Monterra's Deliciosa & Other Tales & by Anna Tambour

deflated. I had been quite proud at the price he paid for me, and here he thought me cheap. He spent the next few steps congratulating himself rather insultingly until he interrupted himself with "What shall I call her?"
    "Zuleika!" I thought at him as hard as I could. "My mother named me Zuleika."
    "Modestine?" he said, and stopped. He stroked his chin and gazed into the clouds. "A nice ring to it for a little donkey. Modestine, then."
    C'est la vie. At least Modestine was better than Gertrude, my last name, when it wasn't just "beast".
    My new master Stevenson led me to his inn, and soon emerged with a variety of sacks, bags, and ropes; he then proceeded to load me in a manner that if I were to return the favour, would have him wearing his boots on his head and carrying his pack balanced between his knees. A few rough ropes dug in to various parts of my anatomy to complete the assemblage. I shifted the load and put my ears back to tell him that this would not do, and he replied by patting my rump with a "Our adventure begins now, Modestine, my little companion."
    Well, I was so startled by this fine talk that I decided we would deal with the problem of the load on my back another time. Companion?! This boded very well. If my poor mother could see me now!
    We set out and the awkward, poking burden strapped to me felt like the touch of dandelion fluff, I was so delighted. And adventure? How exciting! We walked to the crossroads at the edge of the village, and to my surprise, my companion turned in the wrong direction. For why would the man want to go up through the mountains? I told him that he was misguided, and led with my nose the other way. But he again pulled away from me, away from the flat land of Le Puy that everyone knows is the desirable destination. It has a soft path along the way, and once there, such richness to explore: fat pumpkins lolling in the fields, the yellowed but delicious trash of summer's lentils, fallen heads of wild sunflowers hedgehogged with seeds. By nightfall, we'd snuggle into scattered shelters that I have found most comfortable against the wind that comes without warning down from the inhospitable hills.
    But instead, he seemed determined to pick the rocky slopes leading to X, a most evil place—where it is true, my grandmother now lives, but I would only be able to bray from a distance, and she would probably not even hear, bent as she always is under the great loads of faggots that the woodcutter heaps on her back in his forays into frightening forests where he cuts trees that have limbs so crooked that no matter how they are loaded, they dig in like creatures made entirely of elbows born to poke. My grandmother's skin is always raw, and her nerves are as worn as her master's voice is sharp and impatient. No, I don't want to go to X and neither should He. It is a place of cursedness, and all donkeys know it.
    I tried to tell my companion this, first gently, then by pulling back and trying to guide his hand with my neck. I laid my ears back to show my seriousness. I gave a little bark when he tugged. Ho! He got a look in his eye—a dangerous look that said, I don't care what you want. I've made up my mind.
    I gave in. Experience would be his teacher. But now I needed to teach him something rather more urgently, as my load no longer felt like dandelion fluff.
    We shambled up the path, me picking my way along the stones until we were sufficiently far enough away that I could have this fellow to myself. Then, with the barest of shakes, I shifted the load so that it hung under my belly in a manner that even He could see was shambolic, to show him how inconsiderate he'd been to a companion deserving a modicum of respect.
    He is a good-smelling man with a (mostly) kindly expression. But no sooner had he taken off all the bags, bundles and baskets, then he piled everything back on me again and secured it all with those rough, chafing ropes. I wondered how he thought this was going to work, when