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Fiction Short Story

by Helen Courtney Lewis

Willie's Donkey

Nobody really knew who he was, from where he came, or for that matter how long he had lived in the village. He was known as affectionately as "Kirios Willie" or "Pappous" (the old one) He lived in a ramshackle old house at the top end of the village under the ruins of a windmill, overlooking the port. The police no longer worried about renewing his residence permit; after all, he bothered no one, paid his bills and all the children loved him. No one thought of him as "O Xenos" (the foreigner).

Every Friday, Willie could be seen winding his way down the thousand steep steps that threaded their way through the village to the port. You could set your watch by the regularity of his appearance at the post office to collect the letter that always awaited him. After stuffing the envelope into the pocket of his threadbare jacket unread, Willie would trot on spindly legs over to the village store to make the purchases which never varied: olive oil, bread, a dozen eggs, a litre of milk, salt cod, olives, two tins of beans, a packet of soap powder, a kilo of fruit (oranges in winter, cherries in summer) and a kilo of sweets.

From there, he crossed the little "platea" to the school where he would sit under the shade of an old olive tree and wait patiently for the school bell to ring and the children to come tumbling out.

Carefully, he’d hand a sweet to each child, and when they were all gone, without his bidding they’d all sit cross-legged on the ground in a semi-circle round him and "O Kirios Willie" in a slow and gentle voice would tell them one of his fables. Wide-eyed and silent, they'd listen—totally absorbed in Willie's story. They never tired of hearing the opening lines. "Once upon a time."

If an adult should stop to listen, he' fall silent, waiting for the shame-faced stranger to move away before continuing his narrative. His Greek was faultless and his strange foreign accent further enchanted the children—they had long ago ceased to ask the old man any questions about himself.

When the story ended and weather permitting, Willie would then go fishing, sometimes he caught octopus, sometimes "barbounia," and, on rare occasions, a lobster.

With his day's shopping stowed away in an old rucksack, Willie would be ready to start on his round of the bars, where he’d proceed with solemnity and great dignity to get thoroughly drunk. He talked to no one, only responding to their words of greeting with a slight nod of the head and a whisper of a smile.

Willie's evenings always finished the same way—somewhere, in one of his ports of call, Willie would pass out—cold. With his arms crossed over his chest, his legs extended in front of him and his head dropped forward on his chest, his face took on an expression of child-like innocence. His deep even breathing was a sign to all who knew him that it was time to "take care of Willie."

A few willing hands would gently lift the slumbering figure and carry him outside where he was left to his dreams on whichever bench was nearest. In the morning, at the first light of dawn, Willie was gone.

And so it went on year after year, and with every year that passed, Willie became a little thinner, a little more frail; his wispy hair a little sparser. As the children grew up and were replaced by younger ones, he ceased to speak to those who had reached the age of twelve. Everyone accepted, no one questioned Willie's eccentricities anymore.

Then one day, he became the owner of a donkey as old and as decrepit as himself. It must have been one of those unhappy creatures that, no longer able to work and earn its keep, was thrown over a cliff side or abandoned on the rough hillside to fend for itself, dying of slow starvation.

With the aid of some of the older children, Willie acquired a handsome new saddle, a battered straw hat to protect the donkey from the blinding sun and an outsize string of "worry beads," which he placed round its neck. Days of feverish activity followed, with the children scampering up and down the hill carrying pieces of wood, sacking, tarpaulin, straw and bundles of hay. Willie was building a shelter for his donkey.

The metamorphosis in man and beast was amazing; slowly both took on a new lease of life. The donkey's ribs filled out and his weary old head was held proudly erect now, almost as if he were conscious of the figure he cut with his master seated side saddle and dressed in a gaily-coloured shirt and new pair of pants, riding on his back.

When the hour arrived for Willie's carousing to begin, the donkey was tethered to a post and Willy would start his round of the bars.

Later, when "taking care" of Willie became necessary, the donkey could always found waiting patiently outside. He had become adept at loosening his tether and knew all the bars on Willie's route. Come the dawn, Willie was gone.

