CHAPTER 24

Athos' fever grew as the evening wore on, but his brothers were unaware of it, caught up in their own drug-induced slumber. The Abbott felt bad about drugging the musketeers, but he simply couldn't chance them moving about the Abbey tonight and discovering their secret. This Abbey had a long tradition and he'd be darned if he was going to be the one that brought it tumbling down.

Athos woke, drenched in sweat and confused. He hadn't consumed the same amount of food and drink as his brothers and between that and his fevered metabolism, he had burned off the drug's effects.

Pinon. He had to get to Pinon. He had his duty. He may have totally disgraced himself and his family in many ways, at least in his mind, but he wouldn't let that affect his commitment to Pinon. The gifts had to appear, from Père Noël, at the inn, to be distributed to the children. Toys, hats and mittens, nuts and sweetmeats.

Groaning, he leveraged himself upwards and then slowly swung his feet off the edge of the bed. The chilly air in the room helped revive him to a degree. After resting in that position for a few minutes to gather his strength, he lurched upwards. He stumbled over to the table, gripping its edges for support. Glancing towards the empty beds, he figured he was alone. He didn't notice his three friends sprawled in the cushioned chairs, sound asleep in front of the dying fire.

Shifting his eyes to the items on the table, he saw a bottle of wine, but alas, it was empty. Still, he picked it up and shook it, just in case his eyes were deceiving him. However, the only thing in the glass container was air.

Sighing and unsatisfied, he headed for the door of their chamber, his footsteps getting surer as he walked, and the brisk night air helped make him feel cooler. Turning the handle, he opened the door and for a moment felt surprise when it did open, though he had no idea why that random thought wandered through his brain. He stood in the doorway for a moment trying to determine which way to go. The hall looked long and deserted in both directions and he had no clue how to get to the stables, so he simply went left.

The hallway was dark and empty, no windows, and only a few nearly burnt down candle stubs to provide feeble illumination. Considering his condition, he moved at a fairly good pace, though occasionally he reached out a steadying hand to the cold, stone wall. When he came to the occasional door, he opened it to see where it led, but he found nothing that suggested a way to the stable.

An arched opening appeared on his right and he discovered as he drew near it was a staircase, leading downward. Downward? Was it going to a cellar or the ground floor? Was he on the second floor? He had no clue. After a brief hesitation, he started down the winding staircase. At the bottom, he could only go straight, so he did.

Far down at the end of the hallway, he saw pools of light spilling across the darkened floor. Maybe there was someone who could direct him to the stables. With renewed vigor, he picked up his pace, moving from a slow shuffle to a fast one. When he got to the pools of light, he could see they were coming out of two rooms, one on either side of the corridor, which had open doors. Sticking his head in the first room, he saw a series of workbenches, lined with wood working tools, but otherwise, the table tops were empty. On the floor were bulging sacks and from the top of the one nearest him, what appeared to be a toy soldier was spilling out.

The room was silent, even though there were quite a few monks in it, moving sacks about and stuffing items in them from shelves lining the walls. They all stopped what they were doing when he walked in the room and mutely stared at him, making him extremely uncomfortable. While he didn't exactly feel threatened, he certainly felt intensely unwelcome and he quickly backed out of that room, turned and tried the one on the other side.

It too was filled with monks and sacks, but instead of wooden benches of wood working tools there were tables, with the remnants of baking ingredients. Again, all the monks halted what they were doing and stared at him. A stray walnut caught his eye as it lay on the floor. His mind simply couldn't fathom what was going on. So once again, he backed into the hallway and this time he kept heading down it towards the end of the corridor, where there was another closed door. On the way he passed a third open door, though given his reception at the last two, he didn't stop. But he did glance in as he went by and thought it looked a lot like Constance's sewing room. At the very end of the hallway was the closed door, though this one was much wider than the others.

With trepidation, he pulled it open and was assaulted with the familiar scent of hay and horses. Finally, he had found the stable. Now to find Roger. There were no monks in the stable, nor, as it turned out were there any horses. Athos traversed the entire length of the structure, peering into empty stall, after empty stall. He saw evidence there had been horses in the past, but not the present. When he came to the very end stall, there stood a grey donkey, with long floppy ears and a black stripe down its back and another over its shoulders. It was standing in the stall, with the door open, and it raised its head to stare at him when he appeared.

Athos blinked at the animal for a few confused moments before blurting out, "You're not Roger."

The solemn, brown-eyed beast looked at him and, for a fleeting moment, he thought he saw amusement in the animal's eyes.

