Brass bells jingled beneath Plai Saen’s neck before dawn had even broken. Their sound drifted through the thin mist above the logging camp, mingling with the chopping of firewood, the bubbling of rice pots, and the low groans of the other elephants in their stalls, as though the entire camp were waking at once.
Kham opened his eyes on the bamboo platform beside the mahouts’ stall. The smell of damp earth and fresh grass filled his nose. He lay still for a moment, listening to Plai Saen’s deep, steady breathing, then grabbed his mo hom shirt, pulled it on, and got to his feet.
“Up already, new mahout?”
An old man’s voice came from the other side of the stall. His name was Old Chan, a senior mahout who had cared for elephants for more than thirty years. Deep wrinkles, carved by the sun and the forest wind, lined his face. He held a bamboo stick in one hand and a mineral-salt block for elephants in the other.
Kham nodded.
“How much grass has Plai Saen eaten?”
Old Chan raised an eyebrow. “You just got here, and you’re already asking about elephant shit?”
“He ate less than usual last night. His breathing was heavy while he slept, and he still isn’t putting his full weight on his front right leg.”
The old man studied him for a long moment before walking over to examine Plai Saen with him. The bull elephant raised his trunk and touched Kham’s shoulder in greeting. Kham stroked his forehead, then gently pressed his fingers along the joints of his legs.
“The wound isn’t inflamed, but don’t let him drag heavy logs today.”
“The camp foreman ordered him to start dragging logs at dawn,” Old Chan replied.
Kham turned to look at the logging yard, where the workers were preparing ropes. “If they force him, he’ll hurt himself worse, and the job will suffer even more.”
“You’ve only been a mahout for a few days. Don’t start acting like you know better than everyone in the camp.”
Kham didn’t argue. He simply filled the trough with water, then put out more fresh grass. Plai Saen slowly swept the grass into his mouth with his trunk. Then he lifted his right foot slightly. Seeing that, Kham decided to go speak to the camp foreman.
The camp foreman was named Suea. He was a middle-aged man with a thick mustache and a voice as loud as an ax chopping wood. He stood in front of the accounting house, supervising the log haulers.
“Plai Saen isn’t ready to drag logs,” Kham said.
Suea turned to him. “Is that elephant mine or yours?”
“He belongs to the camp. But if he collapses along the way, the logs will be ruined, the workers will get hurt, and the camp will lose an elephant.”
Laughter rose from a nearby group of workers. Some of them looked at the young stranger with amusement. Kham knew he was being tested, so he didn’t lower his gaze.
“Have him drag a small log first. If he walks normally, then increase the weight.”
Suea stepped closer. “And what if I order him to drag a big one?”
“Then I’ll order him to stop.”
The logging yard fell silent at once.
Suea stared him in the face, then burst out laughing. “You’ve got some guts, don’t you? Fine, we’ll do it your way. If Plai Saen can’t work, you’ll pay for the damages yourself.”
Kham turned back toward the elephant stall. He knew the damages would cost more than his entire year’s wages, but he still believed that an injured elephant shouldn’t be forced to work just because humans wanted to get their logs out faster.
That morning, Plai Saen dragged a small log instead of a large one. He walked more slowly than the other elephants, but he didn’t stumble or show any sign of straining himself. Some of the workers began looking at Kham differently—not because he knew how to ride an elephant, but because he was willing to take responsibility for his own orders.
After the morning’s work, Kham had to learn to do everything himself: fetch water from the Yom River several times a day, carry bananas, haul grass, sweep up elephant dung, and inspect the chains around the elephant’s legs. He had once thought being a mahout meant sitting on an elephant’s neck and telling it where to go. The truth was filled with countless small chores no one ever noticed.
Plai Saen even remembered the sound of his footsteps. If Kham walked too far out of sight, the elephant would raise his trunk, sniff the air, and call out in a low rumble until Kham had to turn back and answer.
“I’m right here. I haven’t gone anywhere.”
In the afternoon, Ming carried a bowl of rice over and sat beneath the tamarind tree beside the stall.
“You’ve already become the elephant’s servant,” he said, eyeing the pile of dung in front of them.
Kham used a shovel to rake through the dry straw. “An elephant’s servant still gets time to rest. I barely have time to breathe.”
“Is the double pay worth it?”
Kham paused to think before answering. “If Saen doesn’t get sick, it is.”
Ming laughed. “You used to say you came here to make money. Now you talk like you’re related to him.”
Plai Saen reached out with his trunk and tugged on the hem of Ming’s shirt, making him jump.
“See? He heard you.” Ming hurriedly moved away. “Don’t pull me! I haven’t even finished my rice.”
Their laughter rang out across the camp, a small moment of happiness amid the smells of sweat and sawdust and the burden of hard labor.
Several months passed, and the dry season gradually settled over the logging camp. The Yom River dropped until boulders appeared in the middle of the water. The log-hauling route had to be changed because parts of the riverbank had begun to crack. Kham started learning the nature of the soil, the channels carved by water, and the old elephant paths. He noticed that Plai Saen often stopped before reaching areas with hollow ground beneath them, even when no one else saw any danger.
From a young man who hadn’t even known how to tie a harness, Kham began learning to read an elephant’s condition from the movement of its ears, the way it set down its feet, and the sound of its breathing. He learned that elephants didn’t speak with words. They spoke with their entire bodies.
One evening, as Kham led Plai Saen back from the creek, the bell around the elephant’s neck rang at a steady rhythm. But when they passed a line of old trees, the bell suddenly fell silent, even though Plai Saen kept walking.
Kham stopped.
The bull elephant spread his ears and turned toward the forest on the right. A sharp, overpowering floral scent drifted out of the darkness. Vines that had no wind to stir them trembled faintly.
“Saen, do you smell something?”
Plai Saen stepped in front of him, raising his trunk high. A low rumble sounded in his throat.
After a moment, another bell answered from behind the line of trees.
Jingle...
Kham furrowed his brow. The bell rang in exactly the same rhythm as Plai Saen’s, but its sound came from deep within the forest, where there was no path for people or elephants.
He gripped the handle of the ritual knife at his waist.
“Let’s go back.”
Plai Saen didn’t move right away. He stared into the darkness for a long time before backing away at Kham’s command.
When the two of them returned to camp, the bell around Plai Saen’s neck began ringing again, drawing the silent attention of several workers who were listening.
From the edge of the deep forest, another bell answered one last time.
Jingle...
Then the entire forest fell silent.