"The Donkey’s Burden"

In a forgotten corner of the world lay the Valley of Ash, a narrow gorge cradled by jagged cliffs. Its soil, once fertile, had turned to dust after years of drought. Here, an old farmer named **Elias** lived with his donkey, **Dapple**, in a crumbling stone hut. The villagers had long abandoned the valley, calling it cursed, but Elias stayed. *“The land remembers those who stay,”* he’d mutter, though he spoke more to Dapple than to himself.

Dapple was no ordinary donkey. Her gray coat bore scars from brambles and hailstorms, and her left ear bore a notch from a wolf’s bite. She had outlived three owners before Elias traded his last copper pot for her at a market. *“Stubborn as stone,”* the seller warned. Elias simply replied, *“So am I.”*

---

### **The Drought**

For months, no rain fell. The valley’s lone stream vanished, leaving cracked earth. Elias rationed his grain, sharing half with Dapple. At night, he’d sit by the cold hearth, carving figures from dried olive wood—a horse, a bird, a child’s face. Dapple watched, her breath fogging the air.

One morning, Elias found Dapple nudging his shoulder. Outside, the last withered fig tree had collapsed. *“Time to go,”* he sighed. He packed a frayed sack: a knife, a clay jug, carvings wrapped in cloth. Dapple stood still as he loaded her with bundles, her ears twitching at the weight.

---

### **The Journey**

They climbed the cliffs, hooves and boots slipping on loose shale. By noon, the sun blazed. Elias’ throat burned, but he saved the jug’s final sips for Dapple. *“Drink,”* he urged, tilting it to her mouth. She lapped twice, then nudged the jug back to him.

For three days, they wandered the high desert. Elias’ boots split; Dapple’s legs trembled. On the fourth night, a sandstorm swallowed the stars. Elias crouched against Dapple’s side, shielding them both with his threadbare cloak. The donkey brayed—a sound like a rusty hinge—as wind screamed around them. *“We’ll make it,”* Elias lied, gripping her mane.

---

### **The Canyon**

At dawn, the storm died. Before them stretched a canyon, its walls streaked with red and ochre. At its base glinted a thread of water. Elias stumbled forward, but Dapple planted her hooves. *“Move, fool!”* he rasped. She refused, snorting at the ground.

When Elias yanked her rope, the earth gave way. A fissure opened—a hidden crevasse, masked by dust. Dapple’s stubbornness had saved them. Shaken, Elias patted her neck. *“You’re wiser than me,”* he admitted. They detoured for hours, Dapple leading the way, until they reached the water.

The stream was shallow but clear. Elias drank until his stomach ached. Dapple dipped her muzzle, then rolled in the mud, coating her scars. Elias laughed—a sound he’d forgotten. He washed his face and saw a stranger: gaunt, bearded, eyes hollow as the valley they’d fled.

---

### **The Stranger**

That night, a fire flickered in the distance. Elias hesitated, but Dapple plodded toward the light. By the flames sat a woman mending a cloak. Her hair was silver, her hands weathered. A black dog growled, but Dapple brayed louder, and the dog retreated.

*“You’ve come far,”* the woman said, not looking up. Elias nodded. She gestured to a pot of stew. *“Eat. The donkey too.”*

Over the meal, she spoke of the canyon. *“This land tests all who enter. Some call it punishment; I call it a mirror. What did you see in the Valley of Ash?”*

Elias thought of his barren fields, the villagers’ scorn, the child’s face he carved each night. *“Failure,”* he said.

The woman shook her head. *“Your donkey carries more than bundles. She carries your pride, your grief. Leave them here. The water will wash them clean.”*

---

### **The Burden Lifted**

At sunrise, the woman was gone. Elias found Dapple by the stream, grazing on tough green shoots. In his sack, the carvings felt lighter. He unwrapped them—the horse, the bird, the child’s face—and set them afloat in the water. The current carried them away.

Dapple nuzzled his hand. Her scars were still there, but her eyes held a quiet triumph. Elias loaded her again, this time with wild herbs and a water skin. *“Where to now?”* he asked.

Dapple flicked her notched ear westward, where the canyon walls parted like open hands.

---

### **Epilogue**

They never settled. Years later, travelers spoke of an old man and a scarred donkey roaming the canyons. Some said he healed sick goats with herbs; others claimed he carved toys for desert children. But all agreed on one detail: the donkey walked beside him, never behind, as though they were equals—two stubborn souls who’d learned to share the weight of living.