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  The path twisted and turned like an agitated snake, skirting rocks, fallen trees and thorn scrub. After following it round in a semicircle, I saw what looked like ruins among the trees away to my right. This was a bigger surprise to me than the path had been. Ruins, here in this matted jungle? I had visited many of the Sri Lankan ruins, the so-called buried cities which had been painstakingly dug out of the jungle over many years, but I had not heard of any ruins in this particular part of the island.

  I left the path and pushed my way through the bushes. There was little to be seen: some fallen columns carved with entwined figures, a stone pavement split by the roots of the trees, the remains of walls and a kind of bath, cracked and empty, carved out of a single large rock. The only thing that was more or less intact was a statue of Ganesha, the elephant headed Hindu God. It had the multiplicity of arms common to many Hindu gods, eight in this case. The top right hand held a string of beads, the second right hand a battle axe, the third hand offered protection and the fourth held one of the god's tusks. The top left arm had been broken off, the second left hand held a flower, the third a dish of sweetmeats and the fourth a snake.

  I was studying the carving when I became aware that someone was watching me. I turned to see an old man leaning on a forked stick. He was very dark of skin, almost black, and wore only a dingy white loincloth. His face was as wrinkled as a dried walnut and his scant hair was done up in a small tight bun at the back of his head. He salaamed me gravely, his eyes searching mine. He was a Dravidian, a Tamil from South India. He addressed me in his native tongue, bidding me welcome. On my asking his name he told me it was Karrupan, meaning the Black One, adding that he was the guardian of Ganesha's statue.

  In the trees beyond the ruins I could see a small timber and thatch house. This was where he lived Karrupan said. He had been a small holder on the fringe of the forest. When his wife had died five years ago, he had abandoned his piece of land and had wandered aimlessly in the jungle for some weeks before finding the ruins and the statue of Ganesha. Being a devotee of the elephant-headed God, he had decided to stay as guardian of the statue. There had been a village here a long time ago, he added, but the plague had come, wiping out the entire population. Abandoned and shunned by everyone the wooden and thatch houses, chewed to dust by termites, had collapsed. The jungle had moved in, felling Ganesha's little temple, leaving only the statue of the God intact except for the broken top left arm.

  I asked Karrupan how he fared, what did he live on? He trapped pigeons and jungle fowl, he said, and there was an abandoned reservoir nearby which had supplied water to the village and which was the haunt of widgeon and teal and there were fish in it.

  And I watch the monkeys,' he added. 'What a monkey eats a man can eat.'

  This may be true, but I would not care to eat some of the things I had seen monkeys eat, such as raw, live frogs.

  'Does anyone ever come here?' I asked.

  'No,' he replied. 'No one comes. They are afraid, They say the spirits of the dead are still here.'

  'Then why don't you leave? There is nothing here for you. All gods are just figments of the imagination, invented by man so that he could have something or someone to blame if things went wrong.'

  He would not accept this.

  'He is here,' he said, putting one hand on the statue's trunk. 'If I look after him, he will look after me.'

  'But it is a fever spot,' I protested. 'Mosquitoes will be breeding by the millions in that old reservoir.'

  He swung his arm to point to a group of lime trees on the fringe of the ruins.

  'If you eat plenty of limes,' he said, 'you will not get fever. Mosquitoes do not like the lime juice in your blood.'

  It was the first time I had heard this, but it could have been true. He showed no signs of being a malaria victim.

  He invited me into his house for a meal. The meal was excellent - cotton teal roasted on a spit over an open fire, garnished with some edible roots. Though these looked rather revolting when cooked they tasted delicious. I complimented him on his cooking which seemed to please him. When we had finished eating, he asked why I was walking alone in the jungle.

  'With no tracker. No shikari. It is not safe to walk in the jungle alone. There are many dangers.'

  I explained that I had only started out for a short walk and had lost my way.

  'But what about you?' I went on. 'You live on your own here. You walk alone in the jungle.'

