Elephant herd on upper back

The herd came down off the ridge again this morning, four days earlier than last year, and I have stopped pretending to the Abbot that it is a coincidence. The old cow leads them. Brother Anselm says she is the grandmother of every animal that drinks at our trough, and I believe him, because she walks the way the old men walk to Vespers, straight-backed and unhurried, never once looking down at the stones.

Behind her the calves bunch and stumble. The smallest one keeps tripping over its own trunk, and the middle ones push at each other like novices in the refectory queue. I counted fourteen this time. Last week it was eleven, and I wrote the number in the ledger beside the entry about the cracked cistern, because the Abbot asked for both and I did not want to be accused of favouring the animals over the masonry.

Yesterday the rains did not come, and the Abbot stood at the new well with his hand flat on the stone rim as though he could feel the water through it. He said we would keep the gate open for them. I thought he meant it as a kindness, but this morning I saw him lock the storeroom with the same key he uses for the gate, and I wondered which of us he was trying to protect.

The herd reached the water at dusk. The old cow drank first, then stood aside, and the smallest calf pushed its face into the mud beside her as if it had always known where to go. I am writing this by the lamp in the cell you once shared with me. Come in the dry season. Bring the good ink, and bring your appetite for stubborn things.

Yours in the hope of rain, Brother Piers