Elephant Box

By Jo Saunders

ELEPHANT BOX a fantasy for teens and adults who are young at heart.

Elephant Box, a story which ranges across continents and time.

From Africa to India, to England and back to Africa, the box journeys through the centuries. Lovingly constructed around a small enchanted ivory carving, the box calls to men and to elephants, meeting many on the way.

Prophesy surrounds the box. Oaths sworn on it, take on great power. Voices of the prophesy come through in dreams and the lives of three families are affected for generations.

Sanjay Gopal is an Indian, descended from a Maharajah, who has fallen on bad times. Sanjay, guided by voices, locates the box in South Africa in 1904, and takes it back to India.

Umlindi Ndlovhu is a Zulu medicine man, whose ancestor was once a slave boy in India, who covets Sanjay’s box, believing it to be his inheritance.

Corporal Trotter was a drunken British soldier in India back in 1857 who commited an atrocity. This was witnessed by an Indian boy and his black slave, who both swear oaths of vengeance on the box - then Trotter steals the box.

Sam Norton is a boy who has visions and hears voices. He is the destined bearer of the box, but has much to experience before he obtains it. He is adopted by Evan Raft, who is Trotter’s descendant and who has been a guardian of the box. We follow Sam’s life, as he works his way towards the box, through school, and travels, prison for murder and to his ultimate destiny with elephants.

Sam has vivid dreams, often recurring. He dreams of Evan’s murder ...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jo Saunders
• Release date: Dec 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781909133846

Book preview

Elephant Box

A Novel

by

Jo Saunders

© 2015

Published by Ex-L-Ence Publishing at Smashwords.

Elephant Box is a work of fiction and any resemblance between the characters and persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The right of Jo Saunders to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988

Cover artwork © 2015 Daryl Nero.

Contents

Acknowledgements

Prologue

1 - 1981. Sam is 10, Evan is 35.

2 - Evan

3 - Sanjay and the box, Natal 1904

4 - Umlindi and Thabo, Sanjay gets to India

5 - Jabu and Sanjay

6 - Sam’s schooldays and his dreams

7 - Vusi, and Umlinditu

8 - Sam at university, Evan and karma

9 - Sam leaves. Vusi is quizzed by his uncle

10 - Sam goes to India

11 - Sanjaytri

12 - From India to South Africa

13 - Sam’s adventures in South Africa

14 - Sam returns to face the music

15 - Prison, a letter and a dream

16 - Prophesy, release and moving on

17 - The Box, a wedding and a new beginning

18 - Strands come together

Epilogue

And Now

Acknowledgements

First I’d like to thank my husband, Peter Calder-Potts for supporting me and putting up with all my nonsense while I was writing this book, and to my dog MeeWee for lying beside me and pestering me to take regular breaks with her.

Thanks to Paul Tingay for all the coffee chats on literary matters. On the book front, my thanks to Mike Nicol and Claire Strombeck for their expertise and encouragement during and after the 2012 Writing Course I did with them when this book first took form. Then thanks to the writing group who encouraged me in the early days, especially Judith Thomas (RIP) for her unstinting and in-depth criticism, but also Marcio and Nikki for making me feel readable. More recently, thanks to my readers, especially Diana Jeater, Ann Gawthorpe, Megan Robertson, Coen van Wyk, Dennis Boddy and George Calder-Potts. And others – if I have forgotten to include you – your input was valued.

Special thanks to Daryl Nero for making time to do the book cover (I treasure all the drafts). Thanks to Bob Cubitt who did an exacting first edit, and finally a big thank you to my publisher, Robert Agar-Hutton for his energetic, multi-talented support and patience.

Prologue

1217, Southern Africa

The sliver of ivory slowly took shape under the patient hand of the artist, working with flint-stone. Four stumpy legs, ears and a trunk, all off a squat body. Satisfied, the artist held the carved shape to the baby African elephant which trembled beside him. The little trunk came forward and nuzzled the piece. For a long time they stayed like that, the naked man holding his artefact and the small pachyderm feeling it, sensing it, remembering … and breathing into it all the anguish of an orphan who has lost his mother to the greed of man. His mother had been killed for her ivory. But he was being nurtured by this man. A paradox. Not that the baby elephant was concerned with paradoxes. He hurt and he wanted to feel better. Somehow this little figure, carved by his friend, the man, from the remnant of his mother’s tusk, helped.

