The Arkadians by Lloyd Alexander
"Oho, what's this?" cried the third. "A wandering jackass! Just what we need."
Next thing I knew, I was tethered to a tree. At first, I considered speaking up and explaining that I was no jackass at all; but I thought better of it, fearing these ruffians would take me for some freak of nature, and no telling what they might do.
So, I held my tongue until I could take stock of my situation. They did not hold theirs, talking openly among themselves as if I were a dumb beast. I listened in growing dismay, for they were plotting no less than robbery and murder.
There was, I gathered, a com dealer, Kroton, living on his country estate not far from here. It was whispered about that he kept sacks of gold squirreled away under his floorboards. These villains intended burglarizing him. After dispatching him and his servants, they would require means of carrying off the heavy sacks and any other valuables. My accidental arrival resolved this difficulty, for it was I who would bear the burden of their ill-gotten gains.
They, and I with them, kept hidden until deepest dark of night. Goading me along, whacking me whenever I tried to hold back, they stopped in the forecourt of the house. The vile scheme they were about to undertake outraged my every moral fiber, conscience, and scruples furthermore, the despicable criminals had neither fed nor watered me-and I formed a plan I hoped would defeat them, at possible risk to myself, though with possible gain, as well.
While one stood guard outside, holding me at a rope's end, his disgusting companions cleverly and silently sprung open the door. Now, for me, came the crucial moment. As soon as the pair disappeared inside the house, I suddenly reared up, kicking and bucking, shouting at the top of my voice: "Help, ho! Murder! Robbery! Come, friends, all ten of you. Trap them within. Don't let them escape, strike them down without mercy!"
"The first result of my outburst was to startle and terrify the robber beside me, and he dashed off with never a thought for his comrades. The second result was to rouse Kroton and his household and to alarm the robbers, who believed themselves ambushed. They raced from the house, the servants at their heels.
"Kroton himself now appeared, wrapped in his night linen and brandishing a butcher knife. Having urged his servants to pursue the robbers, he turned to me.
"Those villains may escape," he raged, "but not you, their accomplice. I'll have my revenge if not on them at least on you."
"Eager to vent his wrath even on an innocent animal, he started toward me with every intention of cutting my throat.
"Stop, stop!" I exclaimed. "It was I who gave the outcry that saved your life and your gold."
Indeed, he halted in his tracks, dumbfounded. Confident of his gratitude and assistance, I hastened to assure him I was the harmless victim of a great misfortune and implored his help. He gradually calmed, and when I finished, he scratched his head, studied me shrewdly, and declared: "A remarkable, incredible tale. If I didn't know I was awake, I'd think I was asleep. Have no fear, let me consider what best to do for you."
"Before the servants came back, he warned me against speaking to anyone but himself and led me to an empty grain shed where I impatiently spent the rest of the night looking forward to what he would do to help me.
"In the morning, Kroton returned. He put a halter around my neck and instructed me to come with him to the village adjoining his property. My heart leaped, for I assumed he would take me to the local wise-woman; but, when I told him this, he laughed and said: TU have no dealings with those frightful crones. No, my fine fellow, you're going to make a fortune. For me, that is."
"When we arrived at the little marketplace, the meaning of Kroton's unsettling words became all too clear.
"Gather round," he called out to the local idlers and passersby. "Come and hear the amazing talking jackass, the only one of his kind in the world. With utmost patience, I've taught the brute to speak, which he does with greatest eloquence. Do you doubt it?" Kroton continued while the crowd burst out in cries of disbelief. "I'll wager money on the truth of what I claim."
"And I'll wager all in my purse that you're hoaxing us," retorted a bystander, flinging down a number of silver coins. The others followed his example, eager to wager that Kroton was trying to trick them.
"Don't you contradict me," Kroton muttered in my ear. "Do as you're told or so much the worse for you. Now, go on. Say something. Recite one of your verses, lacking anything better."
"Outraged by Kroton's treachery and ingratitude, determined to have my revenge, I only wheezed and heehawed like any common ass.
"At this, the crowd began hooting and jeering, accusing Kroton of being a liar or out of his wits. They picked up their money and demanded that he pay off his part of the wager.
