This book tells the story of the reunion of generations of elephants from the Burmese Osmanthus family， who have been separated for decades， and the experience of migrating north and returning to their habitat. With poetic and beautiful illustrations， the novel comprehensively shows the magical tropical rainforest ecological landscape， rich animal and plant resources， and colorful national culture of Yunnan， praises the people who have selflessly contributed to the protection of elephants and the construction of ecological civilization， highlights the ecological civilization concept of “man and nature are the community of life，” and shows the grand vision， unremitting efforts and brilliant achievements of China’s “building a modernization of harmonious coexistence between man and nature” in the new era.

The Elephant

Yang Zhijun

New Star Press

February 2024

78.00 (CNY)

Yang Zhijun

Yang Zhijun is a famous contemporary writer. His works have won the Mao Dun Literature Award， the National Outstanding Children’s Literature Award， the “Five One Project” Award， the China Publishing Government Award， the China Outstanding Publication Award， and the “China Good Book” Award. Some of his works have been translated abroad.

The little elephant had fallen to the bottom of a cliff， where a river with a fierce and rapid current flowed， its every spot resembling a gaping mouth. The little elephant had slid down the steep walls of the canyon， where the elephant path was lined with wild banana trees， saccharum grass， and two-ear grass glistening with water droplets. Imitating its mother， it took a few bites and then tried to use its small trunk to cut down the tallest clump of two-ear grass， planning to roll it up and toss it onto its back. This would be a fun activity， feeling the leaves and water droplets on its back—ticklish， cool， and wet. It took one step with its right foot and another with its left， and then it slipped. Its mother had specifically warned， “You’re still young; don’t stretch for things you can’t reach. If something happens， it will be serious.” The little elephant always listened to its mother and never stretched beyond its reach. But today， it got distracted by the tempting fresh grass and wandered a few steps away from its mother.

As it slid down， it screamed， brushing against some moss-covered rocks， some plants with abacus-bead-shaped fruits growing from the cracks， and a few purple pearl trees whose leaves it had eaten before， finally landing with a thud on a patch of serrated coral grass. It didn’t understand why the coral grass here was so dense and tall， only that without their support and cushioning， it wouldn’t have been able to cry out for its mother: “Mom， Mom.”

The mother elephant was right above， stamping her feet and trumpeting. Her anxiety and panic spread to the other four elephants nearby. They quickly gathered at the edge of the cliff， looking down helplessly， stamping their feet and trumpeting along with the mother elephant. If their collective stamping could flatten the high cliff， they would persist without hesitation. If loud trumpeting could bring the little elephant back to its mother， they would keep trumpeting without stopping. Elephants are deeply emotional animals willing to do anything for their offspring. If there was anything they could do， they wouldn’t give up， even at the cost of their lives. But all the elephants knew that no amount of stamping or trumpeting， or thrashing their long trunks through the grass， would change their desperation and sorrow. Rescuing a little elephant that had fallen off a cliff was beyond their capabilities， even though they were powerful and intelligent， nature’s proud， flagship species.

The little elephant cried below， its mother cried above， and everyone joined in. The elephant sister， who usually helped the mother take care of the little one， cried and blamed herself: “It’s all my fault. It was because I didn’t look after it carefully. Why didn’t I keep it between me and our mother?” The grandmother elephant， whose voice was hoarse and breath heavy， cried the most bitterly， her large ears standing up. The brother elephant， who normally would leave the family in a year or two and was starting to be indifferent to family matters， turned his cries into loud trumpeting， scaring away a few shrikes perched on the cliff top. The aunt elephant， who had never been pregnant but deeply yearned for a child， curled her trunk in fear and didn’t dare extend it， seeing the little elephant disappear under the ground. She vowed that if she ever had a child， she would always keep it by her side， never letting it near the edge of a cliff.

The five elephants focused intently on their crying， their cries piercing and persistent. The vast sky above filled with drifting clouds， which sympathetically floated over， casting shadows on them: “Don’t let the strong sunlight harm the elephants.” A breeze blew through the long， narrow valley， bringing silence and carrying away the elephants’ sorrow. The sorrow drifted away. A patch of dock flowers suddenly wilted in fright， while a patch of knotweed flowers suddenly bloomed. Seven or eight stick flowers held hands and trembled， sending out wave after wave of bright green ripples. A few shrikes， startled away earlier， hurried back， diving into the valley， their minds flashing with a gleam of wild joy: perhaps there was meat to be had.

If you were walking a tightrope along the Tropic of Cancer， at 99°35’E longitude， and accidentally fell， you would land in this north-south green valley. The valley is deep and quiet， with a swift river below， its banks covered with soft， thick subtropical vegetation. So， if you fell， you would most likely survive. Please stand up and walk a few steps south， and you will encounter the little elephant. Of course， you might not fall if you are light enough and have strong arms， opting to swing on the Tropic of Cancer， waiting for a quick rescue. In that case， you wouldn’t see the little elephant， and you would have missed a great opportunity to make friends with an elephant and explore the mysteries of nature. Our Tropic of Cancer， which humanity can only look down upon and never up， now rests on the trembling back of the little elephant and on the pinkish cleome flowers between the two legs of the cane flower.