"How the hell am I going to get to Pinon without Roger? Or any horse for that matter," Athos exclaimed as he flung his arms in a wide arc. His eyes roamed the stable once more to see if he'd missed a horse hidden somewhere.

"Typically, that language is not used here."

"Sorry," Athos said without really thinking, before it hit him. Who'd said that? He glanced around again expecting to see one of the monks who must have walked in without his notice. But the stable remained deserted except for him and the grey donkey, placidly staring at him.

His eyes narrowed as he glared at the animal, too small for his use. Muttering under his breath, he turned away and walked out of the stall. Slowly, he began moving down the length of the stables once more, convinced Roger, or some horse, simply had to be here and he'd somehow overlooked them.

As he shuffled down the aisle, his grey companion followed along like an overgrown, obedient, faithful dog. When he reached the end with the same results as last time, no Roger, no horses, he turned and walked once more to the far end. No magic made any horses appear and he groaned and sank down on a rectangular hay bale outside the last empty stall. His eyes did a final sweep up straw-scattered, dirt aisle between empty stalls.

"Empty," he moaned, sitting on the prickly hay bale. "Where's Roger?"

His grey ghost was standing beside him. "Who's Roger?"

Without thinking to whom he was talking, Athos replied, "My horse." When he remembered he was supposedly alone, he rose to his feet and strode into the center of the aisle. His hand strayed to his sword, only to find it wasn't at his side. "I'm not in the mood for games. Show yourself," he demanded in an authoritarian tone, ignoring the fact he was weaponless. Silence settled over the area as Athos stood there waiting for the lurker to appear.

"Roger is an odd name for a horse," a voice from behind him stated.

Athos spun around quickly, expecting to confront his stalker. Yet the barn remained empty other than the grey donkey. A wave of dizziness, brought on by his spin, left him momentarily feeling weak so he sank back down on the hay bale once more. Dropping his head into his hands, he muttered, "I'm going crazy."

"What makes you say that?" the voice asked with friendly concern.

Without lifting his head out of his hands, the musketeer replied, "Because I'm talking to myself since no one else is here."

"I like to think I'm someone."

Knowing it was futile, but doing it anyways, Athos raised his head from his hands and looked around once more. After scanning the stables and confirming for the fifth time it was empty, his eyes settled back on the grey donkey, who, he swore, winked at him.

"Go ahead. Ask."

So, slowly, though not knowing why, he did. "You...can...speak?"

"My name is Gui. That is mistletoe in French," the donkey informed him smugly.

"Yes. I know. I am French," Athos declared, though his tone held a hint of disbelief that he was conversing with an animal.

"Yes, so you are. A musketeer, I believe. Noble profession."

That comment from the donkey caused Athos to snort. "Not always. And, one that apparently drives one to insanity."

The donkey shuffled its hooves as if to get more comfortable. "Why do you think you're insane?"

The swordsman gave the donkey a half-amused glance. "From where you sit...or rather stand, conversing with an animal might seem...normal. From where I sit, not so much."

The donkey considered that for a moment. "Does it make you feel like an ass, conversing with an ass?"

If donkeys could grin, Athos swore the little grey animal was grinning from one floppy ear to the other.

"Do you never converse with, what did you say your steed's name was? Roger? Not even when on long journeys, as I assume you musketeers must make in the name of the King?"

Athos shifted on his hay bale, letting the wood panel of the stall behind him support his back. He couldn't believe he was sitting here conversing with a donkey, and a rather witty one at that. Imagine the ribbing he would take from his brothers if they found out, at least before they locked him away.

He looked into the warm, liquid brown eyes in the long furry face that appeared to be patiently waiting for his response. "I suppose on occasion I have talked to Roger, though I feel the obligation to point out he has never responded. It always has been a...one way...dialogue."

"Have you ever talked to him on the eve of our Savior's birth?" The look on Athos' face answered the question, so the little animal went on. "You really should, if you have the opportunity. You might learn something that would make your relationship better. Stronger. And you could ask him if he really likes his name."

"You seem overly concerned about his name, for an," the was a slight pause as Athos considered his words, "for a burro."

"Burro," the donkey brayed with delight. "You speak Spanish?"

"Speak? Not really. Understand. Some. However, my friend speaks fluent Spanish."

"I have met a few equines from Spain on my travels."

Athos regard the little grey donkey again, sizing him up. "Do you travel a lot?"

"Don't let my diminutive size fool you, musketeer. After all, my brethren did carry our Lord's mother to Bethlehem and then later to Egypt. We are very powerful beasts. And smart I might add. I have the honor of accompanying the Abbott every Christmas Eve on his sacred mission."

