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Serpentine Road Prayer
As you travel this road
May your worries be shed
And your creative muse
Take its place in their stead.
First Steps
The tender flesh of a child’s soles
Tread deftly on the sand;
Its gentle give and abundant support
Allow a child to stand.
But far too oft’ a child’s forced
To run among the stones,
And then through life the scars remain
From the child’s broken bones.
We processed through into the city, behind a troupe of acrobats dressed in clashing outfits, and in front of a band of musicians. Part of me longed for the quiet of the campsite as the drum and triangle banged constantly. And just as we entered the gate, about to break free from the pounding, the guard bellowed, “Heh you! Halt!”
I felt Promise’s indecision beneath me. He wanted to bolt, but wisely opted to obey. The Hulk-sized guard moved in front of Promise and pointed to the pick and pan. “What the heck is that for?”
“Not for cleaning my teeth,” Promise replied under his breath, but aloud said, “For gold panning, of course, Sir. Word got out there was gold in this place.”
The guard threw back his head and roared, “It’s not that kind of gold!” His oversized belly jiggled as he laughed.
Promise’s head fell as if someone tugged it from below. I could see his dreams bursting right before us. “For Midas’s sake, how many kinds of gold are there?” I asked as I dismounted.
“I’d say at least two,” the guard replied. “Now unstrap that equipment and leave it at the gate. There’s no telling what could happen with those raucous beasts.”
Promise’s nostrils flared as he blew out his agitation. I knew it took all that he could muster to keep from turning around and landing his two hind hooves in the guard’s midsection. But such an act would probably only get us both landed in jail. And who knew what the penal system was like in this fantasyland. If it were anything like my dreams, we’d both be beheaded! So, I obeyed the command, untying the equipment and placing it near the gate. Then I whispered to Promise, “We don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. I’m only here because of you.”
But he responded, “I’m not giving that lughead the satisfaction of seeing me leave. Now let’s go before he decides to search my saddlebag. E put items in there that could get us into some serious trouble with that half-witted he-man.”
Fortunately the guard found another target, so Promise and I moved on without further search or interrogation. “So, what kind gold do you think they’re talking about?” I asked as we made our way down what looked like the main street of the community.
“Like I know? Seems like the old and bait-and-switch, in my opinion. Just a ruse to get people to come. Maybe they get you in, but they don’t let you out.”
“Now come on Promise, why’d you have to say that? What if that’s true? I have the teleporter to help me escape, but what about you?”
“I’m kidding. What in the world would they want with all of these people? A lifetime supply of blood?”
I stopped and Promise kept on walking and talking. After about thirty some feet he realized he walked solo, and he turned to look for me. I refused to move any further into the city. What if he was right? The sudden appearance of this city in the midst of the sacred Valley of Bones made no sense. People were lured into its confines like sheep into a corral. With images of a slaughter developing in my mind, I knew I needed to leave and leave now – with or without Promise, but I desperately hoped he joined me. I had no clue how to get back to the campsite.
Like parties in a duel we stood stock still facing each other, neither one of us moving toward the other. I could be as stubborn as he, even with his close relation to the mule. As people are wont to do in a city, they walked around and for the most part, ignored us. Tiring of the stand off I decided to test Promise’s allegiance. I turned and headed for the gate, willing Promise to follow, but not looking back to see if he did. As I passed through the city’s entrance I released my breath. So, we weren’t prisoners – just a matter of Promise being Promise. Nonetheless, I was relieved to be free from the chaos. Now the question became, was he behind me? It wasn’t until the sounds of city waned that I heard his hoofprints not too far behind. I stopped and waited for him to catch up.
“You need to grow a backbone, you know,” he said to me.
“And you need to stop trying to be so tough. But if it means anything, I’m glad you’re here.”
“That’s because you have the sense of direction of a drunken sailor. Now get on my back so we can make some time.”
Before I mounted I stood next to him and stroked his ears, “I’m sorry there’s no chance of you making it rich.”