The man, too, felt anguish. The mother elephant had adopted him when he was an abandoned child, and had protected him until he found his own kind. They had remained friends, checking on each other, and he had been present when the little one was born. He had never known such feelings, the anger and bewilderment caused by the she-elephant’s murder. He had poured his heart into the small carving. With a hand on the head of the baby elephant he held the amulet up and said,

May the Gods hear our cry, may the bearer of this charm bring a haven to elephants and orphans, and closure to this agony. May the circle of man helping elephant, elephant helping man, be complete.

At that moment the clouds covered the sun, and a fresh wind came up. The autumn leaves were blown up into a spiral, and for a moment the two thought they saw a figure, with a long neck, and a light for its head, but with human arms, nodding. Unkulunkulu! We have been heard, said the naked man, in awe. The wind dropped, and the cloud passed. All was much as before, a sad man and a grieving baby elephant, now somehow comforted.

The little flat carving survived many centuries after the man and the elephant had died. It was found by an Indian trader who took it back across the Indian Ocean to his home. As a gift to his wife he had a box carved out of ebony, and the small elephant was inlaid into the lid of the box. The box was several months in the making and greatly prized by his wife. Although the carving was ugly and not comparable to local work, the box had a sense of mystery, some said magic. All to do with elephants. It was noted that working elephants would stop and raise their trunks as they passed the artisan’s workplace and that injury befell any mahout who was unkind to his beast.

The box was handed down mother to daughter.

But one year the daughter, although she loved the box, was compelled to make a change. She wasn’t sure why she felt so strongly, and to cover her disquiet she made a sudden decision; the elephant was too ugly to look at, she said, and the dark ebony was too depressing. She wanted a bright colour, especially as she was getting married soon, to a Nawab. The Nawab of Sanjanipur. But she liked the box, and felt a fierce sense of ownership. So her adoring fiancé went to the best leather worker in the land and had the box covered in fine red reindeer hide. The daughter was pleased, but still not satisfied. Now she missed seeing the ugly little elephant. So again, after the wedding, the husband went to the leather worker and explained the problem. Thus it was that the leather worker and his brother, who painted Indian scrolls, worked together to decorate the box. The result was the procession of small elephants around the sides of the box, trunk to tail. Each elephant was different, each portrayed one elephant in the Nawab’s herd. The drawings were done by heating a pointed twig, and searing the leather. The skill is known today as pyrography.

Now the Box was worthy of the daughter’s love. But it was as though by having the base Box covered, the destiny of the family, and the Box, was altered. The British had arrived in India. Corporal Trotter came with them, seeking his fortune.

1 - 1981. Sam is 10, Evan is 35

i

A boy crept along the city street, from doorway to dusty doorway, avoiding notice. Looking for something, somebody. He closed his eyes tight, clutched at the pendant on his chest, and wished. He imagined the doorway, and saw himself stepping through it. He opened his eyes, deep blue in colour. Was it a little brighter? And there, he saw the man. His mark. For a while he stood still and watched.

The boy saw that the man was sitting at a bus stop. Other people came and went, but he sat on. The dejection that emanated from him was totally at odds with his classy shoes and overcoat, his maroon foulard carelessly slung around his neck. These surely belonged with a chauffeur driven limousine rather than on a No.3 bus. But the red No.3 came; he did not even raise his head, despite the driver peering at him and waiting. It went on without him, leaving a waft of diesel fumes in its wake.

The boy, whose name was Sam, dressed in too big trousers and a scruffy anorak, walked up and sat beside him. The man did not seem to notice. The child sidled up, closer and closer. He seemed to snuggle into the man’s warm coat. He liked the feel of the fabric, woolen, soft to the touch. To be sure his little hand was busy, seeking a pocket, an opening. But the man’s hands were deep in the pockets, burrowed for warmth, and the coat’s cut made for a generous cross-over, so any valuables within were secure against such invasion.

At last the man seemed to wake up, presumably because of the child’s wriggling, or perhaps the boy had grabbed at his scarf.

He blinked at the urchin. The urchin grinned back. Hiya Mister! Nice coat. Very warm, innit?

Go on with you, boy. Beat it.

Aw, mister, don’t be like that. You and me both, sitting on a bench in the cold. We gotta lot in common.

A glimmer of curiosity entered the man’s eyes, green, set deep in a long face. The child noticed a scar, high on the temple, and the straight ginger hair in a fashionable cut. So different from his own dark curls and long lashes.

Can’t you feel it? said Sam. Just us, in a bubble. The rest of ‘em’s out there. He waved his hand around him.

