By Wang Yilian

Wang Yilian is currently a student in the MA in English Studies programme at The University of Hong Kong. She has always been passionate about literature, and during the Travel Writing and Culture course, she has been inspired to think more deeply about its various elements. Yilian has written the following short story, Tails and Trails, which was inspired by Robert Louis Stevenson’s The Norton Book of Travel.

This piece attempts to replace the human narrative with an animal perspective, revealing the ever-present balance of power between humans and animals behind a seemingly romantic journey. The choice of a non-human perspective is an attempt to regain the narrative sovereignty of the muted traveling companion. While animals are often reduced to functional symbols in travel literature, I hope to convey their “voices” through psychological descriptions and humorous expressions. This change of perspective is not only a supplement to traditional travel writing, but also a self-expansion of literary imagination. A good story should be like a prism, with each facet reflecting a different spectrum. With Tails and Trails, I intend to break the conventional narrative perspective. I hope that this story will not only make readers pay attention to the unique significance of animals in literature, but also inspire them to look at literature from multiple perspectives. I also hope that everyone will be brave enough to re-create narratives and thus discover more possibilities in the world of literature. Just as “there are a thousand Hamlets in a thousand people’s eyes”, let every reading become a unique creative journey! 

Tails and Trails: A Donkey’s Tale

Hey, guys! I’m Modestine. You’ve probably heard of me in the The Norton Book of Travel. Yep, I’m the donkey that was sold for 65 francs and two beers. To be honest, I think it was a pretty good deal. After all, I’m easy on the eyes and I can carry a load like nobody’s business. 

One early morning, a tall, lanky Scotsman sauntered into the stables and bargained with Father Adam in broken French. The place was buzzing with noisy buyers. I just flicked my ears and played it cool, pretending not to hear. This Scotsman handed me a piece of black bread, which I gobbled up unceremoniously, but still gave him the cold shoulder. “Good girl,” he crouched down and tried to stroke my mane, “We’re bound for the Cévennes, where there’s fresh grass and sweet mountain springs you’ll love.” I snorted dismissively, “Typical ‘outsiders’, all sweet talk and no real consideration for us.” But my ears perked up when I saw the saddle he had prepared – a fine leather pack saddle with a soft wool pad sewn on. He fumbled with the straps, tying the straps too tightly. I gave a little kick with my hind legs on purpose, startling him into taking two steps back. He chuckled awkwardly and readjusted the saddle. This man, Stevenson, didn’t seem as high and mighty as other outsiders I’d crossed paths with. “Modestine,” he muttered as he fiddled with the saddle, “you’re a not-so-good-tempered little fellow. I reckon we’d make a good pair, though.” I flicked my tail in disbelief. Still, for the sake of having black bread today, I was going to cut him some slack for a few days.

The first few days of the trip were rough and he walked slowly, stopping every now and then to wipe the sweat off his face. I purposely slowed my pace to wait for him, even though I was perfectly capable of walking fast. Sometimes he would tell me stories he had written. His voice was soft, like the mountain breeze. “You know, Modestine,” he said, “I once wrote a book about pirates. You might like it; after all, you’re sort of an adventurer.” I snorted and thought, “This human really talks a lot. An adventurer? Please, we’re not in some heroic legend.” 

The slowness was shaken up by a green-clad farmer. With cocky confidence, he pulled a short stick from his pocket and made a beeline for me. The stick whipped up my hindquarters and my body jolted, my ears twitched involuntarily, and I broke into a trot. This seemed to remind the somewhat staid Mr. Stevenson that treating a donkey by jerking and shoving is a tried-and-true donkey-driving technique.

Go figure! What an insensitive person! Obviously, it was he himself who could not walk fast enough, but he passed the buck to me. When he also followed the example of the old farmer in green and used a stick to lash me, I had resolved to be even more defiant and resolutely disobeyed him. So, every time he hit me, I took three steps forward, and then three steps back, and then three more steps, and then three more steps back. Hey, I just kept wearing him down like that over and over again. He tried sweet-talking me, scolding me, even waving a stick at my head to terrorize me. But I wasn’t some timid pushover, and this was child’s play compared to Father Adam’s “iron-fisted rule.”

But one day in the village of Bouchet, we were caught in a sudden downpour. The rain ran down my mane and I stood shivering on the side of the road. I knew he had a big green sleeping bag to protect himself from the rain. But in moments like these he showed a softer side. Stevenson took off his coat and draped it over me. I could literally feel his body heat and his racing heartbeat. “Don’t worry, Modestine, he said, “I won’t let my companion get soaked, let’s go to find some shelter.” I looked up at him and noticed that his hair was soaked and plastered to his forehead, making him look a little ridiculous. I didn’t give him the usual snort this time, just shuffled my feet slightly. He didn’t seem like a bad guy.

