Arguing With A Wise Donkey

“Do you know,” I said, preparing for the journey in the long boat to meet the Bog Queen, “possibly you read too much. Some things just need doing, after all.”
Belenus was making sure his load was on straight and the chest, that we saved from the
old haunted Victorian house, actually the Dead Man’s Chest, would stay safe with us. We had found out in the walled garden that it had no key, and there formed a kind of superstitiousness
about it, that it best not be forced open. There was a time for mysteries and a time for revelations, we agreed. But now we argued. Belenus was uncertain about going to the island, the Cave of the Ancients, where the bog people had lived. “From my readings it’s possible we may not return in one piece, preserving the dangers of falling foul to pride and too much sacrifice!”

“But you are reading only one account of the story, where there might be many,” I said to him,
doing up my long sturdy boots for the trek to the cave. Belenus said he would carry me to the entrance, but would stay outside. He feared the hungry appetites of the one-eyed beings there, struck with a healthy awe of them from his classical readings. “But we cannot be sure,” he warned, “and this journey might prove to be perilous!”

Being on the ship had made us both lean toward the pirate ways, and even Belenus was wearing a kerchief of red and white around his neck. The stories and the lore we had learned on board had made an impression on us.
“I have no desire to believe everything I read, especially now, and we shall go. You and I both. I will wager it won’t be as bad as you think,” I told him, and he finally shrugged.
“We can always take flight,” he reminded himself, and recalled he hadn’t been at all frightened at the old Victorian house.
“And we have other things besides to help us,” I said, “Courage is at hand.”

Belenus said nothing and we waited, prepared, for the long boat to take us with the other travellers to the island where the Cave of the Ancients was.

by Imogen Crest