The man followed Sam’s hand, and looked around, seemed to catch himself being tricked, and smiled. Where are you from, kid? What brings you to this bench? Other than wanting to nick something? The boy liked his voice, husky and gentle. He smelled nice, too; a hint of cologne. But he wasn’t the sort to like hurting children. Sam had encountered those in his childhood borough, and since, but when one had come to talk sweet words Sam’s amulet became an ice shard piercing his chest and he had to run.

Oh, I live in the castle at the top of the ‘ill. My dad’s the duke and my mum’s the charlady. I’m here to beg a few quid so we can pay the taxes, like.

The boy smiled up at the man. He liked what he saw. This man was more than a mere mark. But he’d been told a mark is a mark, don’t get involved. The boy was confused. There was something … right … about the man. His hand crept under his anorak and he clutched at the tiny silver elephant lying against his breastbone. It felt warm, and comforting; it liked what he was doing. He snuggled in closer to his large warm companion.

They sat in a companionable silence, the boy now still, his almost clean hands resting on his knees.

Would you like some breakfast? asked the man. At the mention of food the child’s stomach growled.

At a café? The man nodded. Would I just! I haven’t had a good feed for ... The crack in the child’s voice belied his jauntiness.

So the unlikely pair left the bus stop and ambled along the road, past the junk shops and ironmongers, coming at last to a café. They went in and found a table. The plastic menu had pictures of the available dishes. The child went for the special, a fried dish with sausage, bacon, eggs, tomato, mushrooms and French toast. The man ordered a filter coffee, and a glass of milk for the boy.

The food came quickly and the boy wasted no time. He could use his knife and fork, if clumsily, and he gobbled great mouthfuls. He ate in silence, at first with intensity, and later with enjoyment. When he was done he gazed at the man, his expression expectant, hopeful.

Well, said the man, are you going to tell me where you live?

Why can’t we go and do things together? A movie, or a museum? Why is he asking stupid questions?

Oh, not far, said the boy, standing, a closed look creeping across his features. Thanks for the grub, mister. Sam’s hand crept to his amulet; he blinked, crossing his threshold back into the real world, and he was off. Like a lizard, dodging between the legs of the incoming customers. Gone.

ii

A few days later the man went to the same bench, and sat down to wait, looking about him, seeking the boy. The buses came and went. What on earth did I expect? A good contract will go to the opposition because of this, just as I’m getting back on my business feet … why am I here, what is the attraction? He’s nothing but a thieving street-kid … but he’s been in my mind since last time, and today it was especially strong. I seem to have been called here, compelled… I feel I know him, that I should help … I am here despite what I think, against my better judgement … blast it all … I’ll wait a bit longer … really want to see the child again …

After about twenty minutes, he shrugged and got up to go. Out of nowhere came the child, smiling up at him. The boy was about ten, and the man again noticed the deep blue, almost violet eyes, surrounded by long lashes. He looked dirtier than before, and he smelled unwashed. But the man was happy to see him. Enchanting young pup, I feel happy with him. Wonder why I like him so much? Never felt like this over a kid before. Does he remind me of somebody?

Burger? asked the man.

The boy beamed and nodded, and they walked to the same café. This time the boy excused himself before the food came, and went to the gents. When he came back the man was pleased to note that he looked cleaner, water still glistened on his forehead. Odd, why was the kid washing here?

All spruced up, then? In answer the boy nodded and tucked into his feast. Half way through, he said he was hot and he took off his anorak. The man noticed a thong around his neck and caught the flash of a silver pendant beneath the lad’s shirt, but it disappeared when the boy resumed his eating. With a flash of intuition the man knew … that necklace was a clue … but a clue to what?

What’s your name? The boy was silent. Come on, kid, I have to call you something?

Sam.

There was no more talk. This time they left the café together. Not so cocky this time, the kid seems warier.

Show me where you live, said the man.

The boy obligingly led him round a few corners, into a road of council houses, and pointed to a downstairs flat with dowdy curtains.

You going to invite me in?

Gawd no, me Mum’d kill me.

OK then, meet me at the bus stop same time Tuesday?

Ooh yes, sure thing, said the boy, who ran off happily.