"The Abbott?" Athos asked, for he was unaware he was in an Abbey.

"Abbot DuBois. Have you not met him?" The donkey seemed puzzled at that, because everyone knew the Abbot.

"I have been...ill. Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me where I am?"'

The grey donkey shifted his feet again before cocking his right hind foot as if he was settling into a more comfortable position for a prolonged conversation. "You are at the Abbey of Saint-Germain d'Auxerre, built a long time ago and named after its original Bishop."

"You knew him?"

Now it was he donkey's turn to snort. "What? You think me immortal? Supernatural?"

"You do talk," the swordsman wryly pointed out.

"On Christmas Eve, when it is appropriate. And of course, the Abbot and I can converse year-round, should we choose. But that comes with the job."

"I didn't realize talking to animals was part of an Abbott's job." Athos reply was somewhat more sarcastic than he intended, though the tough little animal didn't take offense.

"Not all Abbott's. Just the Abbott of this special Abbey. It can come in handy, though one has to be careful. Squirrels for example, quite distracted fellows to converse with, and forgetful. Birds are good for directions, but don't believe their distances. Ground obstacles, such as rivers and large rock formations mean nothing to the feathered sector, but are a bit more challenging to us land-based creatures."

"I see," said Athos slowly, though he really didn't. Shifting his stiffening body to a more comfortable position he asked, "Why does the Abbott of Saint-Germain d'Auxerre need to converse with animals?"

"Because he is also Pére Noël," the donkey stated patiently, as if Athos was being willfully dense.

"Pére Noël!" Athos exclaimed and suddenly recalled why he came here it he first place. "A horse. I must find a horse."

Frantically, he leapt to his feet and took a few steps before he stumbled. Had it not been for the fast action of the donkey, he would have landed face first in the dirt. But the plucky creature stuck his nose and neck under Athos' arm and helped steady the man. Instinctively, the swordsman grasped wiry mane to balance himself. The man and beast stood for a moment in the center aisle, Athos leaning heavily on the warm back of the donkey. The pleasant odor of equine washed over him, comforting because of so many hours he spent on one. He closed his eyes and began to drift away.

"Oh no, my friend," the donkey said as he slowly started walking, forcing the musketeer to move along with him.

The pair ambled down the aisle, in the direction of the entryway, until they came across another convenient hay bale. The burro stepped next to it and Athos slithered down upon it. The donkey nosed him to get him to shift into a more secure position, with his back against a stall door once more. Once the man was seated to his satisfaction, the donkey switched from supporting to sniffing. His soft pink-rimmed nostrils flared as his velvety black-tipped nose explored the man's torso.

Athos, who was half asleep, came awake. "What are you doing?" he questioned as he swatted at the obtrusive nose and tickling breath. "You're worse than Aramis," he proclaimed as he pushed the questing lips aside.

The donkey withdrew his head with a displeased snort. "You smell of mint. I was looking for payment."

"A salve of Aramis' concoction I'm sure. Payment?"

For an animal, the donkey had a very expressive face. Right now it was showing disbelief. "Well I do believe I just carried you halfway up the aisle over my poor shoulders. Don't you have a carrot or maybe an apple on your person? The Abbott always does. I really like apples."

Athos couldn't stop the small quirk in the corner of his lips. "You sound like Porthos."

"Aramis and Porthos. They are fond of apples and carrots too? Are they your other warhorses along with the oddly named Roger? I must say, you do pick peculiar names for your steeds."

A wistful expression flitted across the musketeer's face. "My brothers. They are my brothers, along with d'Artagnan," he said very softly.

But to the long, keen ears of a donkey, nothing is too soft. "Brothers. How nice. I was an only foal. It was a little lonely, but on the bright side I didn't have to compete for my mother's teat."

Thinking of his brothers made Athos realize he didn't know where they were! He started to rise again to go search for them, but a forceful, but careful, nose bump had him sitting down again.

"The Abbott mentioned earlier that four musketeers had appeared at his gate earlier today seeking shelter. Two were near frozen and exhausted and the others not much better off. A most inconvenient night for guests, though I've no doubt the good Abbott was resourceful. You don't get to his position being a dumb bunny. And for the record, not all rabbits are unintelligent. A few are a little fluffy between the ears, but overall not a bad group."

The burro could see Athos getting impatient again, so he got to the point. "I'm sure your brothers are upstairs sleeping, safe and sound in one of the Abbey's guest chambers. For an Abbey in a somewhat remote location with a secret mission, we do get a surprising number of visitors. Though, as I stated earlier, never on Christmas Eve."

