It was absolutely the worst time of year to set out on a trip. He knew that. Yet he also realised that there was no choice. Raising his head, he felt his way carefully to the door of his hut. He was old and very frail, a waif of a centenarian. His skin was wrinkled so that his face resembled a human skull. He was dressed in brown robes, and he wore a headdress around the circumference of his bald head. He was blind, he couldn’t see a thing, but he always knew his way around. He screamed, and the echo informed him that he was outside.
He stumbled across, feeling his way around. The feeling of thick fur met his hand. This was definitely his donkey. Bedab was her name, and she had stuck by him all his life, from the moment of purchase to this very day. He clambered onto her, and with one whack of his stick, he set off across the barren landscape.
Balaam, son of Beor, the sorcerer, sat comfortably in the saddle as the donkey sped on. He used his prognosticatory power to sense what was going on around him. These powers also helped in determining where everything was. The donkey was troubled. This venture was ridiculous, and unfair. To see so many of her species get slaughtered for sacrificial rituals, to appease some god they never knew. What was the point? The point about gods, she knew full well, is that gods never actually show up. What was worse, she would have to watch as her fellow quadrupeds died on the altar. She must do something, she must do.
She turned and left the path immediately, reluctant to watch them die on the altar. Nothing influenced her, nothing external or supernatural- rather, it was a thing that she chose to do. Balaam, sensing something was amiss, struck the donkey with his stick. He’d been beating her for years, so the joke was on him, because the donkey had since become impervious to pain. Another hit. Again, no reflex response.
The donkey glowered, surprised at the fact that she could glower. She raised her head. The sorcerer was about to beat her again. One more attempt at pain. Well, she wasn’t standing for that. She grabbed the wizard’s stick, and hurled it to the side of the road. The sorcerer convulsed with rage, leapt down off her and jumped up and down in the middle of the road, shrieking and generally making enough noise to awaken the gods.
She looked at him, and even she could not have guessed what would happen next.
“Why you hit meeee…”
Her voice was interlaced with the braying a donkey would naturally make. Both human and donkey were unable to comprehend what was happening. What had either of them done to deserve such a punishment from the gods? The sorcerer had become white as a sheet. Disturbed by the penetration of the voice into the midst of his blindness, he crept forward and stared at the donkey, but not before travelling into the midst of the road, picking up his stick and marching forward.
Why you hit me… those had been the words. It was impossible for a donkey to speak, but there she was, talking. What punishment from the gods had he merited? He raised the stick and brought it down on her head again.
As he predicted, it happened again.
“Why you hit meeee….”
The sorcerer fell to his knees, his robes becoming submerged in the mud, and making the sacred prayer sign of the Baal, and desperately prayed. The same thing, over and over. Baal, forgive me. Baal, forgive me. Baal, forgive me.
“I seee-donkey.” This had been what he had called her, when he had purchased her from a merchant in earlier days. Of course, it had actually been “she-donkey” but she had only just begun to speak. This title was what she felt best to call herself. “Seee-donkey.”
“Baal, forgive me,” breathed the blind old sorcerer one last time. Then a realisation hit him. If this donkey could refer to herself as his “seee-donkey” as she put it, then chances were that she had been mimicking his speech and, to some extent, all manner of human speech. She’d been making noises that could be considered evocative of human speech, but not quite human speech. Just as an infant or a toddler, when it learns to speak for the first time, learning to speak by repeating what other people in its presence have said, but with “f” in place of “s”, and all that time its speech gradually becomes more and more articulate- so too was her speech.
“I don’t bloody care what you are,” he replied. “You’ve humiliated me, you revolting animal. If I were armed right now, I’d kill you.”
The donkey looked at him pleadingly. “I seee-donkey,” she replied, repeating it twice for emphatic effect. “I seee-donkey.”
Then the old prophet sighed. There had been news sweeping the country that a certain ethnicity was coming to presumably invade Moab. He wanted to make them go away with his magic, and that meant slaughter. If he arrived late, he would be sentenced to death. He understood his donkey, even without the speech.
