As the sun’s rays first peeked over the courtyard walls, the archivists brought out my burden. Four of them carried it on their shoulders, one under each corner of its wooden case. My hooves shuffled as the archivists held the tome above my paniers, and shuffled some more as its solemn weightiness came down upon my back.
When the tome had been secured, the one they called Theodore tugged me forward by a rope. Like the others, he wore long blue robes, but his beard was a little longer and curlier, his hat a little wider, and his odor a little stronger. Yet for me, it was the keenness of his tongue and the eagerness of his whip that set him apart.
We left the hard stone of the courtyard by the high arch of the Archive’s main gate and descended the broad path past the olive grove. Pale dust puffed up and hung serenely in the light dry air, and cicada song reverberated from the wizened trees, as though to wish us farewell.
At the crossroads we took a faint stony path unfamiliar to me. It was only on this path that the tread of hoof on ground took on an easy rhythm, and the trudge was established. Ahead, the scrubland stretched out as far as I could see, silently awaiting the inevitability of the day.
• • •
Like any archivist on any trudge, Theodore was difficult to ignore. His flapping robes never left the panoramic scope of my eyes, his smell never made peace with my nose, and his clumsy footfalls never found the rhythm of the trudge. If that wasn’t enough, I also had to endure the patter of his voice.
“Well, Buridan, here we are on the road together.”
I thought he must be speaking to someone else, since I’d never been called ‘Buridan’ before.
“As we go, I’ll pass on to you some of the great wisdom of the Archive.”
Then it dawned on me that I had a new name, since no other human or beast was in sight, and it seemed unlikely he was addressing one of the stoical shrubs that stood within earshot.
“I only wish you could understand me. It would change your life if you did.”
I snorted. For all their great wisdom, it was strange how the archivists always assumed you couldn’t understand if you didn’t speak.
“So, you must be wondering where we’re heading.”
I was not. Instead, my attention had been cornered by a fly that had somehow tracked me down in the open scrubland.
“Well, the Grand Archivist has chosen me to go to Krestena to perform the rituals of the watermelon harvest, one of the traditions he wants to revive.”
It was one of those small flies that prized speed over subtlety and that always seemed reluctant to actually land. This, in simple terms, meant its irritation would be drawn out but mild, more in the ear than under the skin.
“This is why our undertaking is so important, by far the most important of your life.”
The fly had started circling about my ears, a tactic that was particularly irritating. I lowered my head slightly, held it for a moment, then threw it back, simultaneously flicking both ears. The buzzing vanished, and I thought I must have hit my target. Yet, a moment later, it was back.
“Are you listening to me, Buridan?”
Fearing a whip might be near at hand, I resolved to ignore the buzz and focus on the patter.
“As it’s over twenty years since the people of Krestena last saw the Tome, they must have forgotten much.”
Twenty years? This was barely comprehensible to me. It was the time needed to create twenty donkeys, and I hadn’t met twenty donkeys in my entire life.
“Which is why I’m taking it there.”
Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t stifle another snort. It was clear that Theodore was not taking the tome anywhere, but rather it was my legs and back that bore it.
“I hope you’re not ill.” He peered at me suspiciously. “We’ve a long way to go, and if you can’t maintain the pace, we won’t arrive by dusk, when the harvest ceremony begins.”
Even though I always wanted to know when I would be liberated from my burden, discovering I would first have to toil a full day under the summer sun was never going to make my tail dance. But now, coming on top of the fly’s endless goading, it sparked a primal urge.
I stopped in my tracks, raised my head, and my bray burst out. For many heartbeats it declared itself, its forthright passion echoing across the empty scrubland. But then came the sharp snap of a whip, instantly cutting it short.
• • •
When I first saw the small copse of trees, the sun was burning my haunches, and my shadow was scampering under my hooves. At first, I presumed the copse was a mirage. Mirages were common on a summer trudge, manifesting when you were distant and vanishing as you neared, just like cicada song.
“The hermitage marks the half-way point of our journey, and we’ll rest there awhile.”
