I love elephants – who could fail to be impressed by their stature and presence and magnitude and loyalty and intelligence? They are the largest land-bound mammals, and surely among the most awe-inspiring of creatures.

One of my favourite scenes to write in Burning Embers was that in which Coral and Rafe take a hot-air balloon ride over the African landscape, allowing Coral a chance to photograph the wildlife for a magazine article she has been commissioned to write:

The balloon was still rising, its direction fixed by the whim of the wind. The air was crisp, a whispering light breeze hitting them in the face as the aircraft ascended. The passengers watched silently as the thrilling spectacle of nature’s daily life unfolded. They caught sight of a herd of elephants rushing toward a lake in the distance: massive, magnificent animals led by the female, their large ears flapping in the morning air.

I also brought in elephants when exploring the subject of hunting in Africa – a pursuit that Coral’s former fiancé, Dale, adores and Coral abhors.

Breakfast was lively, everybody giving their impressions about the morning’s excursion. Dale was, as usual, effusive about his own exploits, telling whoever would listen about his participation in hunting parties after great herds of elephants. “We set off from Baringo, over the hills of Kamasia into Turkana and Samburu country. But the best place for hunting elephants is, of course, the Tsavo Park. Unfortunately, the hunters from the Wakamba and the Waliangulu tribes seem to have the monopoly there. It’s such a shame, really. They use some sort of poison that they find in the bush. Rather primitive but quite clever, I suppose.”

The African elephant, then, is not just part of the wildlife, but also part of politics – and, essentially, culture. For African folklore and proverbs are rich with the elephant. Take the following extracts from Burning Embers:

‘When two elephants jostle, what gets hurt is the grass!’ With change comes conflict. Tribal unrest has begun to take its toll on communities.

…

Among my people, wise men say that with ropes made from a woman’s hair, one can easily tie an elephant. A wife must keep hold of her husband with smiles and love and good food. Otherwise he strays.

In my research for Burning Embers, I came across the elephant constantly, and in many ways the mighty creature came to represent part of the setting in my mind. Of course, I had long thought of Africa with the elephant in mind, because one of my favourite poets, Leconte de Lisle, whose poems I first fell in love with as a young girl at school, wrote a wonderful poem entitled Les éléphants. The poem so perfectly encapsulates what it means to be an elephant, and every time I read it, I am transported to Africa.

I have had the poem translated so you can enjoy it, and as always when sharing a French poem, I include the original poem below, because it is all the more romantic and atmospheric in that language (say éléphant out loud in your best French accent and then elephant in your native accent and you’ll see what I mean!). With thanks to John Harding for the translation.

The Elephants

The red sand is like an endless sea,

Blazing, wordless, slumped in its bed.

Unmoving waves stretch along

The horizon with its coppery fumes, man’s dwelling.

No life nor sound.  All the fed lions

Are sleeping deep in their dens a hundred leagues hence,

And the giraffe drinks from the blue springs,

Yonder, beneath the date-palms which the panthers know.

No bird goes by, beating with its wing

The dense air through which an immense sun goes round.

At times some boa, warmed in its sleep,

Ripples its back with glittering scales.

Likewise the kindled expanse burns beneath the unclouded heavens.

But, whilst everything slumbers in the cheerless emptiness,

The rugged elephants, those slow and clumsy travellers,

Cross the deserts to the country of their birth.

From a spot on the horizon, like brown lumps,

They come, throwing up the dust, and one can see that,

So as not to stray from the straightest path,

They make the distant dunes slip down under their broad and firm feet.

He who leads the way is an old chieftain.  His body

Is covered with cracks like a tree-trunk gnawed and consumed by the weather.

His head is like rock, and the curve of his spine

Arches powerfully with his slightest effort.

Never slowing and not halting his march,

He guides his dusty companions to the certain goal;

And, leaving a ploughed sandy furrow behind them,

The enormous pilgrims follow their patriarch.

With ears spread like fans, their trunks between their teeth,

They make their way with eyes closed.  Their bellies throb and steam,

And their sweat rises in the flaming air like a mist;

And a thousand glowing insects hum all around.

What do they care for thirst and the consuming fly,

And the sun baking their black and wrinkled skin?

They march on dreaming of the forsaken land,

Of the forests of sycamore-figs where their breed sheltered.

They will see again the river broken forth from the great heights,

Where the huge hippopotamus swims along bellowing,

Where, turned white by the moonlight and casting forward their shadows,

They would crush the reeds going down to drink.

Also, full of courage and deliberation, they pass on

Like a black line, in the endless sands;

And the desert resumes its stillness,

As the ponderous travellers fade on the horizon.

Les éléphants

Le sable rouge est comme une mer sans limite, 

Et qui flambe, muette, affaissée en son lit.

Une ondulation immobile remplit

L’horizon aux vapeurs de cuivre où l’homme habite.

Nulle vie et nul bruit. Tous les lions repus

Dorment au fond de l’antre éloigné de cent lieues,

Et la girafe boit dans les fontaines bleues,

Là-bas, sous les dattiers des panthères connus.

Pas un oiseau ne passe en fouettant de son aile

L’air épais, où circule un immense soleil. 

Parfois quelque boa, chauffé dans son sommeil,

Fait onduler son dos dont l’écaille étincelle.

Tel l’espace enflammé brûle sous les cieux clairs.

Mais, tandis que tout dort aux mornes solitudes,

Lés éléphants rugueux, voyageurs lents et rudes

Vont au pays natal à travers les déserts.

D’un point de l’horizon, comme des masses brunes,

Ils viennent, soulevant la poussière, et l’on voit,

Pour ne point dévier du chemin le plus droit, 

Sous leur pied large et sûr crouler au loin les dunes.

Celui qui tient la tête est un vieux chef. Son corps

Est gercé comme un tronc que le temps ronge et mine

Sa tête est comme un roc, et l’arc de son échine

Se voûte puissamment à ses moindres efforts. 

Sans ralentir jamais et sans hâter sa marche,

Il guide au but certain ses compagnons poudreux;

Et, creusant par derrière un sillon sablonneux,

Les pèlerins massifs suivent leur patriarche.

L’oreille en éventail, la trompe entre les dents,

Ils cheminent, l’oeil clos. Leur ventre bat et fume,

Et leur sueur dans l’air embrasé monte en brume;

Et bourdonnent autour mille insectes ardents.

Mais qu’importent la soif et la mouche vorace,

Et le soleil cuisant leur dos noir et plissé? 

Ils rêvent en marchant du pays délaissé,

Des forêts de figuiers où s’abrita leur race.

Ils reverront le fleuve échappé des grands monts,

Où nage en mugissant l’hippopotame énorme, 

Où, blanchis par la Lune et projetant leur forme,

Ils descendaient pour boire en écrasant les joncs.

Aussi, pleins de courage et de lenteur, ils passent

Comme une ligne noire, au sable illimité; 

Et le désert reprend son immobilité

Quand les lourds voyageurs à l’horizon s’effacent.