Accidentally turned into a horse by his lover (who’s a witch) a young lawyer's plan to defraud a billionaire goes wildly wrong. Destined to see the cruel crazy erotic world through equine eyes, finally he manages to escape to become an animal rights activist.
Retranslated and (liberally) adapted in today’s world (of London) from the original Latin of Lucius Apuleius (a Tunisian Roman citizen), which itself came from the Ancient Greek he wrote it in.
WARNING: The Greeks and Romans had no problem with 'adult themes' and outlooks on life (from 2,000 years ago!) which are sometimes very different from today's and may shock some readers to the core.
As Yogi Berra said, "When you come to a fork in the road. Take it."
"Golden Horse" is your fork.
Afraid of what lies ahead? Then turn back.
Part Nine
The cow was true to her word. Before the hour was up, I was leafing through a wad of worryingly detailed instructions. I now knew how Hercules felt when faced with his twelfth, most difficult challenge. Although I had the sneaking suspicion that cleaning the stables of Augeas might be a jolly sight easier than me - me!! - even attempting to reach the summit of Mount Everest. I am simply not that sort of girl. At school, I was the one who ran away from the hockey ball, who ate blackberries on the cross-country run and never had a crush on the games mistress. My Friday swimming sessions are little more than a chance to catch up with the girls and flirt with the life-guards. Claire Balding I was not. Nor did I ever wish to be.
It was, therefore, a mark of my desperation that I actually caught the Docklands Light Railway through the bad-lands of East and South London to Decathlon, a sports superstore sprawling over acres of post-industrial wasteland. I was as much out of my comfort zone as Father Christmas in an armed robbery. And just as confused. I was soon lost in the miles of tents, tennis rackets, riding boots, reclining bikes (what?) and blow-up boats. I had already been in the 'shop' (a euphemism if ever there was one) for two hours without even seeing a crampon. I was, once again, worryingly close to tears. Seeing a sign that pointed to a cafe, I decided that a latte might cheer me up and aid my flagging concentration.
As I sat miserably over the wretched beverage - I had already burnt my lip on the burning foam and was now faced with a cup of tasteless, brown liquid - I contemplated my various options. Should I contact Prince Harry and ask him and some legless 'heroes' to join me? Should I ask Ben Fogle for a few tips? Could I be the next reality TV sensation? The new Joanna Lumley, pluckily raising millions for the Red Cross? Or should I just be me and give up? I could actually feel myself slouching with defeat.
But, while I was looking about the soul-less cafe in a distinctly maudlin manner, I saw another, albeit temporary solution. Should I let the geeky teenager at the next-door table chat me up? He'd clearly been longing to do so from the moment I arrived. Deciding that a bit of innocent flirting would be good for the ego, I smiled at the boy. He had crossed the room and was sitting by my side faster than you could say 'Edmund Hilary'.
Deciding on the sugar-mummy persona, I bought him another coke.
'So what's a nice boy like you doing in a dump like this? You don't exactly look the outdoorsy type.'
In fact, with his pale, greasy face and hunched posture, he looked as if he'd spent his whole life behind a screen. Which, as you will soon discover, was very good news for me. Very good news indeed.
'Mum and Dad were at it again. It was doing my head in. I had to get out. The nearest arcade’s down Lewisham and my Oyster just maxed out. There didn't seem a lot of choice.'
He paused and looked up at me, adoringly.
'But it looks like I just made the best choice of my life.'
Honestly, it was all a bit embarrassing. I'm all for toy boys, but this particular specimen looked about fifteen. I decided to cool things down a bit by telling him all about the latest challenge. All about my plans to be the first woman to reach the Summit of Mount Everest. Without Sherpa Tenzing. Without any experience. But most certainly with photographic proof.
'Which explains my own presence in this ridiculous place.'
He was soon grinning. A wonderful, genuine, boy's grin that split his face in half and transformed it. For a moment at least, he looked entirely beautiful. An angel. A messenger from God himself. But it was all very confusing. Why did my mention of mountaineering have such a monumental effect? Had I totally misread his situation? Was he in fact not a council-estate drop out at all, but rather a pampered athlete groomed for next year's Winter Olympics? I sought refuge from confusion in the offer of another coke and when I returned, he started talking. And talking. And talking.
'It's a synch, babe. A synch. We can do all this without even leaving London.
Without even leaving this table. You really don't get it, do you? It's a game, yeah? The Ascent of Everest. Three levels. Level three is fucking hard. Much too hard for a girl. But, today might just be your lucky day, girlie. Coz this is the day you met Cane. As in Mark of Cane, get it? That's my hash-tag. And me, I'm the closest you get to a professional player in the Ascent of Everest. There's blokes all over the world who play it. For serious shit. I can win a grand in one game. And I can get you to level three in one hour. Max.'
'So what's it all about?'
I had to admit that I was intrigued by this unexpectedly metaphorical interpretation of challenge number three
.