Through the morning, Theodore’s monologue had guided me through countless pages of the most revered tomes, but it had faded away a while ago, leaving just the rhythm of the trudge. So used had I become to this, that his voice now seemed like an intrusion. But at least I’d learned that the copse was no mirage.
“Those trees are tamarisks. I would know this even if I’d never seen them before.”
As we approached, the snigger-snicker rhythm of cicada song started up from the branches, but it was the fresh fragrance of water that had captured my attention.
“You see, tamarisks have a whole page in the Tome of Botany, and the trees you see achieve the form, if not the beauty, of its illustrations.”
I barely heard his words. As soon as we entered the shade, I spotted the stone trough next to the well. Forgetting the risk of the whip and defying the burden of the tome, I rushed forward, pulling the rope out of Theodore’s hands.
“Have patience, Buridan!”
My ears flicked his words away as if they were a clumsy fly. Nothing could distract me from the promise of the trough water, not even the dark specks floating in it.
“Buridan? Strange name to give a donkey.”
This new voice came from a man who sat on the shady doorstep of a ramshackle one-room shelter, just a few paces away. Like Theodore, he wore blue robes and a long beard, although his robes were sun-faded and his hair was grey.
“Georgius?” Theodore peered into the shade. “Is that you?”
“Who else did you expect? Welcome to my hermitage! You must sit down and rest. You’ve already come a long way.”
Theodore slumped down on the doorstep next to the hermit. After removing his hat, he accepted the ceramic flask offered to him.
“So why have you renamed him Buridan?” Georgius asked, when Theodore returned the flask.
My ears twitched.
“I’ve named him after Jean Buridan, the philosopher. Or rather, after his ass.”
“Of course. But why choose Buridan, and why a philosopher at all?”
Theodore laughed. “Well, a few months ago I conducted an experiment on him. I wanted to see if Buridan was right about donkeys. Specifically, if a donkey is offered two desired things that are the same distance away but in opposite directions, would it really be thrown into an insoluble dilemma and be unable to take either.”
My hooves began to shuffle. While most of my days seeped silently from my memory like water from a leaky trough, the day of my ordeal held on like a famished leech.
“So I led him to a spot exactly equidistant from food on his left and an open gate on his right, and then removed his rope. I even stood well back, so I wouldn’t distract him, yet still he didn’t move. He couldn’t choose between satiation and freedom.”
It goes without saying that I knew perfectly well which temptation I wanted more, since one would last only a few hours and the other a lifetime. But I am a serious, contemplative creature who had never tasted freedom, and whatever lay through that open gate was unknown to me. I couldn’t seize my freedom because …
“He was too stubborn.”
… I was too wary.
Theodore was laughing now, just as he had on the day of my ordeal. Beside him on the doorstep, Georgius was stroking his beard and shaking his head. As I’d now drunk my fill of water, I moved on to a bundle of hay next to the trough.
“You’ve a lot to learn about donkeys,” Georgius said. “They’re not really stubborn – they just choose not to move when they’re not sure what to do.”
I paused my eating, to be sure I would catch every word of archivist wisdom, but I couldn’t stop the shuffling of my hooves.
“Then he’s just too stupid to know what to do,” Theodore said. “In any case, I whipped him, so that next time he’ll know better.”
“I’d wager that next time he’ll do exactly what he did last time. You should have more respect for what he is.”
“I don’t know why you say that. He’s my favourite donkey, full of personality. He does funny things and makes me laugh. But however much I like him, he has a lot to learn, and the whip is the only teacher he understands.”
I resumed eating the hay. Wisdom was clearly subjective.
• • •
Theodore’s monologue resumed soon after we left the hermitage. The joyousness of his tone jarred against the serious rhythm of the trudge.
“People often wonder at the magnificence of the Tome of the Watermelon Harvest. Did you know that, Buridan?”
I knew that I wondered how the tome managed to compact the weight of so many watermelons into its pages.
“But it’s not the most magnificent tome in the Archive. That is indisputably the Tome of Equinology.”
Theodore turned his head to stare directly into my left eye with both of his, and a strange grin emerged.
