branch, which he had just ripped from the tree. He was holding it in front of his eyes and peering intently at the leaves.

He had been eating leaves as long as he could remember, yet the only thing he was certain about was their colour. But now, he realized that even this certainty wasn't accurate.

Yes, they were green. But there were shades of green, sheens of green, stains of green. The same leaf could have a different type of green on the surface and on the underside. And different leaves offered a variety of alterations to the same shape. The ridging, the veins, the serrated or smooth edges; the cuneate, the deltoid, the orbiculate, the palmate, and the numerous other forms. He had been stuffing them all into his mouth with little heed or care.

And as he looked along the branch itself — as he gripped it fiercely in his trunk and held it before his eyes — he saw an intricate network of independent parts existing because they were all connected.

The elephant stood in thought for a long time.

He occasionally maneuvered the branch into his mouth and munched on some of the leaves. But his mind,
although deeply absorbed in the leaves, was not upon his meal.

His recognition of what leaves really were had cleared three distinct paths in his mind, and he didn't know which to follow:

1. if he had been this unobservant about something so close to him, what else was he missing?

2. considering all that he must be missing, how could he be sure that even this new revelation was complete?

3. well … everything else led to his third question, and he was going to the top for the answer.

“The TOP!” he shouted, startling the other elephants again.

And he threw the branch violently onto the ground, startling them even more.

They moved cautiously in their places, so none would have their back to him, and kept their heads positioned in such a way that they could constantly watch him. His thoughts were annoying, and many of his actions had caused them aggravation, but far back in their collective minds was the fear that he might turn rogue.

The elephant, however, was paying little heed to the rest of the herd. He had made one of his instant decisions, and he was not going to delay. Even to finish his breakfast.

But, as he started walking away, he stepped on a branch. And as he looked down, he realized that he might
be making a hasty decision. A good meal could only help him in his quest, so he retrieved the branch and ate as he went.

He did not go gently as he tramped his way into the jungle.

He brushed roughly against the trees, scraping off some of their bark and bending some branches to near breaking. He flattened patches of grass into the dirt, which might have been the fate of many of the smaller animals if his progress was not so audibly foretold.

In his haste, he even missed a turn on the established path and grumbled with exaggerated annoyance when he butted his head.

And, when he finally finished stripping the leaves from the branch he was carrying, he tossed it high over his back to get rid of it.

He was surprised when he failed to hear it come down.

He stopped to take a look. He peered left and he peered right. And finally, he stared straight above his head.

The branch had become caught in a cloud.

“Rage, rage,” said the cloud.

“You're doing that on purpose.” The elephant was getting a crick in his neck. “You're vapour. The branch should have fallen.”

“And perhaps, fallen on you.” The cloud came closer to the elephant. “A form of justice, don't you think?”

The branch slid from the cloud and landed just in front of the elephant's trunk.

“I want to ask a question,” said the elephant.

“Will that stop you in your tracks and end your thundering disregard for my earthly domain?”

“Well … yeh.” The elephant sniffed at the branch. “Thanks for not dropping it on me.”

“Your God is a just God.” The cloud eased into a more comfortable position for the elephant. “But that justice is tempered with many other considerations. Now, what's your question?”

“Why is there life?”

“Life is a combination of self-awareness and the ability to make choices. In any given situation, when you —”

“Excuse me.” The elephant was again insistent. “I don't want to know what life is. I want to know why it exists.”

“That's really looking behind the mirror,” said God. “You're more fundamental than the Fundamentalists.”

“I understand some of what goes on because there is life, and that's difficult enough. But …” The elephant looked at the denuded branch near his feet. “How did you ever think of leaves? Why did you make them?”

“I can tell you the reason for leaves and explain fully what they do, and it would probably take until sunset.” The cloud sighed ever so slightly. “But I suppose that is not what you want.”

“A botany lesson?” asked the elephant. “No.”

“The spirit demands purpose,” said God. “Just having a state of being is not enough. Your lives and bodies are not a beginning — they are merely outer garments for your soul.”

“The soul is the beginning?”

“Yes.”

“Then where does the soul begin?”

“Your soul is part of me,” said God. “And it is given this individual life, and this intricately made world, so you can learn enough to understand the whole of me.”

“You can't just tell us?”

“Knowledge without understanding would be like a diet of sugar cane. Filling but not nourishing.”

“It seems a complicated way to go about things,” said the elephant, who was rather fond of sugar cane. “When all is said and done, you don't even need us.”

“You don't,” said God, “possess enough knowledge to make that assumption.”

The elephant stood in the special clearing.

He had travelled in the twilight hour of dawn and through to the sunrise. He had nibbled at some branches on his way and had drunk from the cold stream. He had allowed himself a lot of time for his journey, so he was neither hot nor out-of-sorts.

He looked around carefully — more carefully than he had ever done — and then began to forage with renewed conviction. He had come to ask a question which he hesitated to ask. He had finally decided that the way out of his dilemma was to ask whether or not he should ask.

“That is becoming very philosophical.”

A cloud drifted across the sky as the elephant grazed and settled near him.

“The question before the question is something like the eye of the storm.” God paused a moment to let the elephant chew. “You have the tendency to become quite the Aristotelian.”

“I don't really think about thinking about these
things.” The elephant took a final swallow. “The thoughts just seem to be there.”

“But you ponder them?”

“Well … yeh.”

“But not, considering your bulk, ponderously.”

“Well … no.”

“Then all's right with the world.” The cloud came even lower. “So. What's the question?”

“Well … I —”

“If it's easier,” said God, “then the question before the question.”

“Can I ask you anything?” asked the elephant.

“Is that the question?” asked God.

“No,” answered the elephant. “That's the question before the question.”

“You're questioning me about questions in general before you ask me the question in particular?”

“You're teasing me?” asked the elephant with a smile.

“Yes,” said God. “In answer to both your questions.”

“Yes,” said the elephant. “To answer your question.”

“Touché.” The cloud laughed then moved directly in front of the elephant. “Fire away, big fellow. What is it this time?”

“I've been wondering.” The elephant was disconcerted to have the cloud so close. “That is …” he wanted to look at the ground but refused to turn away. Instead, he took a big gulp of air and managed to ask in a low voice, “Are you ever lonely?”