Kate DiCamillo: The Magician's Elephant

“An elephant,” whispered Peter.

“Ha,” said the woman, “ha ha. It most surely couldn’t have.”

“It did,” said the fishmonger. “Broke her legs!”

“La, the humour of it, and don’t my friend Marcelle wash the linens of Madam LaVaughn? Ain’t the world as small as it can be?”

“Just exactly,” said the fishmonger.

“But, please,” said Peter, “an elephant. An elephant. Do you know what you say?”

“Yes,” said the fishmonger, “I say an elephant.”

“And she came through the roof?”

“Didn’t I just say that too?”

“Where is this elephant now, please?” said Peter.

“The police have got her,” said the fishmonger.

“The police!” said Peter. He put his hand up to his hat. He took the hat off and put it back on and took it off again.

“Is the child having some sort of hat-related fit?” said the woman to the fishmonger.

“It’s just as the fortuneteller said,” said Peter. “An elephant.”

“How’s that?” said the fishmonger. “Who said it?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Peter. “Nothing matters except that the elephant has come. And what that means.”

“And what does it mean?” said the fishmonger. “I would surely like to know.”

“That she lives,” said Peter. “That she lives.”

“And ain’t that grand?” said the fishmonger. “We are always happy when people live, ain’t we?”

“Sure, and why not?” said the woman. “But what I want to know is what’s become of him who started it all? Where’s the magician?”

“Imprisoned him,” said the fishmonger, “didn’t they? Put him in the most terrible cell of all and threw away the key.”

The prison cell to which the magician was confined was small and dark. But there was, in the cell, one window, very high up. At night the magician lay atop his cloak on his mattress of straw and looked out of the window into the darkness of the world. The sky was almost always thick with clouds, but sometimes, if the magician stared long enough, the clouds would grudgingly part and reveal one exceedingly bright star.

“I intended only lilies,” the magician said to the star. “That was my intention: a bouquet of lilies.”

This was not, strictly speaking, the truth.

Yes, the magician had intended to conjure lilies.

But standing on the stage of the Bliffendorf Opera House, before an audience that was indifferent to whatever small diversion he might perform and was waiting only for him to exit and for the real magic (the music of a virtuoso violinist) to begin, the magician was struck suddenly, and quite forcibly, with the notion that he had wasted his life.

So he performed that night the sleight of hand that would result in lilies, but at the same time, he muttered the words of a spell that his magic teacher had entrusted to him long ago. The magician knew that the words were powerful and also, given the circumstances, somewhat ill-advised. But he wanted to perform something spectacular.

And he had.

That night at the opera house, before the whole world exploded into screams and sirens and accusations, the magician stood next to the enormous beast and gloried in the smell of her – dried apples, mouldy paper, dung. He reached out and placed a hand, one hand, on her chest and felt, for a moment, the solemn beating of her heart.

This, he thought. I did this.

And when he was commanded, later that night, by every authority imaginable (the mayor, a duke, a princess, the chief of police) to send the elephant back, to make her go away – to, in essence, disappear her – the magician had dutifully spoken the spell, as well as the words themselves, backwards, as the magic required, but nothing happened. The elephant remained absolutely, emphatically, undeniably there , her very presence serving as some indisputable evidence of his powers.

He had intended lilies; yes, perhaps.

But he had also wanted to perform true magic.

He had succeeded.

And so, no matter what words he may have spoken to the star that occasionally appeared above him, the magician could summon no true regret for what he had done.

The star, it should be noted, was not a star at all.

It was the planet Venus.

Records indicate that it shone particularly bright that year.

The chief of police of the city of Baltese was a man who believed most firmly in the letter of the law. However, despite repeated and increasingly flustered consultations of the police handbook, he could not find one word, one syllable, one letter, that pertained to the correct method of dealing with a beast that has appeared out of nowhere, destroying the roof of an opera house and crippling a noblewoman.

And so, with great reluctance, the chief of police solicited the opinions of his subordinates about what should be done with the elephant.

“Sir!” said one of the young sergeants. “She appeared. Perhaps, if we are patient, she will disappear.”

“Does the elephant appear as if she might disappear?” said the chief of police.

“Sir?” said the young sergeant. “I am afraid I don’t understand the question, sir.”

“I am quite aware of your lack of understanding,” said the chief. “Your lack of understanding is as apparent as the elephant and is even more unlikely to disappear.”

“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant. He furrowed his brow. He thought for a moment. “Thank you, sir, I’m sure.”

This exchange was followed by a long and painful silence. The gathered policemen shuffled their feet.

“It is simple,” said another policeman finally. “The elephant is a criminal. Therefore she must be tried as a criminal and punished as a criminal.”

“But why is the elephant a criminal?” said a small policeman with a very large moustache.

“Why is the elephant a criminal?” said the police chief.

“Yes,” said the small policeman, whose name was Leo Matienne, “why? If the magician threw a rock at a window, would you then blame the rock for the window breaking?”

“What kind of magician throws rocks?” said the chief of police. “What kind of sorry excuse for magic is that, the throwing of rocks?”

“You misunderstand me, sir,” said Leo Matienne. “I meant only to say that the elephant did not ask to come crashing through the roof of the opera house. Would any sensible elephant wish for such a thing? And if she did not wish for it, then how can she be guilty of it?”

“I ask you for possible solutions,” said the chief of police. He put his hands on top of his head.

“Yes,” said Leo Matienne.

“I ask what action should be taken,” said the chief. He pulled at his hair with both hands.

“Yes,” said Leo Matienne again.

“And you talk to me about sensible elephants and what they wish for?” shouted the captain.

“I think it is pertinent, sir,” said Leo Matienne.

“He thinks it is pertinent,” said the chief.

“He thinks it is pertinent.” He pulled at his hair again. His face became very red.

“Sir,” said another policeman, “what if we found the elephant a home, sir?”

“Yes,” said the chief of police. He turned around and faced the policeman who had just spoken. “Why did I not think of it? Let us dispatch the elephant immediately to the Home for Wayward Elephants Who Engage in Objectionable Pursuits Against Their Will. It is right down the street, is it not?”

“Is it?” said the policeman. “Truly? I had not known. There are so many worthy charitable institutions in this enlightened age; why, it’s become nearly impossible to keep track of them all.”