Several years went by with Willie's routine visit to the village unchanged: only now Willie and his donkey were seen every day wandering in the hills of the island. At dusk, their figures, silhouetted by the setting sun, could be seen returning home.

Then, one Friday, Willie was missing from his weekly visit. The word spread swiftly through the village and a party of children was dispatched to Willie's house.

The children, Spiros, Costas and Maria tapped gently on the weather-beaten door. They tapped again slightly more loudly, but received no reply.

"Should we open the door"? asked Maria. She was the boldest of the children.

"I suppose so," said Spiros, "but be ever so quiet, we don’t want to wake him if he's a sleep."

"Perhaps he's ill," said Costas. His voice trembled slightly.

The children gently pushed open the creaking door. Willie was lying on the bed, a pile of letters tied neatly with blue ribbon by his side and the donkey stood silently at the foot of the bed, his head resting on the bedpost.

They waited minutes, and then Maria touched his arm gently and whispered in his ear but Willie didn't answer.

The children came tumbling down the hill, their little faces contorted with fear.

"O Pappous was lying on his bed fully dressed," they said, "his hands were folded on his chest and he was smiling, but we couldn't wake him up."

They told how the donkey was standing at the foot of the bed.

The whole village attended the funeral; shops were shut and Willie's open coffin, made by the local craftsmen was carried on the shoulders of the bar keepers on his last "walk about"—past the village shop, the school and finally past the bars he had frequented, on its way to the little cemetery where the Bishop had decreed that Willie should be buried as one of them—as a Greek.

Behind the simple coffin Willie's donkey walked alone, followed by the silent children, the chief of Police, the Town Mayor and the villagers.

As the coffin was lowered into the earth, the old donkey raised its head and a loud a mournful braying broke the silence. Slowly, the old beast turned away from the graveside and started to move in the direction of the steep steps that led home. The villagers watched as it disappeared in the narrow streets. Nobody ever saw it again.

With Willie's passing, the question of his identity arose. A committee of the schoolmaster, the Mayor, the Chief of Police and the postmaster conferred, "I suppose he must have some relatives," said the Chief of Police, "someone will have to be informed."

"I think we should open one of his letters, perhaps that will help us to find someone who knows him," said the schoolmaster. They all decided it was in order to open Willie's letter, which arrived with such regularity on Fridays.

The postmaster handed the Mayor the last letter addressed to Willie; it had a London postmark. The schoolmaster opened the envelope with great care, and read the letter slowly to himself: then he translated it to the waiting Committee.

"It comes from the firm of Solicitors, 'Merryweather Gates and Sons'," he said.

Dear Sir,

The letters you wrote to be addressed to yourself at weekly intervals forty years ago are terminated together with the funds you left in trust.

We are at your disposal at all times and await your further instructions,

We remain, your obedient servants,

Yours faithfully,

JOHN WILLIAMS (for and on behalf of: MERRYWEATHER GATES and SONS).

The contents of Willie's letters to himself were never known, nor were his reasons for refusing to talk to adults.

To this day, Willie's fables are legend on the island of Hydra among the old folk who retell them to their grandchildren. There are many who say they have seen an old man riding on a donkey in the hills at dusk—the donkey wears a string of worry beads and a battered old hat. The sightings are always on a Friday.

How do I know? I was one of those children.

Copyright © 2004 Helen Courtney Lewis

About the Author
"Willy's Donkey" is partly true. The idea came to me while living on the island of Hydra in Greece. A young German man owned a donkey and lived at the top of a hill, while an old man lived near the port in an ramshackle whare house. When the story was reaching its conclusion, I could not think of a convincing reason for the old man refusing to speak to adults, so I left it a blank, so that every reader could reach his or her conclusion.

I am a complete split personality, having spent my creative work all my nearly 80 years between the theatre. Having appeared on the London stage for the first time at the age of five in a performance attended by the Royal family. Graduating to performing at the Old Globe in San Diego, where I was delighted to receive the Atlas award for the best performance of the year. While living in Italy where I met my Italian husband I attended the Accademia de Belli Arti in Venice and after his tragic death, divided my life between painting, writing and acting.