Athos, for some reason, was reassured by the words of the kindly, grey animal. "I am glad my brothers are safe. But, I still must find transportation to Pinon. I shall not disgrace my family in this too." He determinedly went to rise, but the equally insistent donkey head-butted him down again.

"Does Roger have this much trouble taking care of you?" the somewhat frustrated donkey inquired as he head-butted Athos down once more. This time, it seemed to work for Athos did not try to rise a third time. He couldn't for the head-butting was killing his ribs.

"Roger, take care of me?" Athos pondered as he worked to catch his breath, momentarily forgetting his objective to get to Pinon. "I take care of him."

That brought out a laughing bray from the grey beast. "I have yet to meet this oddly named Roger, but I'm willing to bet he takes care of you, which, from what I see tonight, must be quite a job."

Contemplating that statement, Athos thought back across many of his adventures with his trusty steed. The damn burro was right. Roger did take care of him, though it was a partnership which went both ways.

"So," the inquisitive little animal asked, "Are you going to tell me how Roger came about to be so named?"

"No."

"After all we have been through," the stubborn beast persisted. "I could have let you wander lost around the stables all night. But I did stop to talk with you, which is kind of a blessing you know."

"Blessing?" Athos gave a little snort of his own. "Trust me, nothing about me is blessed."

"Not blessed? Why I think God must smile mightily upon you. First of all, you are alive. That, I have to suspect is a mighty blessing for a musketeer. And being a musketeer is a blessing. Protecting King and Country. How important is that? You appear to be in one piece and for the most part, though currently run down, in good health. How are those not blessings? And," the donkey added slyly, "I am talking to you. I don't talk to just anyone."

A laugh floated out of the semi-darkness as the Abbott stealthily glided up to the donkey and affectionately scratched him on the neck behind his floppy ears. "That has not been my experience," the religious man said. "I find you quite chatty."

The donkey, whose eyes were half-shut with ecstasy as he got scratched in one of his favorite places, only gave a little grunt in reply.

Athos simply sat on the bale of hay watching the Abbott and his little grey companion in a moderate state of disbelief. Pinon floated back into his fevered brain and he realized sitting here watching a man of the cloth talk to an animal, no matter how novel, wasn't solving the problem of transportation to Pinon. Clearing his throat, he interrupted the idyllic pair. "Abbott. Can you tell me where my horse might be?"

"Roger," the burro interjected sleepily. "He named his horse Roger."

"Roger?" the Abbott said reflectively. "That is an odd name for a horse."

"I know," confirmed the burro. "And he won't tell me how the horse got that name."

Athos scrubbed a weary hand across his face. Again, with the name of his horse. "It is a …long story of not much interest. What is vital is that I get to Pinon, tonight."

The Abbott stopped scratching the donkey's neck, much to the dismay of the furry, grey beast, who showed his displeasure by butting his head against the Abbott's idle hand, as if to remind him of what he was supposed to be doing.

"Pinon? What is so important that you would risk your life to get there tonight? A secret mission from the King?" the Abbott inquired. "You are not well."

Says the man who is also conversing with an ass, Athos thought silently. Said ass, was now nosing about the Abbott's robes in search of treats, as he had done earlier to Athos. Absentmindedly, the priest pulled out a piece of carrot and fed it to the inquisitive lips. The sound of crunching wafted through the air as the beast enjoyed his snack. The donkey gave Athos an 'I told you so' look as he munched away.

"Pinon?" the Abbott prompted the musketeer who seemed to be lost, staring at Gui.

Giving himself a mental shake, Athos focused back on the talking human in the stable. "Is Roger here?" he demanded.

"You rode in tandem with the other musketeers, only two horses between the four of you." When he saw Athos glancing about, he added, "We did borrow your two mounts for the evening."

"Borrow?" Athos asked, his voice lowering and a dangerous edge coming to his voice. "What needs would an Abbey have for two musketeer horses?"

"Same thing I asked when the Abbott has a trusty burro like myself around," Gui interjected, his tone accusatory.

The Abbott affectionately ruffled the donkey's fur. "No one could replace you, Gui, my furry little friend. You are worth your weight in gold."

"Our horses?" Athos reminded them with a growl.

"They are being used to deliver presents, of course, since it is Christmas Eve and I am Pére Noël, at least for this night."

Athos closed his eyes and wearily sank back against the stall. First a talking donkey and now Pére Noël. He must be very ill indeed to be having such hallucinations.