Chapter Text
Dishonesty was part of his design.
An empty mind in an empty tavern. A distant throb of carnival lights pulsing through a broken window; a billiard table; the bitter aftertaste of cheap stout. That was where he sat and watched. Ten balls down, six to go, with a drag of tobacco between strikes from a cigar they shared between them. With each chalking of the cue, a chill fluttered the door. It was off its hinges; how the whole world was about to be.
Fifteen balls down. Another quick swill of beer to celebrate, while he watched. He watched with his hollow eyes and painted-on grin. One last strike to send the cue ball down, and then a hitch. A bark; a scream in the back of the throat. Then, quiet. Only the squeak of chalk against the cue. Another puff to settle the nerves.
An itch. Under the skin; bone-deep. A crack, a stumble, a contortion, and he watched without a word. Now, a tearing. Something terrible and sharp tearing away at the fingernails and toes; something blood-curdling and fierce; something that couldn’t be stopped. Something that burned and ached and clawed and wrenched. There was kicking; there was broken glass and a wrecked billiard table. A hurricane of playing cards and drink coasters circled the room where he watched and did nothing.
Finally, a scream.
‘MAMA!’ Again and again. ‘MAMA! MAMA!’
A splash of cold water. Every night it was the same dream. Despite everything, the donkey still dreamed. After the water came the sting, which always came just after the whip and lasted the rest of the hour. The animal’s eyes blinked open, dark and wet, and looked to the unfurled smile of his driver- the one with the black teeth. With a tired, mournful bray, the donkey stood and braced for the harness.
Yes, every night it was the same dream. Every night, the tavern where the stagnant air swirled with smoke and chalk dust. Where the world flew off its hinges on a tailwind of playing cards, and they all got the losing hand. Every last one, except him. The wooden boy.
Next came the cart. The air was thick and white. It had the kind of viscosity which stuck to the teeth. Every few hoofbeats there was a cough or a wheeze, and on a good day, there was a collapse. This was a different kind of rhythm to the carnival frenzy which still rang in the donkey’s mind from time to time. This was the gruelling creak of wheels on iron, the sluggish march of hooves; the constant thunder of picks against rock. His nostrils flared, blowing out a huff of sweat and salt. His driver smacked him on the rump to kick him into high gear and they carried on down the track, where the other muleteers were lugging the other beasts along. Yanking, whipping and smacking. All day, every day, until their hooves fell out from under them and they went to the big fairground in the sky.
Every day, the rub of the harness. Every day, the limping hind leg and the notched ear which refused to heal; a scabby thing he used to swat flies away during long summers. When it came time to drink he gazed down into the murky trough at his own reflection. An undignified grunt left his nostrils. In the water’s grimy surface he saw the scraggy fur and notched ear; the bristly mane and dirty teeth. He wanted to deliver a fly kick to the trough but the whip-sting still lingered from that morning, so he lowered his head towards the reflection and swallowed a mouthful of pigswill.