Backapcking Burro: The Journey Begins

The morning sun rose over the white stone roofs of Cowell. I emerged from a dream laden sleep in which I had been pursued by wolves, torn apart by slavering jaws and fused back together by tongues of green fire. I knew before I opened my eyes that the events of the previous day were not part of some fevered hallucination, but I felt my face and head all the same, groaning as I found the hard, smooth horns exactly where they had been the night before.

“Good morning,” said the old shaman, “You slept fitfully, I’m afraid. You seemed troubled by dream spirits, but I sang them away in the end. Breakfast? How do you like your eggs? Scrambled I hope?”

I turned and sat, blinking across the fire, my stomach suddenly very aware of the smells my nose had picked up a long time ago. The shaman was expertly cooking a meal of baked beans and eggs in one tin, whilst boiling tea in another and toasting thick slices of bread on improvised twig skewers. Baked beans. God, how long had it been since I had tasted them? Nothing like them seem to exist in this new world and I felt my mouth water in anticipation at their simple pleasure.

He finished and handing me the hot tin to eat directly out of. As hungry as I was (and I was) I made a mental note that if I were to be dining alfresco more often, then I would need some plates and cutlery to at least appear civilised!

The old man watched me eat with a self-satisfied smile, laughing out loud when I paused nervously, my lips hovering at the tea cup’s rim. “Drink. It is not drugged, I assure you.” After a second’s further pause, I decided to take my chances and gulped the tea down. All too soon the meal was finished and I sat back, looking at the old shaman.

“Yes?” he asked

“Well… What now?”

“Now?”

“Yes. What do I do next.”

“I thought you had decided to explore the village and the forest some more.”

“What, I just go? No idea what I’m looking for? No clue? No map?”

“You worry too much, young one. The backpack will guide you, as you will guide it. Give yourself to adventure.”

As I thought about this, I idly pulled my bedroll up to ward off the morning chill that bit at me despite the small campfire.

“Cold?” he asked, “Well, we will have to do something about that, although in time you will become accustomed to wearing fewer clothes; after all, when did you last see a gazelle in a waterproof jacket?” he teased. “Have a look in your backpack.”

“My…? I did, yesterday. It was empty, more or less.” The shaman just smiled at me so I pulled the pack onto my lap and opened it. There, inside, I was amazed to see a neatly folded shirt and pair of trousers. Underneath, as I pulled them out, sat a rugged pair of walking boots. I gawped at the old man, “But… but… how? These weren’t here before!”

“Ahh,” he laughed, “The Elemental looks after its chosen. You will find that the backpack holds a good many things you never imagined possible. But you’ll discover that yourself; for now, why not get dressed and begin your journey.”

I nodded, dropping the bedroll as I stood and pulled my new clothes over my naked fur. They fitted perfectly, as did the boots which hugged my feet and instantly felt as though I had worn them for years. One last item was missing. At my feet sat the backpack, the start of all this insanity. Bending, I repacked it, strapping the bedroll away and fastening it tight, before, with a deliberately exaggerated motion, I slung it over my shoulders onto my back and stood, no longer just HeadBurro Antfarm, but now HeadBurro Antfarm The Chosen. HeadBurro Antfarm The Seeker. HeadBurro Antfarm The Last Hope. HeadBurro Antfarm The Terminally Confused. HeadBurro Antfarm The Hopelessly Lost. Oh God!

I turned to gaze into the forest behind me, its tall trees soaring into a beautifully clear sky, birds and insects calling in its depths, the same depths that held (I hoped) the first clues to my task. “I best make a start then,” I said turning to the old man. He was gone! I spun round, searching for him between the buildings of Cowell, but there was no trace he had ever been with me at all.

Running my hand over my furred head, I kicked dirt on to the embers of the dying fire and headed off to explore Cowell further…

Backapcking Burro: The Tale

The fire billowed and crackled in the wind, its heat beating back the night on my naked skin. Behind me lay the backpack; I had taken it off as I sat down to listen to the old man’s tale. At the edge of the fire, he had set a small metal cooking pot of water to boil.