Since that rainstorm, my relationship with Stevenson seems to have taken a subtle turn. Though he was still all thumbs, occasionally strapping the saddle on too tightly or forgetting to feed me water. But he had at least learned to hand me a hunk of black bread when I was in a huff. That made me think that the Scotsman’s got a bit of sense.

One day we were passing through a small village. Some children saw me and gathered around excitedly. They were yapping away about how long my ears were and how fluffy my tail was. There was even a little boy who tried to clamber onto my back. I flopped my ears and thought to myself, “These little nubs are so innocent and much cuter than those smug adults.” Seeing this, Stevenson smiled warmly and told the boys, “Don’t mess with her, she’s got a bit of a temper.” I snorted in agreement. However, the kids’ enthusiasm had me feeling pretty chuffed. When they handed me a carrot, I snatched it up without hesitation and even allowed them to pet my mane. Stevenson stood by, shaking his head like a disappointed parent, “Modestine, you’re quite gentle with them, but how come you’re so hard on me?” I glanced at him and thought, “That’s because they know how to treat donkeys better than you do.”

The next day, we bumped into a farmer who claimed to be a “donkey language expert”. He swore to Stevenson that if he learned the language of the donkeys, he could get me to toe the line. Stevenson followed him uncertainly and learned a few “hee-haws” and “grunts”. I stood by, trying not to bust a gut laughing. His botched “donkey language” sounded more like the sneezing of a goat with a cold. The farmer instructed him, “You have to feel the donkey’s emotions with your heart.” I couldn’t help but snort, thinking, “This ‘expert’ probably hasn’t even laid a finger on a donkey’s hoof more than twice in the life.” Nonetheless, Stevenson persisted in practicing his “donkey language.” Once he tried to speed me up with his newfound “skill”, but I just played along like it was some comedy act and continued plodding along at my own pace. With a sigh of frustration, he gave up on this “advanced skill” and went back to his old trick – black bread. I swished my tail in triumph and thought, “That’s right, donkeys aren’t that easy to fool.”

The roads in Cévennes wound like a snake. We passed through an old pine forest and occasionally saw a few stone farmhouses. The roofs were decked out with dark brown tiles. A mountain spring beside the road was crystal clear, the water rushing over smooth pebbles with a pleasant gurgling sound. On the distant slopes, terraced rice fields cascaded, and grape vines and olive trees swayed gently in the breeze, as if telling of the serenity and bounty of the land.

One evening, we rested in a meadow. The glow of the setting sun shone on the grass, bathing our bodies with a slight warmth. Stevenson took out a booklet and began to write. After a while, he looked up and grinned at me: “Modestine, I’ve written a little poem for you, would you like to hear it?” I blinked in agreement. He cleared his throat and began to recite:

In the arms of Cévennes, we freely roam.  

Through pine woods and streams, our spirits comb.  

You, my stubborn companion, so true.  

And I, your steadfast friend, walking with you.  

Through wind and rain, we face the test.  

In the golden sun, we find our rest.  

Modestine, my dear, my faithful friend.  

Together we see the beauty that never ends.

I couldn’t help but nuzzle his hand with my nose as I listened. He smiled and patted my neck. “Seems like you like the poem,” he said, “maybe I should put it in my book.”

Our trip didn’t go as well as we thought it would, with many detours and wrong destinations. My stubbornness gave him a headache and his clumsiness made me scoff. The journey was filled with scattered villages, the laughter of children, and the gaze of strangers. Although the road was full of bumps, I found it to be a pretty fun time. Stevenson was clumsy, but he was at least willing to try to understand me. As for me, I was getting used to having him as a traveling companion, despite the occasional tantrum. After all, who could resist a Scotsman who could write poetry and tell stories? Provided, of course, that he continued to keep the black bread coming.

I knew this journey would eventually come to an end, but our story was far from over. Stevenson stood up from the grass and patted the dust from his wrinkled pants, “Come on,” “There’s still a long way to go.” I took a step and trailed behind him. Our shadows were stretched and intertwined, as if they spoke of some unfulfilled possibility. The wind continued to blow through the valley, and the whispers of the pine forest faded into the distance. Our backs disappeared into the winding mountain road, leaving only this story behind.