He allowed me to continue and said, “That’s okay. Retirement’s not what it’s cracked up to be anyway.”
“Peek-a-boo!”
I yelped then cursed myself for not zipping the tent flap. “Good morning Promise.”
“It may be a good morning for you, but it’s certainly not for me.” He snorted and pawed at the ground.
I was afraid to hear the answer to my next question, but I knew I better ask, “Why is that; didn’t you sleep well?”
He lifted his head, the tips of his long ears bending as they touched the tent’s roof. “Sleep? Sleep? Who can sleep when there’s money to be made? Someone opened a packet of insta-city and all through the night there’s been non-stop construction. And rumor has it, there’s gold in them there dunes!”
“What in the world would you do with money?”
He said with his donkey smile, “I’d buy a few acres in Arizona, a lifetime supply of premium oats, a groomer, and then find a fine looking Jenny to settle down with. No more playing taxi on your human’s road to self-awareness.”
“Gee thanks. So then why are you even doing this if you hate it so much?”
“Now don’t get your bun in a twist. I never said I hated it. And this certainly beats packing goods and people up and down the Grand Canyon, but we donkeys look forward to retirement just as much as the next mammal. Now, are you going to help an old burro out or not? Afterall, I risked death by fire just to get you here.”
“Help you out with what?” I asked.
“A sign to the city reads, ‘No donkeys allowed unless accompanied by a human.’ And there are guards posted at every entrance. I don’t know what they’re so afraid of, just ‘cause the last time we got invited to a party some of us had a bit too much cider. We only knocked in a few walls. That Bray certainly has some power in his buck once you get him going – and he’s never been one to hold his cider. But that’s neither here nor there ‘specially since there is where I need to be, and I can’t get there without you.”
“Well, if you give me thirty minutes – no make that ten, I’ll be ready.”
“Heh, thanks. I’ll meet you over by the hay bale,” he said as he backed out of my tent.
Not that I even needed that long. With no shower and no change of clothes (both matters I definitely needed to deal with soon), I only had to brush my hair, and that took about thirty seconds. For the remaining minutes I just sat on my sleeping bag, trying to make sense of all that transpired since I left the tavern. Was this all one magnificent dream? Had someone slipped a drug into my drink and as a result I’ve been hallucinating for the last few days? Or was there just no sense to be made? That somehow I landed in this alternate reality where donkeys talk and dream of becoming millionaires and emaciated women from the distant past visit you while you sleep. Whatever it was, the madness was about to continue as I walked over to Promise who stood several hundred feet away from my tent munching on hay with gold pan and pick tied to the back of his saddle.
“So nice of you to grace me with your presence,” he said as he gave a mock bow.
I turned as if to walk back toward the tent, and said, “You know, that reminds me, I told Clara I’d meet her for breakfast this morning.” Not that I knew anyone by the name of Clara here.
“Well considering no one else is even in this campsite at the moment, it seems as if you’ve been stood up. Now get on, and let’s go.”
I said nothing and mounted onto his back, not with the greatest of ease. After miles of riding yesterday, my legs were a little sore from their unaccustomed position. I can’t remember the last time I rode any four-legged animal, muchless a donkey. At first Promise took off at a fast trot, probably afraid if he didn’t hurry all the gold would be gone, but the pan-handling equipment kept hitting him on his flank, so he slowed – thankfully – to a brisk walk. Riding his trot was like riding a jackhammer.
With his gait slowed, and therefore less concentration needed on my part to simply stay in the saddle, I was free to enjoy the scenery. The bright morning sun reflecting on the sand in the valley made me wonder if gold rested right under our feet, not a consideration worth mentioning to Promise. The terrain remained the same as on the approach to the campsite, but this time, as we reached the peak of what was probably the third mountainous hill I subconsciously pulled on Promise’s reins. He obliged and stopped.