The man was busy at work. He supplied imported goods to market traders, Petticoat Lane, Notting Hill, Brixton Market, and the week-end was his busy time. He had a lot of ground to cover but despite that he found himself thinking a lot about Sam and wanting to know more about him. He had never been interested in children before. Friends had married, and had families, and he was godfather to several, he liked them a lot, but this boy was different. It was as though … as if it was arranged. Perhaps it was … destiny? That was it, destiny. As the thought gelled in his mind he seemed to hear a sigh of approval. Also into his mind came the image of a red Box. The silver pendant on his chest glowed warm. He hadn’t notice that particular sensation for years … his hand went to his neck, and he felt the small amulet, before self-consciously gathering himself and getting back to the business of driving a van through the streets of London. Tuesday would come soon enough.

But when the man returned to the bus stop on Tuesday, Sam wasn’t there. He waited for a long time. Strange, I was sure he’d come. I’ll wait a bit longer ... what if something’s wrong? Why do I care? I get this feeling of panic, what if he’s hurt?

He stood, undecided. There were other things he should be doing, people to see. The red elephant Box leapt into his mind. There had been a robbery last night. The Box was stolen. Nothing else was touched. He had to know about Sam. Suddenly he had a hunch that they were linked, the Box and the boy. There seemed to be a murmur of approving voices in his head, again. Odd. Watch yourself, Evan Raft … taking strange notions now. Not your cool headed merchant trader now, are you? But … His memory dived back into the past, to India, when he first got the Box that had been stolen. This was all deep, and very strange. He felt a tingling in the amulet at his throat, and again seemed to sense an energy of encouragement.

With an air of determination he walked round the corner to the council flat and knocked on the door. An elderly woman, wearing slippers, answered. Sam? No, she didn’t know a boy called Sam. There were no kids of that description in any houses nearby … she kept an eye on comings and goings, she did.

Worried, the man walked further afield. He asked a few loiterers, had they noticed any vagrants? Maybe. Try the tube stations, they replied, or Waterloo bridge. So the man let his feet take him. He walked and walked, asking questions as he went, his accent slipping easily into the vernacular. He went into hitherto unknown territory, where the traditional old London vied with the flashy new business premises under the railway arches. At last he came to a vacant lot where some men were warming themselves, inside and out, beside an open fire. Paper bags and bottles were strewn around. They eyed him warily … it seemed that his sort seldom visited.

After a muttered conversation and the transfer of several notes, one of the tramps reluctantly led him to a corner where old hoardings were piled. In a makeshift cave lined with cardboard Boxes he found Sam, feverish and bleeding, curled up in a crate and hugging an old blanket. Thank God I found him, not before time, seems he’s in a bad way, thank God I came to look for him ... Evan Raft, hark at you ... you don’t believe in God!

Hey kid, bloke says he’s a friend. That right? asked the vagrant.

Sam looked up, shivering, seeing them through tearful eyes. At first he looked afraid, then he nodded.

Hello Sam, you don’t look well. I think you’d better come with me. Would you like to?

Don’t have to if you don’t wanna, said the tramp.

Oh God, what’ll I do if the kid refuses? Why do I care? I’ve gone all soft.

I think you are sick, said the man. You need a doctor.

No, they’ll call the welfare, said Sam. I don’t want that social worker.

All right, no social workers. You just come with me, and when you get better we’ll decide what to do. Are you hungry?

Sam whimpered.

We bin feeding ‘im, said the tramp, ain’t that so, Sammy boy?

Sam smiled at him and nodded. You did. Thanks, Wally.

And we saw he didn’t get no more rough treatment. We chased them yobbos off. Them what did this to ‘im.

Sam nodded, tears in his eyes. He moved across to stand by his new friend.

After giving the tramp another tenner, the man took Sam’s arm and the two left together, the boy supported by the man.

Come back and say hi, Sam, the tramp sounded sad.

Sam waved.

They hailed the first taxi that came along and drove away.

Thank God I found him. But how on earth did I find him?

He put his coat around the boy who shivered against him.

Destiny. Again he seemed to sense the murmur of affirmation. So I was guided. This is as it should be.

iii

Later, Sam would remember events in patches. He sat in the warm cab, sometimes with the man, sometimes alone. He remembered the meter ticking, and the diesel engine throbbing. Music from Terry Wogan, who his dad hated, on radio two. He had never been in a cab before. Parcels piled up beside him and at his feet. Ultimately the taxi stopped outside a town house, red bricked, with white window frames. Sam noticed several rows of windows, and the stairs up to the front door, and was vaguely aware of a park across the road. He was bundled up the stairs.

