Four stories narrated by four individuals, each on a continent far away from their homeland. Each story from a different time and place. The narrators are all forced to endure life rather than enjoy it. Three of the stories appear in the dreams of the fourth narrator, who passes them on to the reader along with his own. The stories are deep, ponderous, resonating – they are stories told by captive elephants.

Taken tells the story of Biligiri, one Indian elephant among many, all forced into service for the British military. They are part of an expedition into the highlands of Abyssinia (Ethiopia) in the mid-1800s, ostensibly to free British hostages being held by Emperor Tewodros. It also tells the story of Pulmulla, one of four Indian elephants being marched across Tanzania to help log the forests of the Belgian Congo, one more unbearably sad tale relating to that place, already under the de facto control of “the distant, uncaring old King Leopold”.

Then there is the story of Tant-Meisie, an Indian elephant who is part of the endless cyclical procession of a travelling circus in apartheid South Africa in the 1950s and 60s. And Taken is also the story of Hannibal Solo, an African elephant, ex-circus performer himself, who is moved to a sanctuary in Kentucky by PhD researcher Cat, who is exploring “the elephant’s secret sense”; the ability to read vibrations in the earth. Hannibal Solo: “I remember flat-topped trees, long thorns, mud fragrant with ancient life and the farts of crocodiles”.

Taken is about the importance of storytelling, more specifically, who tells the story; whose perspective endures. “So that we may not be forgotten” – each of the elephant narrators wants their story remembered, for it is in their nature to remember: “Lists are part of our being.” The elephants divert themselves by reciting their lists throughout the stories. And the stories meander from those of the main narratives: “But I digress. It’s an elephant thing …” They relate tales they have been told along the way, tales of historical and fictional elephants, and the tales told by the “djinn incarnate, a whirlwind that of its own volition has become embodied in one man” – Captain Tristam Charles Speedy, who is also enlisted on the gruelling trek through Abyssinia.

Speedy is one of the humans in the stories who is accepted by the elephants whose story he joins, as is Willie, Tant-Meisie’s companion in South Africa, and Sam the researcher in Kentucky. Speedy is disturbed and conflicted by his mission, as he was by a previous mission to “the soggy isles of New Zealand” – his misgivings serve as a contrast to the pomposity of his fellow military men. The four stories of the elephants are full of human stupidity, avarice, cruelty, and malice. “More to the point, we need ask: was cruelty ever out of fashion?” 

The elephants have their own hierarchies, and don’t have much time for other non-human animals, goats and horses being held in the most disdain. But the elephants are much greater beings than the humans portrayed, they have a weighted presence – “That is why we are called on constantly to bear witness and to anchor significant ceremonies of passage: your allegiances, your marriages, your births, deaths, farewells, homecomings and victories.”

Taken is a long read. But that is because it is told by large creatures going on long journeys. “That’s what stories are for, aren’t they? Modes of transport, they are, ways out, and ways in.” During the time it took me to read it, I became drawn into the rhythm and despair of the narrators and their fellow elephants. You read of acts of utter desperation – “Do you think he went in style?” Of the overwhelming frenzy of experiencing musth in captivity. Of the difficulties of sharing space with those not only not of your family, but not even of your kind.

There are also exquisite descriptions of acts of kindness, and gestures of gentleness – extended to elephants and humans alike. Comparison is made between the care taken with human bodies and the disrespect, even desecration, of elephant corpses. The device of having one elephant who appears in two of the stories somehow gives dimension to all the characters – and by the end of the book, I felt so sad for those lost, and I regretted leaving those still living. Much of the descriptions are richly olfactory, given as they are by elephants, who can smell emotions, intentions, and deceptions, as well as weather, flora, food, and farts.

The text of Taken is illustrated and full of fine detail of the logistics of elephant transport and servitude. One theme is that of the tyranny of guns. Tewodros took hostages so they could make him armaments. At the final assault on the gates of Maqdala, Biligiri watches from afar realising “when grasping a weapon, other senses must go, as if actively banished from further reasoning”. Armaments are left behind by the expeditionary force, “a deadly discarded litter for others to make evil mischief with”. In Tanzania Captain Carter “is more in love with the firing pin of his hunting rifle, than anything else on this earth”. In South Africa guns are in the hands of thieves in the night. And in the United States they kill children in a school shooting.

A child also dies in a random accident, and one from disease in cold damp England, far from the land of his birth. Yet, these children are honoured, even remembered, unlike the elephants who die of heat, altitude sickness, overwork, despair, plummeting from vertiginous heights …  

“We listen; that has always been our strength – or at least one of them”, and I guess Taken is saying if only we were wise enough to listen to elephants …

I loved reading this book.