Below looked like the set of The Gypsies Meet Manhattan. Several tall buildings dominated the landscape, as a seemingly endless stream of minstrels, acrobats, and tinkers, among others, wended their way toward the gated community. The energy penetrating from this new development was stronger than any morning cup of coffee. Without waiting for my signal (no surprise there), Promise headed down the hill, merging into the line of entrants. I stayed on his back as we neared the main gate so as to get a better look at the circus that surrounded us, and I had to wonder if my life would ever be back to normal again.
I sat outside my tent until the chill night air sent me back into my sleeping bag. Although somehow I knew if I fell back to sleep I’d be haunted by the young, dark-haired woman once more, as night must follow day, sleep must, eventually, come. And while I was losing my battle against the inevitable, the throbbing of my thigh from the dream catcher’s branding warned of the girl’s impending visit.
I awaken to the stench of urine and sweat, the dank cold floor numbing my body. A wide hand pushes on my shoulder. Its owner leans over me and says, “’Ello dearie, come join the lot of us, eh?”
I turn from her hot, foul breath and strain to rise, but due to my lightheadedness, only manage to sit. “Where am I?” I ask.
“Well it sure ain’t no Buckin’am Palace m’lady,” says the woman. Other women around her laugh.
I look toward the voices. A set of bunk beds are pushed against the wall. Two women are perched on the bottom bunk; a third sits on the top and says, “The lady thinks she’s a princess!” which draws more laughter. None of them looks as though they’ve bathed in at least a week. Their faded blouses barely cover their shoulders, and their skirts are just as tattered. All but the rail thin one on the top bunk look as though they’d eaten well in their day. When I look to the right reality sets in: a wall of black iron bars encloses the room. “No! God help me; this can’t be right. I only wanted to feed the boy. Oh my Thomas, my Thomas. How will you find me?” I start to sob, the depth of my sorrow shakes my body, and like an unplugged dam I cannot stop. Through the deluge of my tears I continue to call for Thomas.
The foul-breathed woman leans over me, “Ain’t no Thomas ‘ere m’lady. ‘E your prince, eh? ‘E gonna come and rescue you? Might ‘e rescue me too?”
A fifth woman whom I did not see before, Amazonian in structure and less disheveled than her counterparts, steps in and pushes the speaker away. “Move away Mable. Leave the poor lass alone.”
“Aw Ruth, you ru’n all me fun.” But Mable complies and steps back a few feet.
I press down my sobs and work to compose myself as Mable tries to help me stand. She puts her arms under mine and lifts me from behind, but like the ragdoll I am, my legs fail to support me. She then cradles me in her arms and carries me to some bunks on the other side of the room.
“Don’t mind ‘em. They mean no ‘arm,” she says with the voice of a mother.
“Thank you,” I say, but she’s moved on to deal with Mable before the words can reach her.
With no other options, I turn toward the wall, curl into myself and cry, not the wrenching sobs of moments ago, but the quiet tears of despair.
Like an alarm, the clanging of the pots and pans outside my tent herald the morning’s arrival. I turn my face onto my pillow wanting to remain in the warmth of my cocoon for minutes longer, but the wetness of my pillow startles me…until I remember the dream. And then as I listen to the sounds of life around me, I wonder if I am done with the nightmares from the past. But something inside me makes me fear they’ve only just begun.
As much as I hate to admit it, Promise’s description of my accommodations proved to be right, except – thank goodness – for the meal part. Within minutes after arriving my neighbor offered me a bowl of the chili she’d made, as well as a few stale rolls for dipping. After gulping down the first bowl, she filled my bowl a second time, and I sat on the ground near her to savor my next helping. No more than five feet tall, and lines on her face telling of advanced age or repeated sun exposure, my benefactor, Myra, set up camp here months ago. Her ancient ancestors once lived in this valley, and she wanted to try to connect with them. But after 90-plus days without success, she said she needed to return home. A job and a family awaited her. As a result, she gifted me her fire pit and all of its accessories – kindling, water bucket, kettle, etc. Additionally, she informed me whom I should trust and avoid in the encampment, with repeated warnings about Gertrude who occupied the farthest tent to the north. Gertrude, a gypsy woman, tended to wander into unattended campsites and take whatever fancied her at the time. Myra claimed there was no rhyme or reason to Gertrude’s acquisitions, so if I had any possessions I cherished I should keep them well guarded. I made a note to myself to find my walnut shell and stow it safely in my pocket.
