by T K Foster
The burros were no different to any Billy had ever seen before, that being none. In fact, he had no idea what a burro even was. For all he knew it could have been a twelve legged arachnid with a broken wing saddled up and ready to ride. The creatures that were stabled before him though were simply donkeys with a difference.
Ballders had guided the party of four down the path from his house to the stables, where at the opposite side of the fenced off paddock there was a narrow gate which opened out into the wilderness.
“It is here that we part ways me good fellows,” he said with a hint of sadness in his voice.
“Indeed, we thank you greatly for your hospitality,” Billy answered quite eloquently with a smile.
Ballders scowled. “I was talking to me burros actually.”
“Oh,” Billy said and looked away. “Do they talk back?” he quipped.
“Aye, they do for sure, but they won’t be talking to any of ye lot.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I’ve advised them not to.”
Ballders shook his head and started back up the path toward his house. It was still dark by the time the four of them and their burros had reached the gate, and by the time they had all exited Ballders’ property in a single file the first light of day was glowing on the horizon.
So.... Onward they trekked.
Briar led the way atop Baby, who just for a laugh, alongside his brothers, had thrown the chubby pig-boy first in the stable and then again just outside the doors. He knew he had a journey to take and he liked to take long walks, so he figured he would hold back on any more throwing until the opportune moment when they were all far enough away that there was no threat of being replaced by one of the more courteous animals in the event that piggy might take to squealing.
Following up behind Briar were Cetra and Billy bouncing along atop of two burros to which no names had yet been spoken of. Although such was the case, for the sake of the burros’ part, they were known as Tap and Shovel. Tap being the bearer of Billy and Shovel barely bearing the lighter weight of Cetra.
The fourth burro which carried the Irish weight of Barret was oddly named Stern; possibly given to him because of his personal tendency to remain at the rear of the party.
As the day progressed the terrain hardly altered. By the time night came again they had set up camp.
“Travelled a whole boring day and nothing to show ‘cept a sore saddle,” Barret complained.
They sat around a blazing fire which Billy had built for them all and ate the leftovers of last night’s stew so graciously prepared for them by their odd friend Ballders.
“Did I say it was just around the corner?” Briar answered sarcastically.
“I did enjoy my day very much,” Cetra spoke to disperse the prospective argument. “It was very relaxing, and my burro was very comfortable. He even whispered his name to me. But I cannot tell you what it is because I promised I would not. He does think he might get in trouble from his brothers because they were told not to talk to us. But I have never had trouble getting anyone to talk to me.” Cetra finished with a spoonful of stew. She was very happy to be in such wonderful company.
The three boys continued to stare in silence, and then they all took a spoonful of stew at the same time.
“This is a good fire Billy,” Briar complemented, reaching his stubby hand out to warm it.
“Back home I was a boy scout,” Billy said.
“Back home everyone was a boy scout,” Barret said.
“So what is a boy scout? Thank you boys,” Cetra asked with a giggle.
For the next seven hundred and twenty hands or thereabouts, the conversation centred round Billy’s stories of everything from knot tying to abseiling, from orienteering to camping, from archery to canoeing; all the things that were typically exciting about scouting were touched upon. Badges, friendships, ghost stories, bonfires, pigeons....
“Pigeons?” questioned Barret.
“Our troop had its own pigeons,” Billy answered, “we used to race them.”
“What is a pigeon that you can race it?” asked Cetra.
“It’s a bird.”
By now Briar was on the edge of his seat.... or dirt, either way he was evidently excited over the stories of boy-scoutdom. “If you told a bird to race here,” he shrieked and snorted, “it’d tell you where to go.”
Barret agreed with a nod and an uh-huh, which was a real surprise considering the lack of common ground between himself and the pig-boy. “Animals here think they have a right to voice their opinions just because they can talk,” he said, “and just because they can talk they think that we have an obligation to actually listen to them.”
“But,” Billy started, “half the people I’ve seen here look like animals. I mean, partly like animals. Like Briar.”
“I do not,” Briar protested.
“Yes you do,” Barret said, casting aside that common ground.
Briar pounced to his feet, which was rather a humorous sight, and stared up at Barret who was still seated. “No I don’t,” he yelled,” Make me you topey stupid.”
“Make you what? You look like a pig.”
“Oh.” Briar fell silent for a moment and sat back on the ground. “I thought you meant an animal animal.”
The three of them, Barret, Billy and Cetra, eyeballed one another and grinned. They allowed the moment to pass and Barret made a wise choice to let the opportunity for argument go, which was much to the approval of Billy and Cetra.
As the previous conversation got underway once again, Billy was able to say little before Barret jumped in with his own sarcastic rendition and memories of helping grannies across the road, washing cars and selling biscuits, mowing other people’s lawns and raking up other people’s leaves. He fed their senses with the things he had hated the most about being a boy scout, but which he’d been forced to endure by his father who had been a scout leader.
This in turn led the other three to turn away and fall asleep.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN