Ptar the Donkey - Chapter One

Chapter 1
The Beginning

— or —

The Father’s Failures, The Daughter’s Burden

Just after dawn, Ptar was found sprawled out on the beach, in the exact place and position where he had collapsed, exhausted, after failing to be swallowed up by the sea the night before.  The tide had rolled out hours ago, leaving Ptar now quite dry, and quite encrusted with the sea’s salt.  He was jarred awake by the prodding of his ribs by the big toe of one of the village elders.  Ptar curled into the fetal position and found he couldn’t open his eyes, they being sealed shut after proving, yet again, to be particularly sensitive to the harsh drying effects of salt water. 

“Up and at ‘um, Donkey,” the prodding-elder said.  Ptar had been called Donkey, or The Donkey, or Ptar the Donkey, or Mayor Donkey — but really he was rarely called Mayor Donkey — ever since he emerged from the womb with arms and legs entirely too short for his bulbous torso, which was small in itself, all resulting in a unique runt of man, the likes of which no one had ever seen before, or since.

Ptar used one hand to try and pry his eyes open and the other to parry the jabbing toe.  By now three more village elders had arrived onto the beach.  They joined the toe-prodding elder, eager to be free from the confines of their huts, having to spend the last few weeks under roof due to the pounding rains from the rainy season.  Normally finding Ptar passed out on the beach would be a welcome distraction for the oft-bored elders, as elders in Ptar’s village had nothing much to do, having reached their state of elderdom by simply outliving their usefulness.  Once a man could no longer fish, pearl dive, or cultivate rice with even the slightest amount of competency, they were deemed a village elder, whiling away their days on the beach with the other elders drinking rice wine, smoking pipes, gossiping like hens, and goading and chiding the younger generations in anything and everything they did.  Women never became village elders, for women never outlived their usefulness.  The first morning after the end of the rainy season was normally a slow one for the village elders, as there was going to be little fishing and pearl diving; the ocean would need another few days to settle from its constant bombardment by the rains.  Usually the village elders would be delighted to find Ptar passed out on the beach and would revel in torturing him.  But, on this morning, they just couldn’t find it in their hearts to harass Ptar.

The toe-prodding elder quit poking his toe into the ribs of Ptar and asked his fellow elders to help Ptar to his feet.  They brushed the sand out of his hair and off his clothes, and poured a gourd full of rain water over his head, washing the salt out of his eyes.

“Thank you, elders,” Ptar said.

“Today is a big day for you and your family,” one of the elders said.

“You should hurry home, Donkey,” another said.

Ptar hung his head and looked at his feet.  “Go on, you should get home so you can say your goodbyes.”  And with that Ptar turned away from the group of elders and started to walk off the beach, heading into the village and to his hut.

The four elders stood and watched as Ptar walked away.  “There goes our esteemed mayor,” the toe-prodding elder said, eliciting a little laugh from the other three.  And it was true, Ptar was the elected mayor of his village, and had been mayor for more years than anyone bothered to count.  But being mayor came with no responsibilities and no power.  Thirty years ago, when the first Baptist missionaries came and tried to civilize the villagers by making them form a government and convert to Christianity, all they got for their trouble was the villagers having a bit of fun with them by electing an eighty-three-year-old widow that had fallen comatose years earlier after being kicked in the head by a mule, and their beheaded heads placed on spikes, clearly showing the world this particular village’s aversion to Baptists and their missionaries.  Ptar, after the eighty-three-year-old comatose widow, was the only other person the rest of the villagers felt ridiculous enough to elect to the office of mayor.

Ptar, stiff and dehydrated, slowly walked home.  Even though it was early, it was already hot and promised to only get hotter.  And the air, freshly saturated after the long rainy season, was sticky and humid.  Ptar, ill equipped for the heat and humidity, was already sweating profusely as he walked down the path that lead straight through the village, which was already awake and a bustle, the villagers all eager to return to their regular-post-rainy-season morning activities.  As Ptar passed, each of his fellow villagers — even the children — would respectfully stop what they were doing for a moment, bow their heads solemnly, wait for him to pass, and then silently return to what they had previously been doing.  For all the village knew today was a very sad day for Ptar and his family, today was Ptar’s youngest daughter’s thirteenth birthday.