As the warmth of the campfire faded I thanked Myra for her generosity and wished her well on her trek home. I suspected somewhere along the way, once she moved outside of the valley, she’d make the connection she failed to make here, that perhaps her ancestors’ spirits fled or were exiled from the area. Even spirits have their issues.
With Promise settled in with his donkey friends, no doubt sharing stories about the incompetence of his human charge, I readied for bed. A tent was erected and a sleeping bag already laid out for me. Although Myra claimed she saw no one, she told me she went to the lake this afternoon for some water and she came back to see a new tent set up beside her own. I supposed it was E. She thinks of everything. Considering I was as prepared for this trip as a first year cub scout, I was grateful for E’s foresight.
Despite the hard ground, I knew sleep would come easily. Before I lost consciousness I rubbed the burn area on my thigh and wondered how on earth that could happen. None of it made sense – a dream catcher radiating the heat of an ember, though not inflamed…
He shivered in the corner of the room, his tattered clothes barely sufficient to cover his skin. Through the dim light, I saw his mother draw him close, trying to transfer what little body heat she had of her own to him. If only he could escape back into the womb from which he’d come less than three years ago, a place where warmth and sustenance flowed. But now, in this cell of a room, where rags served as windowpanes and dampness sent shivers through us all, there was no escaping. Roommates by circumstance as opposed to design, each of us here spoke little of what brought us to this place. And yet, despite my lack of connection to him, I feared for this child’s, this stranger’s life. But there was a part of me that wondered if somehow the alternative wouldn’t be a better option. How could I not? What future lay ahead for this young lad? Sewage-laden streets? Starvation? Pneumonia? Cholera? The possibilities were endless.
My husband and I, married but two months, have plans. Thomas just got hired in the cotton factory next door. He’s promised a room within their employees’ housing facility after he’s worked there a month, a room with real running water and heat. But for the fatherless boy and his mother, is there light beyond this cellar? I don’t know, but at the same time I realize I cannot sit and watch his light be extinguished. I must find him food. And I can’t wait until Friday for Thomas’ first pay. It’s been at least twenty-four hours since his last meal. If he goes without for much longer he will not survive.
I wrap my shaw around my shoulders. My knees ache from the dampness as I climb the stairs into the waning daylight. Last time we searched for food, the restaurant less than a block away had just emptied its garbage. We feasted on steak, potatoes, and green beans. After brushing off the coffee grounds and some other unidentifiable substance, we pretended we were patrons in the restaurant. The boy’s mother found some napkins for us to place in our laps; the floor served as our table, and what glimpse of the moonlight we could see, our candle. During those several minutes while the meal lasted, the foreign sound of laughter even visited our cellar.
But as I approach the restaurant this afternoon I know, at this early hour, I am not to be so lucky. The rear door to the restaurant’s kitchen stands open. A bread rack sits just outside the restaurant, waiting to be pulled inside. I hide behind the side of the building and look up and down the alley, but the streets are empty and no one comes out to retrieve the bread. Would they miss one loaf? Certainly God would forgive me; a boy’s life depends on it. I look again and then run to the rack, grab a loaf, but just as I move to race back to our room, a hand grabs the back of my dress.
“You thief! You scum! What right ‘ave you to steal our bread? The constable will deal with you!”