  'No, not alone,' he replied. 'I walk with Pellam Nai.' He pointed to a dark corner of the room and made a clicking sound with his tongue. A large dog rose out of the gloom and came towards him. Nearly as big as a mastiff, it had a rough coat and a tail like a long bottle brush. Its paws were huge and its eyes glowed menacingly in the firelight. It was well named Pellam Nai. . . a strong dog. Karrupan put his arm round the animal's neck.

  'He will not hurt you,' he said, noticing my apprehension. 'His only enemies are the leopards and the jackals. When we walk in the jungle together, other creatures creep away into the undergrowth.'

  'But what about snakes?' I asked.

  Karrupan grinned.

  'He can kill a cobra with one bite behind the head. He is as quick and brave as a mongoose.'

  The dog came towards me and put his head on my knee. Tentatively, I put out my hand and stroked him and he thrashed the floor with his bottle brush tail.

  'He has accepted you,' Karrupan said with evident pleasure. 'He will be your friend too now.'

  I tried to find out more about this strange man and his self-imposed exile in this inhospitable place, but he would say little beyond what he had already told me. I thought of the early Christian hermits who had led just such lonely lives. He was as dedicated to his God as they had been to theirs. I glanced out of the door at the elephant headed monster on its pedestal. The third right hand offered protection. Karrupan had said the god would look after him. Knowing something of this particular Hindu deity who was worshipped as the God of wisdom, good luck, prudence and the remover of dangers, I concluded that Karrupan considered he was on to a good thing.

  I went outside to inspect the ruins, though there was little that remained standing; the invading jungle had done its work well. It had been a small temple dedicated to Ganesha alone. I was joined by Karrupan and Pellam Nai. The dog sniffed among the fallen pillars and uprooted flag stones, but failed to find anything that interested him. There was little of interest to me either apart from the carvings on the pillars and the statue of Ganesha.

  I remembered the story of how Ganesha had got his elephant's head. His mother, the Goddess Parvati, had gone swimming in the river and he had joined her in order to protect her from possible attack by bandits. His father, the God Shiva, riding by on his elephant, saw the pair frolicking in the water and, thinking evil, flew into a rage, drew his sword and smote off his son's head, which was carried away by the river. When he learned how innocent his son had been, Shiva was stricken with remorse, drew his sword again, decapitated his elephant and planted the severed head on Ganesha's shoulders, restoring him to grotesque life.

  Telling Karrupan about my camp, I suggested he come back with me. I would give him a thing or two that would be of use to him, such as an axe or a hunting knife.

  'How far is it?' he asked.

  I gave him a rough estimate, about three miles.

  'It is too far,' he said. 'I shall be outside Ganesha's protection.'

  'You will be quite safe with me,' I said, 'and you will have Pellam Nai too. No harm will come to you.' I took him by the arm. 'Come, we will go now.'

  Reluctantly, he agreed to go with me and we set off, following the trail I had hacked through the jungle. Back tracking the path, I found the place where I had gone astray. It was only a few hundred yards from my camp in the old chena where my shikari, Nayagam, would be waiting.

  Coming out on to the game path I had followed originally, we saw a large buffalo bull standing in the shade of a spreading-tree. Pellam Nai, who had been follo
wing at Karrupan's heels, suddenly took off and charged the buffalo, baying at the top of his voice. Alarmed by this unusual behaviour on the animal's part, Karrupan shouted at him to come back. The dog took no notice. It leapt, snarling, at the buffalo bull. The bull lowered its head and sent Pellam Nai flying with a sweep of its horns. Karrupan, brandishing his forked stick, stumbled in to save his dog. He failed to avoid the viciously swinging head. The point of one of the buffalo's great curving horns pierced his side just below the rib cage, thrusting upwards.

  Appalled by what I saw and remembering that I had told Karrupan that no harm would come to him, I snatched up a stout fallen branch and rushed at the buffalo, yelling like a madman. A hefty blow to the side of its head sent the beast staggering back to turn and crash off, bellowing its rage, through the undergrowth. But the damage had been done. Karrupan lay crumpled and gasping, blood flowing from the wound in his side. I cupped my hands round my mouth and yelled for Nayagam, hoping he would hear me. I did what I could for Karrupan, but realised there was little or no chance of saving his life. By the time Nayagam came dashing breathlessly, the old man was dead.