“You’ve heard of the Tome of Equinology, haven’t you?”
I had not. Moreover, given that the tomes travelled courtesy of my paniers without any concern for my well-being, the opportunity to learn about yet another tome was not likely to make my tail dance.
“It must be well-known, even in the stables?”
I wondered if Theodore ever opened his eyes when he went to the stables. The only things well-known there were whips and sticks and flies. Even the rats skulked about in the shadows and made no effort to socialise.
“It’s a bestiary, all about you. You donkeys. Everything there is to know.”
Despite myself, my ears twitched. Theodore stared at them, smiling broadly.
“Not just donkeys, but also horses and hinnies, mules and zonkeys, onagers and unicorns.”
It seemed a congested tome. But not too congested for me, as the continued twitching of my ears confirmed.
“And you should see the pages on donkeys. The calligraphy exemplifies the classic imperial style, and the swirling patterns and variegated flowers of the illustrations are considered the finest work of Basil the Younger. Only the pages on unicorns can compare, and only then because unicorns are the noblest of all beasts. You know perhaps that they are the lords of Elysion?”
He stopped, and the rope tightened, turning my head and breaking the trudge. He was standing there, beaming, directly into my left eye.
“You know about Elysion, don’t you?”
In the Archive and on my trudges, I’d heard many exotic placenames, from Argos to Arcadia, Corinth to Constantinople, but never Elysion.
“Not far from here, just over the horizon, lies a wondrous land. Its vast fertile fields are carpeted by the greenest grass, crossed by the freshest streams, and cooled by the serenest shade. Donkeys and other equines laze and graze to their hearts’ content, roaming wherever and whenever they choose. There are no archivists to obey, and no work to be done.”
Even as Theodore started laughing, I was already in Elysion, already consuming and consumed by bliss. In contrast to my ordeal, when I’d had to choose between sustenance and freedom, it seemed that in Elysion both were simultaneously plentiful.
“Maybe one day you’ll find your way over the horizon and experience its magnificence yourself.”
My breath slowed to hear more, and my heart pounded to learn when he would take me there. Instead, his laughter resumed with greater vigour, and clattered on and on for no apparent reason, like the pulsing rhythms of a cicada choir.
• • •
The sun had descended almost to the horizon ahead and fatigue was gnawing, when at last we crossed Krestena’s old stone bridge and entered the town square. A sea of people was there, filling the dusty ground from the riverbank behind us to the two-storey stone buildings ahead. On seeing us, the people fell silent and stared, and parted to let us through. Even though their numbers made me nervous, and their collective odour made me curse the sensibilities of my nose, I couldn’t stop my ears twitching or my tail dancing, as the liberation was so near.
We stopped in the centre of the square where a large empty table was draped in scarlet fabric. A man dressed head-to-foot in purple robes stood beside it, and he stepped forward to greet Theodore. As they talked, the crowds gathered round, and my hooves began to shuffle.
The man in purple then gestured with his arm, and several pairs of hands started pulling at my paniers. As the great weight of the Tome of the Watermelon Harvest finally lifted from my back, my excitement overcame me. I started braying and kicking out at the air, scattering the crowd behind me. The liberation, the passing of the burden from donkey legs to human legs to table legs, was always the highpoint of any day.
• • •
By dusk, I was tethered up to a post at the edge of the square. Groups of people wandered by as the light waned. I’d emptied the trough beside the post, and with my stomach satiated and my burden gone, I seemed to be floating like a cloud. I even had company: a small speckled gecko, a statuesque extension of the trough’s stone and an ally in the unending fight against airborne tormentors. Maybe in the fields of Elysion I could feel like this every moment of every day, as I roamed without tether and communed with my donkey friends.
I was roused from my reverie by a fragrance. My hooves shuffled and my breath stopped as my senses scoured the drifting crowds. Yet there was nothing but faceless people.
When at last she came into sight, I could see only her ears. Then she emerged in all her beauty: from the smooth curve of her spine to the regal rhythm of her stride, the vibrant whiteness of her nose to the soft mottle of her hide.