I struggle to free myself from his grip, but he grasps my arm and his strength is ten times mine. And then, as though all gravity disappeared, I collapse on the ground…
What? I sat up in my sleeping bag, disoriented, the burn on my leg throbbing. The tent was pitch black, but I felt I was not alone. I quickly unzipped and pushed open the flap to allow in the moonlight. I breathed, I think for the first time since awakening. Thankfully no one was in the tent but me. I stepped outside and tried to replay my dream. What nightmare had I captured? Who was the young woman with the long black curls? Just what had I gotten myself into?
“I hope you know where you’re going,” I said to Promise. “I see no signs of the encampment you mentioned.”
“Well, you have two choices. Trust me, or get off and find your own way.”
Considering the sun already retired for the day and the moon played hide-and-seek with the clouds, little light remained to show the way. And even if the moon shone as bright as the sun, I’d still have no idea where to go. Up one side of a hill and down the other, through a valley, then up another hill. Bones scattered everywhere. I wanted to fast forward to the encampment instead of replaying the same scene over and over again.
“I see you opted for the first,” Promise broke into my thoughts.
“What? Oh, yeah, but how much longer is it going to be? I could use a good meal and a good rest, and not necessarily in that order.”
“Where do you think you’re going, the Hilton? You’ll get a sleeping bag, a stretch of ground, and a bowl of mush – if you’re lucky.”
“Oh my God!” I screamed and jumped out of the saddle.
“What was that for?” Promise turned to look at me.
“The…the dream catcher. It…it burned my thigh!” I looked down at my jeans to see a brown semi-circle, as if I’d been branded, where moments ago the dream catcher rested on my leg.
“Say what? Get that devil’s device off my back before I turn and bolt for the tavern!” Promise demanded.
“But I can’t. It’s glowing red hot.”
“You have two minutes. Figure it out or you’ll be as abandoned as a sinking ship. And do I smell burning leather?”
I searched the ground and picked up a thin, hook-shaped bone, briefly apologizing to its owner for disturbing its rest. I wedged the bone between the horn and the catcher’s loop, and tossed the still glowing culprit to the ground. “There, it’s off.” I told Promise. Then I gently placed the makeshift tool back on the ground, as close to its original spot as possible. “Thanks,” I whispered.
“Now let’s get out of here. I don’t know what kind of trouble you stirred up with that contraption, and I don’t want to wait around to find out! Now get on my back and I’ll put it in high gear.”
I obeyed, just as anxious as my partner to escape from this nightmare, but after we reached the encampment and settled in for the night, I realized there was no escaping it, at least not for me.
“You know Promise, after seeing Almurta’s dream catcher I had an idea.”
“It’s about time.”
I stopped and faced him, “Do you always have to be so fresh?”
“Why, yes. I believe I do. For your information, the only reason I signed up for this tour was because they told me I’d be interacting with a human. If I wanted to walk for hours in silence, I’d have enlisted with the accountant’s group.”
“Well, excuse me for thinking. No one told me I’d have to entertain a talking mule!”
“It’s donkey.”
“What?” I asked.
“My parents were both donkeys, which makes me a donkey.”
“Whatever, can we get back to the dream catcher idea?”
“Like I could stop you.”
I sighed and continued, “What do you think would happen if I took my dream catcher out of the pack and hung it on the saddle as we walked through these fields? Any chance I’d catch a few of the dreams of the people whose bones inhabit this landscape?”
“I don’t know, but just in case you’re right, how about you wear it around your neck? Last thing I need is for some old geezer’s nightmare to come visiting me.”
“At least then you wouldn’t be so lonely.”
“Very funny.”
I moved to Promise’s side, dug in the saddle bag and pulled out the feathered hoop. As there was no real way for me to hang it around my neck, I looped it over the saddle horn.
“Mind if I ride for a while?” I asked Promise. “My legs could use a rest.”
“Sure, and then we’ll switch places.”
I ignored the comment and climbed on Promise’s back. The evening sun was making its final appearance as we headed toward our resting place for the night. By morning I hoped to catch a glimpse of dreams past.
“What is it with all these riddles? What on earth could I have lost in this place? My virginity? Well, not with any of these guys,” I say as I accidentally kick something that looks like a femur.