  'We must bury him here,' Nayagam said. 'The ground is soft. It will not be difficult.'

  I shook my head.

  'No. We will take him back to his house among the ruins of the old temple.'

  Together Nayagam and I cut bamboos and made a rough stretcher. With Pellam Nai following at our heels, we carried the dead man back to his house by the temple ruins. It was a hard, exhausting journey with no protection against the swarming leeches. We laid him inside the little house and I filled the interior with dry brushwood and set it alight. Karrupan would be cremated in the traditional Hindu manner, which I knew he would have wished.

  'What do we do with the dog?' Nayagam asked when the fire had finally reduced everything to a heap of smoldering ashes. 'Turn him loose in the forest?'

  'No,' I said. 'He is not a young dog. He wouldn't survive a week in the jungle on his own. I will keep him.'

  I knew Karrupan would have wished this too. I cut a length of tough creeper for a lead and took the dog back to my camp.

  He stayed with me on my plantation in the hills, guarding me as he had guarded Karrupan, until he died a few months later, old age having caught up with him. With Nayagam's help I made the long difficult trek back to the ruined temple and buried Pellam Nai at the foot of the statue of Ganesha. Two guardians for the spirit of Karrupan, the Black One.

  Kafa, the Furious One

  Peggy Albrecht

  'When you go after a rogue elephant, it is either kill or be killed.'

  IN MY COLLECTION OF IVORY ELEPHANTS, THERE IS AN UNUSUALLY beautiful one from West Africa. I call it Kafa. Delicately carved, highly polished, it stands on my desk, a paperweight too lovely to be placed on paper. Yet, this replica carved from the tusk of a rogue elephant is a constant reminder of a great tragedy.

  As always, a feeling of thankfulness mingled with sorrow haunts me as I watch light and shadow dancing on the polished ivory. I'm thankful the gigantic Kafa, in whose image my miniature is carved, will suffer no more; thankful his raging is past, not future. Yet, sorrow overwhelms me for I cannot forget that one hour of terrible agony.

  The nightmare began on a beautiful spring evening in 1975. A new moon hovered overhead and insects serenaded the peaceful village.

  Inside the mission house, my husband, nursing a broken leg, was on the cot in the living room. I sat at the kitchen table helping our houseboy, Toma, with his English. He, in turn, was helping me polish my Mende.

  Suddenly, our language studies were interrupted by a thump-thump and a deafening bellow behind the house. It sounded as though an angry monster had parachuted into our garden.

  Toma rushed to investigate. He returned seconds later. His dark skin glistened with perspiration. His eyes bulged. He opened his mouth to speak but only a whispery gasp passed his lips. Finally, he was able to say, 'It is Kafa, the furious one. He is trampling cassava and uprooting banana trees.' Breathless from this speech, Toma turned and sped towards the village path.

  'I must report,' he called over his shoulder. 'Kafa has the smell of palm wine.'

  Fondness for the local palm wine had made the dusty white elephant notorious. Because he was the only albino of his kind in the country, he was easily recognised and his drunken antics were always laid to his account.

  He had been in the area for over a year. It was thought that he had been attracted by a spectacular bush fire. He stayed on, evidently to enjoy the abundance of wine made by local tribesmen.

  At first, he was harmless, an inquisitive, ravenously hungry clown. We enjoyed his escapades.

  He consumed bushels of leaves, twigs, bark and coconuts along with gallons of liquid. His ever-sniffing snout not only led him to food and water, but to every well hidden wine barrel.

  Once he had drained a barrel, he bellowed, rocked and rolled in drunken good humour. The rumblings of his stomach, the thump of his feet, and the slap-slap of his ears echoed far and wide. Yet, when he wished, he could move through the dense bush as quietly as a mouse.

  The villagers were terrified by the silent movements as well as the uproarious rioting of this great white beast. Fearful and angry, they sent native hunters after him.