"He can speak, he can speak as well as any of you," protested Kroton. "I had a talk with him only this morning."
"While the crowd threatened bodily harm if he reneged, Kroton pummeled and kicked me, shaking his fist, ordering me to prove him right. I, however, stood mute as a stone.
"I warned you," shouted Kroton. "Treacherous poet! To the knackers yard, to the slaughterhouse with you! I'll have the hide off your back for a rug and boil your hooves into glue, and get that much from you, in any case."
"Hold on there," put in a rough-bearded man Cerdo, as I later learned. "That's wasting a perfectly serviceable jackass. I need a pack beast, and I'll give you enough to make good on what you owe these folk before they take you yourself to the knacker."
"Done and done!" returned Kroton, snatching Cerdo's cash with one hand and giving him my halter with the other. "Take him away. Beat him within an inch of his life and beyond, for all I care. Never again will I trust a poet."
"So it was," concluded Fronto, "that I fell into the clutches of Cerda. He subjected me to the painful indignity of branding his mark on my rump with a red hot iron, setting the seal of my slavery to him. From then on, my life at the hands of that brute was nothing but cudgeling, starvation, endless toil-a donkey's a sturdy creature, but with such mistreatment my days were surely numbered. Until you, my dear Lucian, set me free; for which I am eternally grateful.
"But here," Fronto added, "our ways must part: I, to keep on with my search; you, wherever your own road leads. I'm too sentimental a fellow for long good-byes, so let us simply take brief but fond leave of each other. I wish you the best of good fortune. Should you ever meet another donkey, I trust you'll do as well for him as you've done for me. You never know who he might be."
5 - Joy-in-the-Dance
"Wait," Lucian called as Fronto started from the clearing. "You can't roam around by yourself. You'll be grabbed again. I'll stay with you until we find a healer."
"A generous offer," said Fronto, "but you have your own troubles. You're not the most popular fellow in Arkadia. If those soothsayers lay hold of you, they'll carve you like one of their chickens. Also, you made off with Cerdo's property and he's a vengeful sort. You'd best find some backwater hamlet and quietly hole up there. I'll manage. As a poet, I'm accustomed to the seamy side of life."
"You're a donkey now," said Lucian. "You have a point," said Fronto, "and even a poet must occasionally bow to logic. Yes, I'll be grateful for your company. Come, then. I suggest we find whatever poor excuse for a road they have in these parts."
Fronto picked his way through the undergrowth and struck on a path leading away from Metara. Lucian, at first, kept glancing over his shoulder, as if Calchas, Phobos, and Cerdo were about to pounce on him at any moment. As the morning wore on, however, he began striding more lightheartedly. He laughed at a gray squirrel sitting on its haunches, forepaws folded, looking like one of the old palace archivists. He glimpsed a hard shelled beetle armored like a warrior. He had never heard such chirping and whistling as he heard from the many different birds in the woods. But what fascinated him most was his companion trotting along beside him.
At last he ventured to ask, "Fronto, tell me. How did you get to be a poet?"
"I haven't the least notion," replied Fronto. "I didn't get to be;
"Poets are born, not made."
"It isn't something you acquire like a skin rash."
"That's all there is to it?"
"Certainly not. One should learn the nature of odes, anthems, apostrophes, and so on. And, of course, the proper use of metaphor, simile, metathesis, just to begin.
"Then, epithets, your nice little ready-made phrases: rosy-fingered dawn, sandy shores, wine-dark seas. They've been stock-in-trade for time out of mind."
"You don't have to think them up?"
"Originality?" Fronto shuddered. "Heavens, no. Why risk upsetting anyone? These are tried and true, sure to please. You can cobble up whole epics from them. Next, the matter of rhyme schemes, rhythmic, dactyls, anapests, spondees-"
"You know all that?"
"Of course not. I only mean one should. If I ever escape this ridiculous carcass, I might devote a little time to studying them. They do come in handy. Prose, however, is a different piece of business. Tales, anecdotes, narratives. All quite simple. Any fool can tell a story. Take a few odds and ends of things that happen to you, dress them up, shuffle them about, add a dash of excitement, a little color, and there you have it."
