Chapter 2 — Where Old Elephants Rest

Ha Lam doesn't remember exactly when she learned to ride an elephant. She only remembers that before she knew how to ride a two-wheeled bicycle, she knew how to sit on Sao Mai's back, holding tightly to the rope tied around the elephant's neck with both hands, while her father walked beside her, one hand supporting her leg in case she slipped. People in Chu Rinh village often joke that she is "a child raised by elephants", because since childhood she spent more time at the elephant field than at home, to the point that there was a time when her mother, Mrs.

Mrs. H'Loan died when Ha Lam was only twelve years old, due to a severe bout of malaria in the middle of the rainy season, when the road to the district hospital was flooded and impassable. Ha Lam's memories of her mother are therefore as fragile and fragmentary as pieces of old linen - the sound of her mother singing lullabies in the M'nong language on nights when the power was out, the smell of her mother's grilled bamboo rice during holidays, and perhaps most clearly the image of her mother standing in the middle of an elephant field, her hand on Sao Mai's forehead, muttering something like a prayer that Ha Lam was too young to understand at the time.

After her mother passed away, her father put all his energy into the elephants and his only daughter. He taught her everything he knew — how to read an elephant's mood through its posture, how to tell where an elephant is in pain just by observing its breathing, how to mix wild tobacco and apply it to the wound, and above all, how to treat the elephant not as an animal to be commanded, but as a living being with memories, feelings, and its own hurt.

"Elephants have a very long memory," he often told her, "remembering both the good and bad things people do to them, sometimes for the rest of their lives. No matter how you treat them, they will return the same, just slower than humans."

Sunday morning, when Ha Lam was bathing May in the shallow stream, she heard the familiar sound of Bay Kinh's motorbike coming down, carrying a heavy bag behind.

"Here's joint ointment for Mun," he said as he parked the bike, sweat beading on his forehead even though it was still early. "I went to the district market to buy some turmeric and old ginger, pounding it and applying it also helps."

Bay Kinh, now seventy-one years old, is the only person in the camp who still clearly remembers the first days of Mr. Thach's career in this land. He was one of the young men of Chu Rinh village who was taught the first lessons by Ama Not's father - the village elder from the previous generation, a famous elephant tamer in the whole region - on how to be close to wild elephants, before becoming friends with a young forest ranger from the lowlands who came to take up the job. The two of them, one Kinh and one M'nong, traveled together through the Krong Sar forests during their youth, learning to listen to the roar of elephants at night to guess whether they were happy or uneasy.

"Mr. Bay," Ha Lam asked while squeezing water from the towel to wipe May's back, "have you heard about the Hoang Kim company measuring the land adjacent to us?"

Bay Kinh paused for a moment, something hard to name appeared on his tanned face - not necessarily surprise, but like an old worry had just been revived.

"Heard it," he replied, speaking more slowly than usual. "A few years ago, another company came to ask to buy land around here, planning to build a resort, but it failed, probably because the roads were too difficult to navigate. This time, I heard they have big capital and connections in the province, I don't know."

"My dad told me to ask him more, but I think he seems to be hiding something from me," Ha Lam said, looking at Mr. Bay with a questioning look. "Do you know anything?"

Bay Kinh avoided her eyes, bent down and opened the sack to take out the jar of medicine, moving deliberately slowly. "Mr. Thach's matter, it's better for him to tell you himself, I don't want to interfere."

That answer, instead of reassuring, made Ha Lam even more worried. Over the years of living with her father, she had become accustomed to him being someone who rarely hid anything from her, especially things related to the camp and the elephants. The fact that both he and Bay Kinh shared the same evasive attitude when it came to land made her feel that there was a layer of fog hovering behind the seemingly simple story about a company wanting to buy land.

At noon, after finishing work at the elephant yard, Ha Lam drove to the district market to buy more basic veterinary medicine supplies. Krong Sar market opens every morning under low corrugated iron roofs, traders jostle amid the smell of dried fish, roasted coffee and the smell of red soil clinging to each pair of slippers. She had just parked her car in front of a familiar grocery store when she encountered Y Khun Ktla, a boy from Chu Rinh village about the same age as her, waiting for someone at the corner of the market, a trekking backpack strapped to his back.

