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 on the very rocky road ahead? Then turn back.
Chapter 16-1
About a week later, I was standing in the late Spring drizzle outside the church of St Michael and All Angels, South Tottenham. I was loosely tethered to a iron railing in a sort of concrete 'garden', while the London traffic thundered past.
"What is that creature? Is this some kind of joke, Jake? Some juvenile attempt at blasphemy?"
"Well, Father, it was the best that I could do in the circs. I'm afraid that you left it rather late in the day and the donkeys were all booked. No donkeys for love or money in the whole of the M25. Looks as if the Evangelicals have better contacts than us up at the higher end of things. They must have arranged their processions yonks ago. Anyway, the chap at the centre was very obliging and suggested a horse instead. And here he is."
At this rather obvious remark, the lad gave me a resounding slap on the neck and looked hopefully up at his robed and chasubled superior.
"Fear not, daughter of Sion: behold, thy King cometh, sitting on an ass's colt."
The fat priest intoned the quotation in a liturgical, sing-song chant. He paused, prayerfully, and then turned on his long-suffering Pastoral Assistant.
"John 12:15. Zechariah 9.9. I assume you at least vaguely familiar with the passage, boy. An ass! Our Lord rode an ass into the Holy City. He most certainly did not ride a horse.'
As he spat out the words of reproach, the nasty man waved a flabby, ringed hand dismissively in my direction. I squeezed out a fart in response.
'I fear that you have missed the whole point. And not, I might add, for the first time. I refer you to Canon Smith-Smith (Oxford 1933) on the subject.'
As the priest droned on about the religious symbolism of the donkey in the Ancient Near East, it gradually dawned on me what was happening here. It was now 10.45 am on the Sunday before Easter and the streets of London were already ringing to the strains of 'All Glory, laud and honour.' I might have become a bit lapse recently, but I knew all about Palm Sunday processions. What Nigerian childhood was complete without them? I also knew that donkeys were pretty much a sine qua non and I understood Father Copplestone's frustration. But he really had no choice. Unless he started the service PDQ, he'd be the laughing-stock of the Diocese and a gift to his happy-clappy enemies.
And so, in a cloud of incense, surrounded by pretty African boys in lace vestments, we set off. That first Sunday was pretty innocuous and main-stream. Just a walk around the block, waving palm crosses, and a long-ish, standing-up service. I was allowed into the Church and can actually say that I enjoyed singing along to the familiar hymns. I remembered all the lines of the Passion Play and shouted 'Crucify Him!' at just the right time, with the rest of the congregation. I even found myself queuing-up for communion, to be politely but firmly refused.
So much, so familiar. But even a church-going childhood, of the strictest African variety, with the frighteningly thorough Mrs O-L as a catechist, did nothing to prepare me for the next few days. For the bizarre and sickening perversion of Christianity that I witnessed every morning and afternoon. Of which, in fact, I was not merely a witness, but an unwillingly integral part.
I've heard of Opus Dei, of course. Who hasn't? Anyone who's read The da Vinci Code (and who hasn't?) knows all about the niche RC group, who wear hair-shirts and whip themselves at night. There are always newspaper reports about government ministers who were once members. I've even heard of devotees in South America and the Philippines who actually went through a crucifixion. But what I had never heard of was public flagellation, in procession, through the streets of North London. I thought that this sort of craziness had gone out with the Middle Ages. I was very wrong.
Every day in Holy Week, from Palm Sunday onwards, Father Simon and his acolytes paraded themselves along Tottenham High Road, bare backed and bleeding. It was pretty heavy stuff. Some of the young men seemed to be inflicting serious damage. Their necks and shoulders ran with blood, yet still they thrashed. I could only guess that there was some kind of sexual motive, as well as the more obvious spiritual one. Masochism thinly disguised as penance.