"Long before the Linden Clan laid claim to this land,” he started, “people lived here. Lots of people. They lived, loved, fought and died. They built cities, planted forests, cultivated land, sought mastery over the water and the air. And through it all, they were led by their shamen.”

“Shamen like you?” I ventured.

He smiled, his worn tanned face alive in the firelight, “Yes. Shamen like me. Only more so. The Old Ones were far more powerful than we few are now. They knew the true secrets of the world. They could shape land with a thought, open seas with a gesture, bring the beasts of the earth to them with a single call. Now… well, now we are diminished. The Last Great War saw to that.”

“War? The voices mentioned a war.”

“The Elders,” he corrected.

“The Elders, yes, they said a war was coming. Is this true? What kind of war do they mean?”

“If they have foreseen it, it will happen. And it will be terrible if allowed. The Last War laid ruin to the whole earth. The land died. The seas choked and the air turned foul. Once proud cities turned on each other and then, when there was no others left, themselves. A terrible dark time swallowed all. We almost lot everything.” The water in the pot had begun to roll, and he casually dropped a handful of dried leaves into it.

“But who were the Shamen fighting? What was the war over?”

“Oh,” he said his voice heavy with sadness, “what are wars always fought over? Power, land, control. All these things and more. The Old Ones had grown powerful, but with such power comes great responsibilities. Some Shamen decided that not for them were the Agreements written. They decided that the world and all its contents were their by right, to do with as they wanted. The Grove did not agree. When beings of great power disagree, even minor disagreements have devastating consequences for those around them. The disagreements quickly escalated to war. Almost too late the Elders stepped in. They stopped the war, they removed the power from the Shamen, they remoulded the world to make such a gathering of power all but impossible ever again.”

“All but impossible is not impossible,” I pointed out.

“Yes.”

“I see. I take it you are saying someone is looking to gain the power of the Old Shamen.”

“Yes,” he repeated.

“And that someone does not have the best of intentions?”

“Yes.” He said suddenly looking tired beyond belief. He dropped a small pinch of dried herbs into the pot and let it boil on.

“But where do I fit in? I mean, why me? Out of all the people here now. Why me?”

“You have been chosen. You have been chosen to find the key to stopping the war before it starts.”

“How? And what is the key?”

“I… we do not know,” he looked into the fire, unable to meet my eye. He took the pot off the fire and slowly poured the steaming liquid into two small red cups similar to the one I had found in the back backpack earlier.

“What?” I shouted, “What do you mean you don’t know? You must! I mean, what the hell am I supposed to do now?”

“Well, the backpack chose you. Why not ask it?”, he handed me a cup over the flames, “Tea?” he offered.

I took the cup without thinking, “Ask it? Ask it? It’s a bloody backpack if you hadn’t noticed!” I swigged the tea back, ignoring the heat. “How do you suggest I ask a bloody backpack anything?” I fell sideways, unconscious by the time my head hit the ground.

My eyes opened but all was black. Less than one day had passed and this was the third time I had been rendered unconscious. I was getting a wee bit fed up if the truth was known. I sat up. I couldn’t see the floor beneath me but I could certainly feel it. “Hello?” I shouted, not too loudly but enough to suggest I was hoping for a reply.

A slight laugh reached my ears, a sound like crystal glasses rolling together.

“Hello,” I said, this time just loud enough for someone next to me to hear.

“Hello,” the glassy voice laughed in my ear, “welcome to the Inside.”

Backapcking Burro: The Old Man

Looking back now, my panicked flight through the forest and hills of Kahruvel seems like little more than a series of photographs: still images burnt into my mind. I know I was scared – how could I be anything else? – but I can recall little else. I wanted to get out of the forest, away from the silent trees and back to people and noise and life. I was so desperate that it was only as I burst from the forest and bounded across the small bridge the divides Kahruvel’s southern border with Cowell I noticed the speed with which I now ran, and how surefooted I was. Hell! I seemed as fast and as graceful as… as… No! I could not even think the word! Instead I bounded down the stone steps, dozens at a time, and raced over the arced bridge that crosses the canal. At its apex I launched myself off into the air and leapt the twenty metres onto the far bank where I ran past the workshop and towards the lighthouse at full speed.