When she spied me, she flicked her ears in that nonchalant playful way that only debonaire jennies can truly master. And of course, I had no choice but to bray as loudly as I could. When she replied, her voice was as clear as the purest water. Again and again, I tugged on my tether, trying to go and greet her properly, but the post was firmly planted, and the rope securely tied, and my weary limbs strained in vain. So, I resumed braying and was unable to stop, even though this meant I couldn’t hear her replies.
She was led to a dusty space by a man in black wearing a hat even broader than Theodore’s. The man raised his arms, then his voice.
“Townspeople and farmers of Krestena, gather now to see this amazing sight!”
He repeated these words several times, and the passing people started looking round. Some of them slowed to look longer.
“Marvel at the dance of life, performed by the unique and astonishing Zoë the donkey!”
The gathering crowd began to obstruct my line of sight, so I moved first left, then right, until I found a clearer vista.
“In the dance of life, Zoë becomes a unicorn, the greatest of all equines, and dances to the rhythm of the tambourine.”
After tying a long wooden horn to her forehead, the man held a circular object above his head and started tapping it with a stick. To my astonishment, Zoë began to prance to the beat, flicking her ears and tail as she went. Her hooves, head and tail were all synchronised, as if she were a marionette tied to the stick. Round and round she went, my eyes following her every step and gesture, my ears and tail doing their best to mimic hers. The people started clapping and whooping, as though they too wanted to dance with her. Finally the man in black stopped the beat and raised up his arms.
“Zoë, the dancing unicorn!”
The cheers and applause were loud and only stopped when the man in black cracked a whip in the air. The sound startled me, and I backed away, but Zoë’s reaction was more refined. She reared up on her hind legs, and for many tail flicks held herself upright, as lofty as a human. She started braying and snorting, her song of triumph echoing across the square. I tingled with excitement as the purity and passion of her voice poured through me. I had never been so proud to be a donkey.
“Zoë, the greatest of all equines!”
The crowd cheered and started clapping above their heads and continued long after Zoë had returned to four-legged pragmatism. I lost sight of her as the people flocked about. For a moment I caught a glimpse of the man in black in among the laughing, smiling human faces, his huge coin-consuming hat held out boldly before him, but Zoë just seemed to have disappeared, swallowed up in the smelly human sea.
I pulled from side to side, trying to catch another glimpse of her, but without success. It was only when the crowd had finally dispersed that I accepted she had gone. Her scent lingered a little longer, but soon I was left in the calm cool of the failing evening light, alone except for a silent gecko and a troupe of inspirations that whirled around my head.
• • •
Next morning’s trudge back from Krestena was like no other of my life. I barely saw the path or the dust or the stones, barely heard the clump of hoof or the buzz of fly, and barely smelled Theodore’s hat or robes. Even the dead weight of the tome seemed somehow elsewhere, as though I shared its burden with another. Instead, I spent the morning alongside Zoë in Elysian bliss, dancing the dance of life. Together we pranced, sang and stood up on our hind legs.
Before Zoë, every donkey I’d met had been a beast of burden, compelled to carry and to pull, and bore its yoke with perseverance, patience and pride. But Zoë’s dancing hooves had opened my mind to a different world, a place where we could graduate from the trudge, express ourselves with character and creativity, and be appreciated for our individual traits and talents.
I realised then that I too could follow Zoë’s hoofprints. I didn’t have to wait to be led to Elysion by an archivist but could venture there on my own. I just needed to be liberated from burden and rope, to be offered again the choice of my ordeal. And once in Elysion, I would be free of burden and rope forever.
“Are you following me, Buridan?” Theodore was looking at me in that way he did sometimes, his two eyes peering into my left. “Everything’s changed. You see that, don’t you?”
All morning, to my surprise, he’d been walking in time with the trudge and staring down at the ground in silence. Even his hat, for all its impressive size, seemed to flop lethargically. Yet now his voice had returned, shattering my reverie.