When they were young, Y Khun and Ha Lam used to be close friends, skipping school together to go to the stream to catch fish, climbing on Vang's back when the elephant was still young to speed across the grass under the helpless screaming eyes of Bay Kinh. But in recent years, since they both grew up, Y Khun became completely distant. Whenever they met each other at the market or in the village, they just nodded and said goodbye and walked straight away, as if an invisible wall had been erected between them that Ha Lam did not know when.

"Hello, Khun," she took the initiative to speak first, because she saw that he seemed to be about to walk away.

Y Khun stopped, nodded, his eyes were not cold but not warm either. "Hello Ha Lam. Going shopping?"

"Yes, buy some medicine for the elephant." She hesitated a bit then asked again, "Do you know about Hoang Kim company measuring land east of our camp? I heard they plan to build an elephant riding tourist area there."

There was a very short moment when Y Khun's eyes flashed something, maybe frustration, maybe sarcasm, Ha Lam wasn't sure. "I heard," he replied curtly. "Many people in the village are still happy, because they promised to create jobs, build new roads, and also provide money to households with adjacent land."

"You think so too?" Ha Lam asked, a bit of surprise in her voice.

Y Khun looked at her for a long moment, then shook his head slightly, not to deny the question but as if trying to hold back something that was about to spill out. "I don't know," he said finally. "My family and your family, this matter is inherently not as simple as you think, Ha Lam. Maybe you should ask Mr. Thach again carefully, before worrying about stopping people from doing business."

Having finished speaking, he turned and walked away, leaving Ha Lam standing in the middle of the market, his mind filled with questions that had not yet been formed. What is "this elephant story"? Why do both Bay Kinh and Y Khun have the same open attitude when mentioning the past of her father and the elephants? She grew up with the firm belief that her father was a good person, someone who devoted his life to saving elephants from exploitation - but now, through just a few careless words, that belief suddenly wavered like a seemingly sturdy tree suddenly revealing a few roots that had rotted long ago without anyone noticing.

On the way home, she stopped by the commune office to ask for land planning information, but the officer on duty just said through the loudspeaker that "I heard there is a project being submitted to the district, but there is no official decision yet", then advised her to "just rest assured and do business, the commune will announce later". That double answer didn't help anything, it only made the insecurity in her heart heavier.

Returning to the camp when it was late afternoon, Ha Lam saw his father sitting on the porch, holding a cup of cold tea, looking far away at the elephant field. She intended to ask him directly about the "mammoth matter" that Y Khun had just mentioned, but looking at his tired appearance and labored breathing at this time, she held back. The doctor told him again and again not to let him get too emotional or overly stressed, especially on days when the weather changes erratically like today.

"Are you back?" Mr. Thach asked softly, his voice relieved when he saw his daughter's shadow.

"Yes, I'll go to the district market to buy some things." She sat down next to him, pondered for a moment and then asked, trying to keep her voice gentle, "Dad, when you first set up camp, who did you buy the first herd of elephants from?"

Mr. Thach's hand, holding the cup of tea, trembled slightly, spilling a few drops of water onto the cement floor. He did not answer immediately, but sat still for a long time, long enough for Ha Lam to clearly feel the heaviness weighing down between father and son.

"It's a long story, my daughter," he finally said, his voice deeper and more tired than usual. "Some other time, when I'm better, I'll tell you the full story. Right now, I just want you to focus on taking care of the elephants and maintaining this camp first, repeating the past won't change anything."

That answer, even though it didn't say anything specific, confirmed to Ha Lam something she had vaguely felt all day: there was indeed a certain story, something that had never been fully told, lying dormant behind the peaceful appearance of this sanctuary. She looked out at the elephant field, where Sao Mai was standing quietly under the shade of an old tree, wondering what that old elephant, if he could talk, would tell her about the past thirty years - years that now, it turned out, she only knew half of.