What, you may ask, was my role in all this madness? I led the procession, pretending to be a donkey, while fat Father Simon sat on my back, pretending to be Christ. It was a pretty miserable existence, but at least the ecstatic whipping did not include me. In fact, they were all very sweet to me. Rather too sweet, perhaps. Was it only me, or did their caresses veer dangerously close to my pudenda? Call me a prude if you like, but bestiality was a perversion too far even a chap of my impeccable liberal credentials.
Spiritual and sexual motives aside, there was another, equally primal reason for these bizarre antics. Every morning, as the procession gathered at Tottenham HIgh Cross, Father Simon delivered the same carefully conned sermon:
"Beloved in Christ, as the Church throughout the world turns its eyes to Calvary, to the Passion of our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ, so we too turn to the Old Rugged Cross. To embrace its suffering and, in some small way, endeavour to make it our own. For, as our Lord Himself commanded, we are each one of us to take up our Cross and follow Him.
Brothers and sisters in Christ, in this Holy Week, it is our duty and our joy to think of those less fortunate than ourselves, the poor in spirit and pure in heart, who suffer as our Lord Himself suffered."
At this point, Father Simon paused, crossed himself devoutly and bowed his head in silent prayer. The crowd waited with baited breath.
"And what does the Church, in her infinite wisdom, demand of her good and faithful children? What does she demand of them in this Week above all weeks? The corporal works of mercy, visiting the sick, the prisoner, the house-bound. But, above all, dear friends in Christ, the Church demands of her faithful children the giving of alms for the universal relief of suffering. For nothing can delight our Lord more than this."
- Deny yourselves and follow me.
- The love of money is the root of all evil
- Give and ye shall receive
- What must I do to be saved? Sell all that you have
- The poor are always with you
- Why do you worry about tomorrow?
The hoary old sinner had ransacked the Good Book for any quote that would bolster his cause and empty the purses of the good folk of N17. God knows they were poor enough already. Some of the poorest wards in London were in Tottenham, but by the end of Holy Week they were bloody lot poorer (excuse the pun). Everyday, the sermon had its desired effect. Very much its desired effect. The money flooded in, collected in enormous buckets, like a carnival collection. And every evening, the good times rolled. You surely didn't think the collection was really for the poor, did you? Get real.
The festivities usually kicked off with Choral Benediction at St Benet's. It was the kind of incomprehensible service that so annoys the Archbishop of Canterbury: clouds of incense, gauzy robes taken on and off, interminable hymns in Latin, repeated kissing and copious genuflection, even prostration. There never seemed to be a congregation - which was not surprising, as the door was locked - and the boys really let rip. As I gazed sadly in through the stained glass window (a graphic depiction of St Benedict rolling on the Holy Thorn), there seemed very little Christianity in the elaborate, choreographed ceremony. The service surely belonged to an older, more mysterious, pagan world. I guess that the participants must have believed in at least some of the gobbledygook, or why would they bother? But even they seemed relieved when the Host was safely back in the tabernacle, the robes removed and the church bit over for another day.
A boozy dinner invariably followed, with Father Simon spouting learned disquisitions on the various vintages and vineyards. Having been brought up in the company of Mrs O-T and her fellow plutocrats, I know a fair bit about wine myself and knew that the bottles they were drinking would have cost hundreds, if not thousands of pounds. A Church of England stipend couldn't possibly have covered such expensive habits, but the good people of Tottenham made up for the shortfall. It was they who paid for the wine, the brandy, the whiskey and the coke.
Seeing the pastoral assistants snorting a thousand pounds' worth of white powder, I felt a sudden surge of righteous anger. I wanted to leap through the vicarage windows and trample the Pharisees to a well-deserved death. There is a lot of damage that a horse can do. His hooves, even his teeth, are a deadly weapon. Within a second, I could have transformed myself into the first Horse of the Apocalypse. Sans angelic rider, maybe, but deadly nonetheless. I was also enough of a Sunday School alumnus to recall the graphic descriptions of Jehu's horses trampling the wicked Jezebel to death: and the legs of the horses were smeared in blood up to their knees.
© 2017 Mimi L. Thompson
The continuation to be published tomorrow
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
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