All this respectful solemnity was more than a little disconcerting to Ptar.  He was never treated with solemnity, especially by the village children.  Ptar never liked drawing attention to himself, and he certainly didn’t want attention today, the day that culminated in all his failures as a father.  He cursed himself for not having the foresight to take his daughter and slip out of the village the night before.  But, instead, in the middle of last night, when the rains ended, the sudden silence awoke Ptar, and he snuck out and got drunk on the beach, where he was lured into the ocean by unseen sirens, as they called him to a watery grave.  Against his wishes, Ptar didn’t die and he now found himself having to shamefully walk through his village, a spectacle for all to see. 

Ptar hurried his pace, shuffling his bare feet on the muddy path.  He was thankful to finally reach his hut.  He found his wife and mother inside.  “Why the fuck won’t the ocean just suck you in and let some whale eat you?” was how he was greeted by his mother.

“I don’t know, Mother,” Ptar said.

“Hush, Good Mother,” Ptar’s wife, Silon, said to her mother-in-law.  To Ptar she said, “Sit, you need to have something to eat.”

Ptar sat down on the hut’s dirt floor, across from his mother, the breakfast fire between them.  His mother was idly poking at the fire with a stick.  Silon took a fresh rice cake off the flat pan and handed it to Ptar.  He bounced the rice cake between his hands as he blew on it until it was cool enough to be eaten.  He took a small bite and knew he wouldn’t be able to eat any more.  He put the rice cake down on a rock next to the fire and got up and left the hut.  He went around back to get a bottle of rice wine, forced to rummage through several crates before he found a bottle that wasn’t empty.  He came back into the hut and again sat down across from his mother.  They exchanged a glance as Ptar uncorked the bottle.  He looked away and took a long drink straight from the bottle.  His mother ignored him and stoked the breakfast fire a couple more times.  It was uncustomary for Ptar to drink so openly, so early in the morning.

But nothing was proving to be customary that day.  And to prove it, Ptar’s mother said, “Give me a drink of that.”

Ptar handed her the bottle over the fire.  His mother sniffed at contents inside the bottle and winced slightly.  She took a drink and winced again, holding the warm liquid in her mouth, taking her time to ease small amounts of it down her throat.  Before handing it back to Ptar, she poured a little of the rice wine onto the soles of her feet and rubbed off the caked on dirt and grime.  Ptar watched his mother.  His rice wine had always been effective in cutting away even the most persistent of caked on dirt and grime.  He now looked at his own feet.  Both had a thick layer of compacted dirt and sand on them.  He considered for a moment of also pouring some rice wine on his own feet, but thought better of it, deciding to take another drink instead.  He didn’t mind his feet being dirty.

Ptar’s mother beckoned him to hand the bottle back to her, but he ignored her.

“Pass that rot piss over,” she said.

Ptar continued to ignore her and took another sip from the bottle.  Ptar’s mother threw a tin breakfast bowl over the fire, hitting him squarely in the face, and after that Ptar could no longer pretend to ignore her, so he handed her the bottle.  She drank deeply from it, coughed harshly and then drank deeply again.

Ptar and his mother were staring dumbly at the now-dying breakfast fire, letting the alcohol from the rice wine seep into their brains, as Sephie limped into the hut with a full bucket of water gracefully cocked on her hip.  She placed the bucket onto a table on the other side of the hut without spilling a drop.

“Aren’t you going to wish your daughter a happy birthday, Donkey?” Ptar’s mother asked him.

Sephie interrupted.  “That’s okay, Father.  I’m almost ready to go.”

Ptar spat into the fire.  Then he stood and embraced his daughter.  Even though she was only turning thirteen, she was already a foot taller than her father.  “Happy birthday, my beloved daughter,” he said gently.

“Thank you, Father,” she said, kissing him on the top of his head.

Silon, who had been intently cleaning and then re-cleaning their breakfast dishes this entire time, now stopped what she was doing and looked at her husband and youngest daughter holding each other, tears filling her eyes.

Sephie crossed the hut and rolled up her bed mat for the last time and started placing her meager belongings in the small satchel she was to take with her.  She said, “Sit down, Father, as I pack.  I will be ready soon.”

