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Okaaaay.
I carefully lowered Louis-Cesare to the ground again. No reaction. I edged around him and slowly moved to the side of the path. No reaction. I gradually put out a hand. No reaction.
I jumped forward and parted the grasses—
And had no freaking idea what I was looking at.
It was lying on its side, big and brown and lumpish, and vaguely donkey-like, if donkeys were the size of Clydesdales. And covered in dreads. And simpleminded, because it was not only crossing its eyes but grinning, the massive lips pulling back from equally massive teeth and a lolling tongue.
And then it noticed me looking and it farted.
I just stared for a moment, bewildered.
“Baudet de Poitou,” Louis-Cesare said hoarsely from behind me.
I whirled around. “What?”
“An ancient breed of donkey. We called him Jehan after his bellow—and the local drunk.”
I licked my lips, swallowing my heart back down. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Rien. He did this every year.” Louis-Cesare got an arm underneath himself. “Someone would clean out the vat and dump the residue under the tree.”
I belatedly noticed that the path diverged, with one branch going to the shack and the other to a large, round wooden tub with suspicious stains around it. Reddish purple ones. Like those ringing the donkey’s mouth like badly applied lipstick.
“It made him useless for days,” Louis-Cesare added, looking disapprovingly at the great creature.
“Because it made him sick?”
Louis-Cesare looked surprised. “Non. Because it would ferment.” His lips pursed. “I suppose you could say he is now…drunk off his ass.”
Jehan bellowed agreement and let out another fart. I squatted down on the path and put my arms over my head. And just stayed there for a minute.
“What happened?” Louis-Cesare finally asked me.
“You passed out.”
“I did not.” It was said with such conviction that I almost believed it.
I turned my head and looked at him through the gap by my elbow. I debated arguing it, but decided I wasn’t up to it right now. “Okay. Then what do you remember?”
“Only that it was becoming…difficult.”
“It?”
“The transitions between memories.”
I raised my head. “But that’s not hard. We do it all the time. Normally, I mean.”
“This is not normal.”
And on that, at least, we could agree.
He’d struggled back to his feet while he spoke. I hadn’t helped because something told me it wouldn’t be appreciated, and because I was feeling a little unsteady myself. But he let me put an arm around his waist as we finished hiking to the shack, supporting me as I supported him. And when we got inside, he quickly made the acquaintance of a blanket-covered pile of straw on the floor.
I looked around, not that there was much to see. A table but no chairs. A dirt floor. Three stone walls, old and rough and more or less supporting a thatched roof. Which was k
ind of irrelevant since it was letting in starlight through no fewer than five different holes.