  The pain inflicted by these hunters, whose guns were not powerful enough to kill, made him a rogue. Within a week he had tracked down two of his tormentors. He stamped them to a pulp, gaining for himself the name Kafa, the furious one.

  From then on even the gardens he raided were completely destroyed - trampled in rage. The already short food supply was dwindling. Something had to be done.

  We bought a 470 double barreled elephant rifle from a friend who was returning to the States. But by the time we secured a permit, Kafa had mysteriously moved on.

  Now, he was back. We could hear the rumblings of his stomach above the thrashing of his feet as he moved into our neighbour's cassava patch.

  Just as the sharp crackling of branches told us the old bull was destroying the neighbour's coffee tree, Toma returned. His hunter friend, Munda, muzzleloader in hand, was with him.

  'Pa,' Toma said addressing my husband, 'Munda and I must kill Kafa.' He flicked his pink tongue across his lips.

  'Tonight?'

  'No, Pa, when the sky begins to gray.'

  'You can't go after him with one muzzleloader. That would be suicide.'

  'For true, Pa. Therefore, we are begging for your gun. Your big gun.'

  'Toma. . .'

  'I am able. You can remember I killed the crocodile with that gun.'

  'Yes, but this is different. When you go after an elephant, it is either kill or be killed.'

  'Pa, I know. I must hit him half-way between the eye and the ear.'

  'Or on the forehead at the base of the trunk.'

  'For true. I can aim for the bump if I meet him face to face.'

  As they were talking, I felt my stomach tighten. I could not stand the thought of Toma facing this pain and wine crazed bull. Toma was young and tender-hearted. He loved all living creatures except snakes and crocodiles. He had no desire to be a hunter.

  'Will you be able to shoot Kafa?' I asked. 'You say you pity the poor old creature.'

  'I do, Mama. The hunters' bullets made him a rogue. It is not his fault. But he must die, because by now he is a dangerous adversary.'

  Aren't you afraid, Toma?'

  'For the sake of fear my stomach is cold. But only Pa and I can use the big gun.' He shrugged his shoulders. 'My leg is not broken.'

  The next morning, we were awakened before dawn by a tapping on our window. We heard Toma's tremulous voice saying, 'We go now.' With that they slipped away. By the time we reached the door, they were gone.

  A dreadful hush hovered over the village all day. Only a few brave women went to the river to bathe and get water. None of the children went to the bush for firewood. The marketplace and the school remained empty. Most of the people sat in and around th
e barrier, speaking in hushed tones.

  Then at 4:00 p. m. the stillness was shattered by a deafening scream and a furious thrashing in the bush. Moments later, a terrified Munda followed by Toma burst through the kitchen door.

  'We done shoot 'em,' Munda gasped.

  'He cannot agree to die,' Toma's breathless words were barely audible. His shoulders heaved. All at once his cheeks were wet with tears. He turned away to hide them.

  'Where did you hit him?' my husband asked.

  'We aim for the soft spot between his eye and. . .' Toma's voice broke. Munda continued the story.

  'Then, Kafa moves like so,' he said demonstrating with a lift and turn of his head. Patting a spot to the left of his nose, he added, 'The shot striked here.'

  'Near the base of the tusk?'

  'For true, Pa.'

  We groaned. There was no doubt in our minds the tormented tusker would soon come raging through the village that held the hunter's scent. Instead his terrified trumpeting and screaming subsided in the distance.

  Within minutes, a noisy crowd of machete clutching villagers gathered in our compound. One man had a gun, fashioned from the steering column of an old jeep.

  'They think the furious one is ready for death because he is now silent,' Toma said. 'They are calling for Munda and me to accompany them.' He started for the door. Clutching his stomach, he gagged as though about to vomit.

  'His silence doesn't necessarily mean he is ready to die,' I warned. 'It may be a trick. You hit him in a nerve centre. He is more dangerous than ever.'

  'You talk true, Mama,' Toma said turning his distressed face towards us. 'He is too clever. All day we track him. When we find his dung is not plenty warm, we think he is far ahead. Not so. He loops around to stand behind us. The poor creature has great pain, but he cannot forget his tricks.'