“How about your marbles?” Promise replies.
“What? I thought you were going to walk quietly behind me like a good little donkey and let me do my own thinking.”
“Well, maybe if you started taking this whole thing a bit more seriously I would.” He nudged me and I tripped forward onto my hands and knees.
“Heh! What was that for?”
“Your own good. Now get up and get serious.”
It’s bad enough I have to talk to a donkey, but does he have to be such a smart aleck? Are all donkeys like this? I tried to think what I lost of late and the only trait I could think of (besides my pride back at the abbey) was my motivation, especially in my writing. When Keiran and the girls were around I’d often share my pieces with them, and they’d laugh at all the right places, or tell me how talented I was. (Well, except for honest Hannah who never failed to point out all of my story’s shortcomings.)
Now, on most days, I only hear the cat mewing or the neighbor’s dog barking. And yes, I can send drafts by way of e-mail, but the written response somewhere in the translation loses its conviction without the accompanying laughter or exclamation. I don’t know, somehow without the audience, writing’s lost its appeal. And yet, deep down I know, writing is oxygen for my brain; without it I’ll suffocate. And though Elijah – unknowingly – helped me turn the corner on my outlook toward relationships, this issue remains unaddressed.
But as I look over this barren field, no motivation rises from its dust. Perhaps as we continue on this journey, the drive will return.
What is it with these talking donkeys? Roxanne, She Wolf and the other women are riding along carrying on conversations with their beasts like old friends, and here I am with a mute mule. A promise of extra oats or a few miles without me on his back, just walking alongside him, prompted no response. Being left alone with my thoughts as we travel through this skeletal wasteland is dangerous. All I imagine are bones reuniting with their counterparts, creating a whole, and wrapping their brittle fingers about my neck and everyone else is too busy conversing with their furry rides to even notice.
I told myself, for lack of anything worthier to offer at this early juncture in the journey, that the gift I would give to the Keeper of the Mine is a pledge to stay the course, regardless of what obstacles came my way, even deciding to name my donkey Promise as a reminder of my oath. Because it is my wont to turn away from a challenge, to back down when faced with adversity, I vowed to alter that habit. And yet, if I knew I could find my way back without too much trouble, I’d dismount right now and head for the tavern. It’s not like anyone would miss me. But my sense of direction was about as reliable as a broken compass, so I chose to – more had to – stay in the saddle. And yes, I had the walnut that made teleporting an option, but that choice for me would be the ultimate sign of surrender.
“Are you done with your self-absorption?” a voice asked.
“Who was that?” I asked, looking around me.
“Well, who do you think it was – God?” the voice responded. “It’s me; Promise. And what kind of name is that? What are you going to call me for short, Prom?”
“Wait,” I said. “You actually talk? Why the silent treatment then?”
“Heh, that wasn’t my idea; it was the Spirit Guides. They wanted to see if you were tough enough for the ride; they’d just as soon get rid of the dead weight early than have me waste my energy lugging you around only to find that halfway through you bag out and leave me riderless in the middle of nowhere. We donkeys can’t teleport you know.”
“Um, no, I didn’t know, but I guess I do now. And if you don’t like the name, we can think of a new one,” I suggested.
“Let me chew on that, and I’ll get back to you. And speaking of chewing, you owe me some extra oats. Now hop down, and get going with your investigation.”
“Investigation, but what am I looking for?”
“Beats me. I’m just a dumb mule.”
“Oh, sorry about that.”
Some passengers of the SS Vulcania have responded to the call of the piper and they are travelling overland, on Donkeys. Each night at twelve midnight donkeys wait in the stable behind the Swan and Rose Inn, ready to take newcomers on the increasingly, well todden road most travelled.To Travel With A Donkey is to accept the challenge and embark on a fantastical journey that will irrevocably change you. This is the chance to work with Enchanteur and drink magical mead from the cauldron of creativity
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