“Ever since I was taken to the Archive as a boy, I’ve always believed that if I studied all the tomes, I would learn everything worth knowing. That’s why I go to the great library every day and pass my hours poring over their pages. But yesterday everything changed. The harvest rituals proceeded as they were supposed to, and everything was well. But afterwards, when I started talking with the farmers and townspeople, I realized there were … gaps.”
The forlornness with which he pronounced ‘gaps’ caused my back to stiffen. It was one of the great injustices of my world that an archivist’s frustration would loosen his whip hand.
“Some things have been discovered recently, such as the invention of a metal tool that cuts watermelon stalks far faster than a knife. But other things seem to have always been known yet were not included when the tome was scribed. They say even the children of Krestena know that a beehive aids pollination, but the tome says nothing of this. Nor does it mention the pests to guard against, such as fruit flies.”
It was one of those moments you hope will never come, but as soon as he uttered the word ‘pests’, a particular drone came to my ears, a drone for which they were on perpetual alert.
“Are you listening to me, Buridan? You understand the gravity of the situation, don’t you?”
I certainly did. The tone of the drone was unmistakably that of a horsefly.
“For all its wondrous calligraphy and venerable illustrations, the Tome of the Watermelon Harvest is neither complete nor authoritative.”
In the past, the arrival of a horsefly had driven me to bray hysterically or flee in panic, and once even to dive into a flooding river.
“And there are probably also gaps in the tomes on olives and grapes and other crops.”
Yet this time, everything was different, as instead of a flood of fear I felt the call of a challenge.
“We might have to rewrite them all!”
The horsefly couldn’t know how I’d been transformed, of course, as for all its biting power, it lacked any kind of sophistication.
“I don’t know how we can manage it.”
It didn’t notice how easily my hooves kept to the rhythm of the trudge.
“We might take many years to gather the new information …”
It didn’t realize that I was calmly, patiently tracking its drone …
“… and many more to scribe and illustrate the new pages.”
… left and right, nearer and farther …
“But the worst thing is …”
… and when it swooped back towards my rear quarters …
“… we’ll have to acknowledge that …”
… it failed to foresee …
“… the farmers are contributing …”
… the force with which my tail would flail …
“… more to the harvest than just their labour.”
… and end its drone forever.
• • •
“Georgius, come and help me. There’s something I have to show you.”
The hermit sat in the doorway of the hermitage’s shelter, dozing in the shade of the tamarisks, exactly where we had left him the day before. At Theodore’s voice, he stirred himself.
“Is anything wrong?”
As Georgius ambled over to the trough, my attention switched to the gleaming trough water and bale of hay beside it. I struggled to free myself, but Theodore held me tightly by the rope.
“Help me with the tome,” Theodore said. “We can put it on the well.”
I presumed I had misheard, as the liberation normally occurred only when we had reached our final destination, but Georgius went round to my other side, and with Theodore began to lift the tome.
As the great weight left my back, the euphoria of liberation started coursing through me. Even as Theodore and Georgius staggered towards the closed wooden hatch of the well, I was kicking the air and braying.
After only a few kicks, it dawned on me: I was unrestrained. Theodore hadn’t tethered me to the trough and had let go the rope by which he led me. So, right now, it was like the day of my ordeal: I was free to choose between the path to freedom before me and the water and hay beside me.
Yet this time my decision was different. This time, I knew what I wanted, and was ready to seize it.
With a burst of speed, I left my world behind.
Like a messenger’s horse, I flew out of the shade of the tamarisks and sped across the sunny scrubland, possessed by an all-consuming power and purpose. With my hooves drumming the ground, my empty paniers bouncing on my back like the lightest of riders, shrubs raced towards me, rushed past.
Behind me, through the dust of my passage, I could make out the diminishing figures of Theodore and Georgius waving and shouting from the edge of the trees. But they soon faded from ear and eye, dropping out of significance, until they were no more than horseflies swatted on the path.
• • •
By the time tiredness slowed me to a walk, I was all alone in the still, silent scrubland. The ground undulated away in all directions to the hills on the horizon, with just a scattering of shrubs and rocky outcrops to punctuate its emptiness.