It was empty. In fact Cowell seemed deserted and the only sounds I could hear were my ragged breaths and my heart pounding inside my chest. Desperate I called out for help. No one answered. I ran to the nearest window to peer through, but instead I caught my own reflection and my blood ran cold. My head was domed and bald, the skin a light fawn colour whilst my face was a chiselled pattern of snow white. Atop my head rose two curved, black horns sweeping backwards and upwards half a metre above me.

And my eyes… oh God! my eyes! The pupils were onxy ovaloid slits, like those of a cat, whilst the iris was a shifting, twisting pattern of red and yellow flames – the two married to give the terrible impression my eyes were flaming shards of dark coal continually burning in my skull.

I gasped out loud and staggered back from the window, trying to put distance between me and the horror reflected.

I shouted for help, desperate for someone - anyone to hear me and come to my aid, but Cowell was as silent as the forest had been when I found that blasted backpack. The backpack! I was still wearing it! If only I had thought – this was the source of all my terror. The moment I had put it on, I had changed. All I had to do was remove it… throw it away and I would be normal again.

I tore at the straps, wrenched the damn thing off and heaved it as far away as I could. It landed in a cloud of dust and dirt and rolled to a halt some ten metres from me. I looked at my hands, willing them to change back, begging under my breath for the skin to return back to normal. They remained white. I sobbed out loud and fell to my knees, tears stinging my eyes.

“Your spirit animal would appear to be a gazelle, young man”, a voice behind me said. I spun round and fell backwards on to my backside, hands scrabbling in the dirt to push my away from its source.

A near-naked old man, skin like leather and long hair pulled back into a ponytail, stood watching me. My mouth flapped uselessly. “Take your time,” he said, “you will have many questions all wanting to get out at once. Let them come.”

“What… what has happened to me?” I shouted, the fear in my voice making it strange to my ears.

“Ah. A big question first. You may not be ready for the answer, but I shall tell you anyway. You have changed. Been reborn.”

“Reborn?” I repeated, “Did… oh God, did I die? Am I dead?”

The old man furrowed his brow and looked at me if I were a rather stupid child, “Dead? Of course not. Would you be here talking to me now if you were dead?” It occurred to me I had no idea if I would or not, but my mind was in too much turmoil to raise the point, “You have been reborn into a new body, a mixture of your old body and that of your spirit animal guide. In your case, it would seem that of a gazelle.”

“But how? Why?” I asked.

“How is easier than why. How is due to the backpack you elected to throw over there,” he flicked his nose to where the pack lay, “But why is down to the fact you have been chosen.”

“Chosen? By who?”

“By whom,” He corrected me. “By the backpack, of course.”

My head was spinning. Chosen? By the backpack? Nothing made sense. Maybe the pack had fallen on me after all and I was laying on the forest floor, unconscious, dreaming, dying.

“No,” he said “you are not in the forest laying in a coma. This is real and happening now to you.”

“But… look at me? Can I change back?”

“Yes. Once the backpack trusts you.”

“Trusts me? How can a backpack trust me?”

“A good question, although I suspect you do not know why. To answer the question you think you have asked, you should ask how can a backpack change you into a gazelle. To answer the question you should have asked, you need to put it on again. It will inform you of what you have to do.”

“There is no way I’m putting that damned backpack on again!” I shouted, my voice full of panic, “Never!”

“Then how do you hope to return to your old form?” the man asked quietly, with a faint smile about his eyes. I had no answer. My eyes darted between the pack and the old man, searching for any way I could think of to make this all go away. Any sliver of rationality I could grasp. I could find none. My shoulders sagged as I realised I had no choice, or rather a series of unpalatable choices.

“I really have to wear it again?”

“Yes.”

“Will it… will it hurt me again? Will I die?”

“No.”

I wanted to ask him to promise but couldn’t bring myself to. It was just too… whiney.

“I promise,” he said, smiling.

There was nothing for it. What did I have to lose? I reached for the backpack…