'So there's, like, three levels, yeah. Level one is piss easy. All sweetness and light. Flowers growing and birds singing. Even you'd get level one.'
He looked suddenly shocked at what he'd just said. His excited young face crumpled like a old man's.
'No offence, girl.' He swallowed.
'None taken.' I assured him. 'Please carry on.'
'If you're sure?'
He looked up at me, warily, through a fringe of greasy hair. The Princes Diana of Deptford. I gave him the thumbs up.
'So, it's like I said, a ten year old could get to level two in a couple of hours.'
'In his sleep?' I ventured.
'When he's fucking dead, girl. And that's what's so clever. They just reel 'em in with the easy stuff and they're soon spending every hour of the day and night trying crack the next level.'
'Which of course they can't.'
'Course they can't. It's like top level stuff. And fucking weird. Heeby-jeebie-ville. It's called The Cloud. I 'spose coz it's like a sort of mist on the top of a mountain. Whatever. You wander around not knowing where the fuck you are and what the fuck you're meant to do. Everything just vanishes. Puff of smoke stuff.'
'Aren't there any instructions given when you buy the game?'
Cane shook is head and smiled in disbelief. I quickly realized that this was a v naive question. I suppose that I should stick to Candy Crush.
'But level two, yeah, ain't nothing like level three. It even had me by the balls for a bit. It's called -
'Darkness?'
The boy wonder choked on his third coke and looked pretty freaked-out by this unexpected display of insider knowledge. But it was all suddenly making sense. This game had nothing to do with Edmund Hilary, but everything to do with St Gregory of Nyssa and his old chum, Evagrius. This game was the digital, twentieth century version of one of the oldest of all mystical metaphors. The ascent, through the cloud, through the darkness, to ultimate unknowing, to infinite ignorance. The boy sitting opposite me was not only a gaming grand master, he was a mystagogue, a psychopomp. And maybe also a pimp as well. Because I was pretty sure that it was this modern Pandaurus who would lead me all the way back to the Beloved.
How beautiful on the mountain are the feet of those that bring
peace!
While all this theology was coursing through my mind, Cane was starring hard at me. Waiting for an explanation. I didn't feel like explaining the whole apophatic tradition in the cafe of a sports' superstore, so I pretended that it was just a lucky guess.
'Light - cloud - darkness. I don't know why I said it. It just sounded right.'
I shrugged with as much nonchalance as I could muster and asked him to tell me all about level three. He perked up immediately and was soon as proud as a peacock.
'So it's when you get to level three that the fun really starts. Not that many players ever get there. Like, ever. There's people who spend all their lives playing and never get anywhere near level three. Of course, with me, it was different. I was on level three after a week.'
'And what happens at the final level? What do you do?'
He smirked.
'Well, that really would be telling it, babe, wouldn't it? It's like they say, suck it and see. You gotta be in it to win it. How about we give it a go? You free now? Your place? You got to sub me the fare, though.'
I was starting to bluster, wondering how I'd explain the boy-wonder to Dad or - horrible thought - to my sisters, when I saw his face fall.
'I'd ask you back to mine, only we don't get many visitors. Mum don't like it. It's a bit of a tip.'
Soon - and much against my better judgement - I was sitting on the top deck of the number 451. Chelsea was a good many miles from Surrey Keys, but my companion insisted on going by bus. It seemed a matter of pride with him to 'borrow' only £1.50. The journey was, to say the least, embarrassing. I couldn’t think of any small talk and spent the whole time obsessing about what sort of payment the boy-wonder would expect in return for his techno-wizardry. Finally, after two hours on the top deck of a new-style Route Master bus, we had arrived at Sloane Square and were walking the last mile to Tite Mews. By some incredible stroke of luck, there was no one at home. I had also been obsessing about how to introduce this very unlikely lad to Dad or – even worse – my sisters. We crept upstairs, Indian file, as nervous as a couple of teenagers about to lose their virginity. In fact, I was about to lose something much more valuable. Loss or gain. Life or death. Sex or God. People are generally expected to think of these concepts as opposite. How wrong they are.
The wailing siren pierced the early morning calm. Almost simultaneously, the police van and the ambulance came to a screeching halt outside the little mews house. A white haired man, leaning heavily on an African boy let in the paramedics. He had clearly been crying for a long time and could hardly muster enough breath to direct the men to the upstairs bedroom. What they found inside
A young woman, dressed for a wedding - for her own wedding - lay dead on the floor. There was not a mark on her and no apparent cause of death. On her face was a smile that neither of them would ever forget.
© 2017 Mimi L. Thompson
For previous chapters (some of which are posted as nsfw because of 'adult themed' content not photographs) please visit my blog page. Your support is much appreciated and comments are most welcome
You can find my other ebooks on Amazon Kindle Unlimited "Under The Shadow of Vesuvius" - Coming of age in the age of depravity in the Malibu of the Ancient World.
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