Yet everything felt different. The blanched summer colours looked lighter and more variegated, the web of scents that patterned the ground seemed purer and more distinct, the muted soundscapes appeared to resonate in soft echoes, and the warm caress of the air felt gentler and more reassuring. The old familiarity of the landscape had been embellished with a mystique of newness, as though it was a place I’d never been before, yet also a place I should have come to long ago, a place designed for me.
Despite the midday sun, I started to forage. The morning’s trudge had left me hungry and thirsty, so I nibbled at leaves and sought out the clumps of grass that tried to hide in the odd patch of shade.
Although I found little food and no water, somehow it didn’t seem to matter. My hunger and thirst were subsumed by warm tinglings that originated around my heart then fizzed out to my legs, neck and head, freeing feelings that normally only came with a liberation. As I drifted from shrub to shrub, time seemed to stop, to become irrelevant.
So this was freedom. For the first time in my life, there was no archivist to control me, no walls to confine me, no tether to restrain me, no whip to coerce me, no path to lead me. I was free to wander wherever I wanted, tarrying or moving on as I chose, surveying the sights and sounds and scents of the scrub, measuring the lie of the land. I was no longer merely a carrier of archivist burdens or a servant to archivist whims, and I was no longer defined by some fanciful name hung round my neck. Whatever I had known before had gone; this day marked the beginning of the life I was supposed to lead. Now I only had to find Elysion, and everything would be perfect.
By the time I stopped my foraging, the sun was sinking behind the hills. Standing in the open, soothed by the drifting cool air, I was away from the shadows yet somehow still close to everything around me. As the sky darkened, the speckle of stars brightened, then inched across the blackness.
I started to bray into the night. Anyone — donkey or otherwise — that heard me would know I was free. Just as Zoë had had the freedom to express herself in dance, so I had the freedom to express myself in voice, without risking the whip. I hoped that somehow Zoë would hear me and come to join me and add her voice to mine. After all, it had been her dance of life that had inspired me to take my freedom, and it would be fitting if she were to live it with me.
By the time I stopped braying, my voice was hoarse.
• • •
The next morning drifted by like the gentlest breeze. I knew from Theodore that Elysion was close, so it seemed that I only needed to keep on foraging and sooner or later I would arrive.
During the hottest part of the day, I rested in the shade of an evergreen oak. I still hadn’t found any water, and while food was easier to find, it was all dust-dry: the pale-yellow grass was wood-tough, the rugged bark crumbled as I pulled it from the shrub, and the brown-edged leaves flaked in my mouth. I knew that once in Elysion, I’d be able drink as and when I desired, but I was also aware that thirst never waited for any donkey. The conclusion was clear: I had to find Elysion as soon as possible.
When I left the shade, I pointed my nose towards the dome of the nearest hill and, even though I was now free to roam as leisurely as I chose, I took up the rhythm of the trudge. As I went, my mood rose and fell with the land, rising with hope as I climbed to a ridge, falling again when I reached the summit and saw no sign of Elysion on the other side. Yet I knew my fortunes could change in a whipcrack.
• • •
That evening, I imposed my defiance on the darkness, reminding the world of my voice and that in the morning my search would continue unabated.
Despite not being a mountain creature, I would climb the hill.
• • •
It was only with the coming of the light that I realised the enormity of my task. The dome-shaped hill towered over me; I’d never been so close to anything so huge. For a donkey weakened by thirst, it seemed too high to climb.
Then I recalled the verve and panache of Zoë’s dance of life, and resolve refilled me. Even though I had neither the power of a horse nor the agility of a goat, I still had four sturdy legs. I scanned the slopes for the easiest way up and traced a route to a spur protruding out from the hillside. Although it was barely halfway up the hill, I realized that from this spur I’d still have the vantage point of an eagle, and would surely be able to see Elysion, wherever it lay.
When I finally reached the spur, I inched towards the edge until —
There it was, the whole world laid out before me, a vast panorama stretching from one horizon to the other, glowing hazily under the midday sun. I had never been so high before, never seen so far.