"You could tell the story of your turning into a jackass," Lucian said. "That's an amazing tale just as it is."
"No," said Fronto. "Too bizarre, grotesque, unpleasant. But, to give you an example, I could build a tale from, say, the moment I looked into the pool. Instead of me, it would be a handsome fellow, a conceited young fop who gazes so closely at his own reflection that he falls in and drowns. Instead of an ass, he's transformed into-oh, some kind of beautiful flower. That's more charming than a donkey and would go down better with the audience. And-ah, yes, he has a sweetheart who pines away until she's a mere shadow of herself. I'd have to work it out, but you grasp the method."
"Here's a good idea for you," said Lucian. "How I found a mistake in my inventories and had to run off before Calchas and Phobos got hold of me."
"Boring," said Fronto. "Forgive me, I'm yawning already. Conflict, struggle, suspense-that's what's needed to make a tale move along. You don't just run off. They seize you. You fight them with all your strength, almost win; but they bind you hand and foot, get ready to chop you up with meat cleavers. You escape in the nick of time. I don't know how. That's a technical detail."
"It didn't happen that way," Lucian protested.
"My point exactly," said Fronto. "All the more reason to spice it up. The meat cleavers are an especially nice touch."
"But it wouldn't be true."
"Not important," said Fronto. "If a storyteller worried about the facts-my dear Lucian, how could he ever get at the truth?"
Over the next several days, Lucian began to despair of finding a wise-woman. In some hamlets, the folk were devoted to the Lady; they would have helped him, but the local healers had fled, no one knew where. In other villages, the dwellers belonged to the Bear tribe; the men scorned anything to do with the Lady and drove him off with curses, plus a few rocks to speed him on his way.
One afternoon, he stopped in a village to buy food with the last of his coins. Smarting from previous welcomes, he was cautious and roundabout in asking information. Prepared for yet another disappointment, he was happily surprised when the shopkeeper drew him aside and whispered that an old wise-woman lived on a patch of farmland only a league down the road.
Needing to hear no more, Lucian ran from the shop. So far, he had walked beside Fronto, feeling it was somehow disrespectful to ride on a poet. Now, while the shopkeeper kept waving and shouting after him, he jumped on Fronto's back and they set off at a gallop.
He found the place easily enough and smelled it before he saw it. Smoke billowed from the windows. The farmhouse roof blazed. Warriors were thrusting torches into sheds and outbuildings. Fronto reared in alarm. Lucian tumbled off. By the time he scrambled to his feet, the troop captain had ridden up to him.
"You." The officer pointed a short-bladed sword. He was a burly man, sweating in a leather breastplate, his helmet tilted on the back of his head. "What's your business here?"
Lucian stared. The buildings were past saving, along with anyone inside. The shopkeeper, he realized, had tried to warn him.
"Who are you?" The captain leaned from the saddle and squinted at Lucian. "Let's have a better look." He climbed down and gripped Lucian's shirtfront. "I've seen that face before. Where? Metara? The palace?"
"Me? In a palace? Don't I wish it." Lucian smiled innocently, trying to keep himself from shaking with fright at the same time. "I'm going to visit my Uncle Dimitrios. He's laid up with rheumatism something terrible. The dampness, you see, when the roof started leaking. He needs someone-"
"Leave off all that. You tell me quick: What do you want with the old hag that lived here?"
"Sir, I lost my way. I turned off to ask directions. I don't know anything about hags."
"Good thing you don't," said the officer, shoving him aside. "All right, clear out. On foot, my lad. One of my pack mules pulled up lame. I need a fresh one. This jackass is officially commandeered. He's a royal ass now.
"Throw a rope on the beast," the captain ordered two of his warriors. "Take him to the village. We're done here."
"Get your hands off him." Lucian flung himself against the nearest warrior and sent him stumbling back; then spun around to grapple with the other. Fronto bucked and shied away. Lucian flailed wildly with his fists, pummeling so furiously that his bewildered opponent lost his balance and dropped to one knee. Darting to Fronto's side, Lucian swung a leg over the poet's haunches.