“I’m sorry,” he said, caressing her muzzle gently. “I shouldn’t have gotten angry with you. If you are a god and if you have possessed my donkey”- an indignant braying- “Then you must understand that I have a task to do. I need her to complete my task. If you don’t like that, it’s fine, but please, let me do it.”
“Sak-ree-thiiisss,” she replied, desperately trying to convert her newfound ability into the sound of the word. She stared up at him, imploringly, protestingly, reluctantly. No she would not go to watch her fellow animals being led to the slaughter, nor watch the blood stain the altar while the high priests look on.
“But if we don’t, you understand, then you will punish us. You will send fire and sulphur and Kamas only knows what else. Animals die so humans can live. I really don’t know what’s going on, and I can’t really bloody see anything, but even I’m pretty damn sure you must understand that.”
So he spoke, and he climbed back onto the donkey and, a settlement having been reached, they sped forwards to the city of King Balak. Humans, thought the donkey contemptuously. Humans. It was always about the humans. So self-centred, always unconcerned with the welfare of other animals over their wellbeing. To that end they would lead bulls, goats and pigs to the slaughter just to appease some delusion of gods who never really existed.
Little could she have known what would happen next. Once they arrived at King Balak’s domain, the king had something important to tell the aging prophet. “My horse has started to talk,” he said. The prophet raised an eyebrow, as he felt his way off his donkey. Then he raised his stick, and brought it down on the donkey’s head again.
“Why you hit meeee…” came the voice from her mouth, just as on cue as he had anticipated, just as on cue as the time when she had diverted herself from his path. King Balak stood there, amazed. He made the ancient prayer signs of his fathers, and thought about what to say next.
“Sorcery!” he cried. “If you have been enchanting all the animals so as to avoid work, Balaam, old boy, I am afraid you’ve been worsted for sure.”
“Nay, blame me not,” wailed the sorcerer, raising his hands. “In my grandfather’s time, his before him, and his grandfather before him, there never was a reason for animals to just start talking. Trust me, when I say this, my lord: this is an omen from the gods. Either that, or the gods have decided to convene with us. They do not support animal sacrifice. Apparently they say it must be warded off.”
“Sak-ree-thissss…” concurred the donkey, raising her head and braying in a sort of piteous position. The aging wizard stood there, dazed at what was happening. He was already unable to comprehend the great changes unfolding around him. He could not even begin to imagine what would happen next. The sacrifices were made, but he could not bear making them, and even he had to overcome his urges to kill them. Balak’s horse stood by, neighing “Do no do da.” Tears streamed down the blind wizard’s face as he did it.
By the time it was done, he was so overcome with terror and trauma that he collapsed. The king of Moab waited until he had stopped breathing. “He is dead,” he considered. “S’po too mush,” replied the donkey, which continued to make Balak jump. Even so, the king considered that, yes, even though the donkey could speak, she was right. He was dead, he remained dead and the stress had killed him.
***
The year 1000 BJM (Before Janzus Maschiach)* has been widely considered to be the start of the Animal Era. True, it was a very, gradual process that was regarded cautiously by humans, but sooner or later people began to accept that talking animals existed outside of stories. Animal sacrifice, unfortunately, was not abolished. It continued up until animals had fully learned to speak.
From that point on, that is the Greco-Roman period, animals were considered full-blooded citizens. It is to that end that the practice of animal sacrifice was abolished during that particular time period. From then on, animals were considered legible not just for citizenship but for the right to enter public office as well.
At first there were close relationships between our kind and humans, but they became fragmented over time, and so our divine rulers, the canidae, took control of the British Empire, then the most powerful military power, and even now it continues its dominion over the waves.
And it all stemmed from one donkey. Truly, it is hard to fathom just how implausible such a thing should be, and to this day, no dog of science can provide answer to my question. But I have noticed, in my quest to purchase a copy of every book in the world, that, before that moment, there were no talking animals in the world.
Thus, we have the she-donkey of Balaam to thank for providing us with the leap towards sentience.
- Professor Bardolph Fowler, (Doctor of History, Sheepdog), 1898
*Janzus Maschiach: The mythical sage and crippled lioness whose ideas supposedly formed the basis for Maschiachity.