For a long time, I scanned the land for the fertile fields of Elysion. Yet I could see no verdure in the mottle of burnt yellows and sun-bleached browns, no bright colour in the gleaming smear. Even now, standing on top of the world, Elysion remained beyond the horizon.
After what seemed like the duration of a trudge, something wrenched me out of my despair: a dark blotch. Far closer than I thought it possible.
It wasn’t Elysion, and Zoë wouldn’t be there, but in that blotch I could imagine water, and wholesome food, and company. After two days of freedom, I was ready to ignore the other things that might also be waiting there, like the tails of a whip, the weight of a burden, or the drudgery of a trudge.
It wasn’t Elysion, but right now it seemed like paradise.
• • •
When I entered the shade of the tamarisks, a fanfare of cicada song was resonating from the branches. Theodore was sitting with Georgius on the doorstep of the shelter, holding his hat in one hand and drinking from a ceramic flask in the other. I rushed for the trough.
I was already drinking when they noticed me. As they hurried over, I edged away along the trough without removing my mouth from the cool water. I was determined to exploit every last moment before Theodore’s whip cracked out its punishment.
As they came up to me, I directed my gaze down, as subserviently as I could, towards the quivering surface of dark water, towards the hard wall of trough stone. I was determined: I would take it like the noblest equine.
The cicada song stopped.
I closed my eyes.
I braced my back.
“Buridan! You’ve come back to me!” At the touch of Theodore’s first pat, my neck quivered. He started hugging me, and when I opened my eyes, his smile was there, right in my face. “I knew you would. You show up as soon as I return to the hermitage. Were you waiting for me?”
As much as this welcome flooded me with relief, my nose was swamped in disgust: the last two days had done nothing to subdue his stench.
“You should whip him.” Georgius was right beside us now, a whip offered in his outstretched hand, its tails hanging down between his bony fingers like steel snakes. “Hard and right away.”
Even though my hooves started shuffling, I continued to drink as fast as I could.
“Whip him? Certainly not.” Theodore finally released my neck, turned to face the hermit. “All he did was make his bid for freedom, and that’s natural for any creature with self-respect.”
“Still, you need to remind him of his place, and emphasise that his escapade hasn’t changed it. Whipping him is the best way to do that.”
“I don’t think you understand him at all. He’s just demonstrated he’s no longer a stupid, stubborn donkey, and he shouldn’t be whipped for that. He’s nothing like Buridan’s ass anymore.”
“Well, maybe you should be calling him Sisyphus, like the rest of us.”
My ears twitched. It seemed a lifetime ago that I’d last heard my old name. Theodore was laughing, but — yet again — I didn’t understand why.
“Sisyphus is the perfect name for him,” Georgius continued. “He carries a tome all the way to Krestena, and then he carries it all the way back. For him the tome is meaningless ballast, so his task is as pointless and arduous as Sisyphus’ task of rolling a rock up a hill.”
Still laughing, Theodore came over to me. I was hoping he would give me another new name. I’d never liked ‘Sisyphus’, as I couldn’t stand its sound; to my sensibilities, its smooth sibilance was sticky and slimy, like stream mud that sought to switch residence. In any case, now it seemed out of date, like a throwback to last year’s harvest.
“Don’t listen to him,” Theodore laugh-whispered into my ear. “I know you’re much more than a four-legged Sisyphus, and I’ve no doubt that one day you’ll show me all you can do and earn the name you deserve. In fact, I’ll take you with me, back to Krestena, this very afternoon.”
My ears started twitching. One thing the last two days had taught me was that Krestena was a far more desirable destination than Elysion.
“You can carry the pens and parchments I need to gather new information about the harvest practices. How does that sound …?”
He finished with a strange word I didn’t catch. Maybe that word was my new name, a pointer to my future, or maybe it was as inconsequential as the buzz of a fly. But I wasn’t paying attention, as I was already back in Krestena, at the edge of the crowded square, waiting for Zoë to emerge from the smelly human sea.