The troop captain, shrugging as if obliged to deal with a tiresome hindrance, brought up his sword and launched a sweeping, backhanded blow. Struck with the flat of the blade, Lucian pitched to the ground, stunned out of his wits.
By the time he remembered how to operate his arms and legs, the warriors were already far down the road. He lurched after them, shaking his fists and hurling threats. He managed only half a dozen floundering steps before tumbling down again.
"I saw them take your donkey," remarked a light voice behind him. "Let's see what damage they did to you."
Lucian turned to stare into the gray eyes of a slender, long-legged girl, her braided hair the color of ripe wheat. She stood, hands on hips, observing him with concern, curiosity, and a little glint of wry amusement. At sight of her, Lucian felt some difficulty catching his breath. Despite a sudden giddiness, he straightened up, squared his shoulders, and hoped to give the impression that he was sitting on the turf only because he wanted to. "I was watching from the bushes," the girl went on. "That officer gave you quite a whack."
"I'd have given him worse," Lucian retorted. "Sneaking coward. He hit me when I wasn't looking."
"The most sensible time to do it, from his viewpoint. Just be glad you're not missing a head. Here, swallow this. You'll feel better."
From the cloak slung around her shoulders, the girl produced a small phial and poured the contents into Lucian's mouth, then knelt to examine the result of the sword blow.
"I was looking for the wise-woman." Lucian grimaced at the bitter taste of the liquid. "Someone told me she lives here."
"Not anymore. She was warned in time. She's safe away. As I'll be, once I'm done with you."
"Are you a healer?"
"That depends on what needs healing. In your case, not much. I'm called Joy-in-the-Dance. And you?"
"Aiee! Ouch!" cried Lucian as her fingers probed a tender spot behind his ear.
"Odd name." The girl gave a teasing grin. "Well, then, Aiee-Ouch, you'll mend. Put cold water on that lump. Nothing more to be done."
"The healer's not for me. For my donkey."
"Your donkey's gone. Or don't you remember?"
"I'll get him back. No matter what I have to do. They took him to the village. I'm going after him."
"And then? Knock down the whole troop? Not likely. You'd do better to find another. There's no sh
"He's not a donkey," Lucian snapped. "He's my friend. I mean, my friend's a donkey now. But he's not himself. He used to be himself-"
"I think I gave you too much of that willow extract," the girl said. "He needs a wise-woman, a healer, anyone who can help him."
"He's sick? What with?"
"Not sick. He's fine. No, he isn't. He's a poet. Was a poet."
"So far," said Joy-in-the-Dance, "you're making no sense at all. Start with this: Who are you? That shouldn't be too difficult. Once you've managed that, you might get around to telling me how your poetic donkey comes into it."
"My name's Lucian. When I was in the palace, in Metara-"
"What?" burst out Joy-in-the-Dance. "You're one of the king's people? Spying for Bromios? Hunting down wise-women? I should have left you to mend your own head."
"No, no," Lucian broke in. "I ran away. I had to. They'd have murdered me."
"I'll do worse than that if you don't give me some better answers."
"I'm trying to explain," Lucian flung back. "You keep mixing me up. We're here because Fronto-the donkey had an accident when he was a poet."
"Aiee-Ouch, I'm running out of patience."
"How it began, you see, before I met Fronto-" Lucian hesitated. Something peculiar was happening to him. Facing this wheat-haired, gray-eyed girl, he suddenly felt, among other sensations, that he was a very dull fellow, with his dull beans and dull inventories. It became urgently important to put himself in a more interesting light, as any young man in his position would have done.
So, recalling Fronto's advice about storytelling, he cleared his throat and offered the following account.
6 - The Invisible Dinner
"I was chief scribe in the king's great palace high above the sandy shores of the wine-dark sea," said Lucian. "One day, at rosy-fingered dawn, my duties took me into a storeroom to count-to inspect, that is-tall jars of oil. I was just coming from behind a row of these jars when the royal soothsayers, Calchas and Phobos, entered, and, with them, one of the provisioners to the royal household, a merchant named Cerdo.