It all seemed so unreal, dream-like in its strangeness. There was a big bosomed woman there; the man called her Mrs Simson. Mrs Simson had short grey hair and was very strong. She took him upstairs to the bathroom. She ran a tub of hot sudsy water, and made him strip off his clothes, which he never saw again. She overrode his protests and he was too weak to complain. But when she tried to remove the thong from his neck he resisted wildly, and cried, so she allowed him to win that point. He remembered her towering over him as she sponged him, saying, There, there, poor old thing. What have you been getting yourself into, then?

The blood came off his cuts, which stung a bit. But he would always remember the wonderful feeling of that first hot bath, how the warmth took him over and made his whole body relax … and the slightly astringent smell of the soap, and the weaker smell of Dettol. She washed his hair, very gently, making sure the soap didn’t sting his eyes. Then he remembered being wrapped in the huge white towel, warm from the radiator, with a smaller one being used to rub his wet head, and Mrs Simson saying, There, now, that feels better, doesn’t it? Then into some fluffy pyjamas, and under a duvet on a big soft bed. The feeling of absolute safety. Of belonging. He wanted to sleep, but she made him drink some warm soup, Something for the inner man, and a Disprin for the aches and pains, and he drowsily complied. He remembered the man smiling from the doorway, then ... nothing.

The other thing he remembered was the dream, the first of his many visions.

In his dream he came into a room with sun pouring in through open double doors. The room was familiar, and he saw the slanted afternoon light on the coffee table, but the Box on the table was new and strange, did not belong there; his eyes were drawn to the Box, which was of red leather, with dark elephants moving round the sides, trunk to tail, and on the Box lid another elephant, with an enclosed seat on its back, in which sat four people; another man sat on the elephant’s neck. He looked at the Box for a long time, it drew him; as he looked he experienced some strange feelings, and thought he heard a voice, maybe two voices, talking, telling him, about the Box. But after a while his attention wavered. His eyes moved around and he saw, sprawled across the hearthrug in an unlikely posture with blood on his temple and dead eyes staring, his friend, the man. Sam woke, screaming.

Soon the man was with him, comforting him. Sam knew he couldn’t tell him his dream, but was very pleased to see his friend, very much alive, whose hand he gripped tightly. The man looked at his neck, it seemed with recognition, and reached out to touch the still wet thong from which hung an exquisite little silver elephant, visible now above the V of the pyjama top. The boy warded him off, clutching the elephant in a hot fist, and the man respected this. They sat holding hands until Mrs Simson appeared. She brought him some hot chocolate, sang to him and waited for him to go back to sleep.

The next few days passed in a haze. Sam lay sick in bed, sleeping, having fever dreams. Often there were elephants. For a child who had never been to a zoo these images were scary and he would shout out and Mrs Simson, or the man would come to him.

Sometimes in his dream there would be several elephants ambling along a dusty road, or he would see them taking a mud bath; he laughed when they sprayed water at each other. At other times he saw different elephants, smaller, each with a man on its neck, which a voice told him was a mahout. These elephants were carrying great tree trunks, freshly sawn. They were working in the jungle. All the while the voices spoke to him, sometimes just one, sometimes both together. Each voice had a different accent and it took him a while to distinguish words and meaning, but gradually he learned to understand both voices. After a while he got used to the elephants, too, and their strange noises; they no longer scared him. Indeed, he even started to like them.

He started to explore the house. Built on four levels there were plenty of corners for the young boy to find. He was encouraged to roam around; the only locked door was one on the top level.

His room was the first floor. His sash window overlooked the small, neat garden, and over the rickety fence he could see the backs of the tenement houses in the next road. He would sit there watching the birds which came to devour the leftovers whenever Mrs Simson filled the tray above the bird bath. Thrushes and blackbirds flocked in to dine and the sparrows waited their moment. Sometimes a greedy gull would pop in for tea, but gulls had better pickings elsewhere. Mrs Simson told him the names of the birds she knew.

He started his exploration by going into the room next door. This was where the man slept. He had a big four-poster bed, and oriental rugs on the floor. His big windows overlooked the triangular green across the road. The room was sunny, and sometimes Sam would sit on the armchair in the afternoon sunshine, and watch the small children playing on the green, under the watchful eyes of their mothers or guardians.

The next day he climbed. Sure enough there was a locked door at the top of the stairs. But the other door was open, and here he found the cozy pink abode of Mrs Simson. She had a single bed, and a table with a TV, and a comfy chair. There were a few photographs of people, of families, and some pictures of mallards. Her room also looked over the park, and later he would come here in the afternoon to watch children’s’ programs.

Sam quickly found the kitchen and the pantry on the raised ground floor. This was the domain of Mrs Simson,