Silon walked over to Sephie and embraced her.  She silently cried onto Sephie’s shoulder.  “Oh, Mother,” Sephie said.  “Please…please…let’s be strong.”

“Of course,” Silon said as she pulled back and marveled at the maturation of her youngest daughter.  “Let me help you.”

Ptar picked up the rice wine bottle and took a drink.  His mother said, “You’re a sad excuse for a man.”  Ptar nodded in agreement.  He had been told this many times before, but today he never felt it to be truer.

Ptar’s mother waved her hand at him, indicating she wanted the rice wine again.  He handed her the bottle and she drank form it greedily, no longer having to flinch from the strong taste, she being well on her way to inebriation. 

Ptar’s mother took one more drink from the rice wine bottle and then looked intently at it.  She said with sincerity, “If only you could have figured out how to make this tolerable.”

Ptar snatched the bottle form her.  “Grandfather’s and father’s ways have eluded me.  I tried —”

“Fuck trying,” his mother said.  “Try doing.”

Ptar stood and wiped the dirt and straw from the seat of his pants.  “We should go,” he said.  “Sephie, are you ready?”

Sephie came over and embraced her grandmother and told her goodbye, receiving a solitary grunt in return.  Then Sephie looked around their small one-room hut, this being the last time she would ever see it, and with a huge and definitive sigh she told her father that she was ready to go.

Ptar opened the door to his hut and was surprised to find all the people of his village waiting outside.  Ptar waved his hands at the group, attempting to scatter them like you would a swarm of flies.  But this only served to hush the crowd, drawing all their attention to him, believing Ptar was preparing to address them.  Everyone stood there for a few moments, waiting: the crowd waiting for Ptar to say something and Ptar waiting for the crowd to disperse.  This all might have gone on for quite a while, but just then Ptar’s mother came stumbling out from inside the hut, stumbling up from behind Ptar, and quite by accident, knocking him clear through the door and face first into the mud.

All stood there in silence and watched as Sephie reached down and helped her father to his feet, and using the hem of dress, wiped the mud from his face and his hands.

Ptar’s mother, completely oblivious to having knocked her son through the door and into the mud, called to the crowd, “Fuck off, all of you.  You’re cocksuckers.  Each and every one of you.”  And with that, she stumbled back into the hut and collapsed onto the floor, knocking over several things in the process.

Silon took Ptar’s hand in hers and she started to push her way through the crowd.  Sephie followed.  The people of the village mercifully and gently parted for them.  They watched as Silon, Ptar, and Sephie walked past.  The villagers, always saddened to see a young girl having to go off to The Capital and be sold into servitude, were, today, conflicted; the heaviness of losing another thirteen-year-old girl to the evils and complexities of somewhere like The Capital weighed on their hearts, but they were also collectively and innately happy to be rid of Sephie.  Ptar couldn’t afford the requisite dowry, and no eligible bachelor wanted to marry Sephie anyway.  The people of the village were simple people, and Sephie’s physical deformities — she being born a touch mongoloid, with a slight harelip, and with one leg nearly two inches shorter than the other — were difficult enough for the villagers to get over, but it was her uncanny ability to correctly predict when the rains would come, or which fisherman would be blessed with good fortune or failure, or to tell whether a baby still in the womb was to be a boy or girl and if that baby was to be prosperous or troubled.  But most disconcerting to them was how only by peering intently, Sephie seemed to be able to read their thoughts, their most private and sacred thoughts, causing all of them to avoid looking directly at her as she passed by them, out of the village, and out of their lives forever.

The villagers continued to watch as Silon, Ptar, and Sephie made their way down the muddy path that ran through the village and eventually ended at the failed four-lane highway.  Once they were out of eyesight, the villagers silently went back to their business, most everything returning to normal.  Throughout the morning, the children tried to make up a song that mockingly told the sad story of Sephie, the daughter of Ptar the Donkey, and her going off to The Capital on the day of her thirteenth birthday, but the melody and lyrics never came together and eventually the children lost interest in the song, and played away the rest of the day, giving Sephie and her future plight no thought whatsoever.