The Audacity of Goats

by J. F. Riordan

He was thinking carefully about his words. “He’s not talking.” He held her glance.

  “Well, he’s been sleeping a lot.”

  “Not all the time. You’ve seen him awake, haven’t you?”

  Fiona admitted that she had.

  “Why do you think he’s not?” she asked. “Speaking, I mean.”

  “Well, there are two possibilities. One: he’s still not fully recovered… .”

  He paused.

  “And the other?” asked Fiona, puzzled.

  “He isn’t actually Robert.”

  That week, a review referring to a Men’s Yoga Practice in Ephraim, Wisconsin, appeared in a well-known yoga magazine: “This drop-in practice is the perfect way to begin a day of relaxation. Set in a local coffee shop known as Ground Zero, the one-hour sequence is unguided. The Master, who does not speak, brilliantly allows his students to follow his example, internalizing, personalizing, and intensifying the path. What is most innovative is the Master’s use of music to train the mind for the perfect state of relaxed awareness. The music presents a continual challenge to calm that improves balance, focus, and concentration. Afterward, there’s always great coffee and conversation with fellow seekers. Don’t miss this opportunity to start your vacation right.”

  It was late the next night when Fiona entered the barn and peered over the stall door. She had had a busy day of meetings, and had gone home to eat, planning to stay there. But she found herself unable to sleep, drawn to the barn and its mysterious inhabitant.

  The Goat Formerly Known As Robert was lying in the center of a mound of straw. He looked toward her as Fiona approached with no sign of recognition. Fiona reached over the stall and touched his neck beneath the cone. He gazed at her dully.

  “Hello, Robert,” she said softly, testing his response.

  He tried to turn his head away, but the cone prevented him.

  “It’s me. Fiona. Remember?”

  She was hoping for a vocal response, but his eyes were glazed and he did not seem interested.

  He sat sullenly, his head down. Fiona watched him for a long time, thinking. It was late when she finally left the barn and went out to her car.

  The goat was still lying with his head down, facing the rear of his stall. Up the road she could hear the church bell ringing midnight.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Fiona was on a train that was rolling slowly through a small village. Somewhere nearby was a voice from someone she couldn’t see, that she couldn’t associate with anyone in particular, but which was companionable and familiar.

  As they passed places along the way the voice was saying to her, “See that old man dressed in rags on the corner? That’s Lars. At the next little café look for the old woman, that will be Jake. The little girl nearby will be Ben. The man at the newsstand with the briefcase will be Eddie.” And in each case, she would look, and below some deep and brilliant disguise she would recognize someone she knew, pretending to be someone completely different. It was not disquieting, merely fascinating, and she strained to identify who the actors were before the voice could identify them. In each case, she would catch some single quality: the slant of a profile, a hand gesture, or some indefinable aura of individuality that would help her to see through the disguise to the real person beneath. As they reached the far limits of the village, there was a bright light that suddenly shone into her face as from another train bearing down on her. She struggled ineffectually and without any particular alarm to get out of its path, but she could not get off the train she was on. She was running up and down the carriage of the train when she heard a strange pinging that sent an alarm into her being.

  Wrestling herself awake, Fiona answered the phone at her bedside. It was Nancy’s brusque voice, undiminished by the late hour. “I think you’d better come,” she said.

  Fear clutching her heart, Fiona stumbled to dress and find her keys.

  There was a poignant stillness when she entered the barn a few minutes later. Nancy was sitting calmly in the venerable rocking chair she kept there. From the looks of it, the chair had born witness to generations of farmers’ vigils. Nancy seemed unaware of any alarm Fiona may have felt.

  “What’s going on?” asked Fiona.

  “Sit down,” said Nancy, indicating a bench nearby. “Just wait.”

  Obediently, Fiona sat, her fear giving way to confusion.

  The goat in the stall stirred. He was standing now, and he pivoted his body to be able to see the newcomer despite the cone on his head. His yellow eyes glittered. He eyed Fiona for a long time, seeming to be evaluating her by some standard known only to him. Returning the animal’s gaze, she felt that it was likely she was coming up short.

  Without warning, he opened his mouth and gave a piercing scream. Fiona jumped, her heart pounding. It sounded exactly the way Fiona imagined a man falling from a high place would sound. He screamed again, horrifyingly, for almost thirty seconds. Then again, and again, again, the screaming continued, sounding as if whole platoons of men were being murdered in Nancy’s barn.

  Recovering from her shock, Fiona looked over at Nancy, who, apart from occasionally wincing at the volume, sat composedly in her rocker, a small smile playing around the corners of her mouth.

  “He woke up me doing this,” she shouted above the noise. “About an hour ago. Rattled me so thoroughly I got my granddad’s shotgun down off the wall before I came out here.” She indicated the weapon leaning against a corner of the barn. “Fortunately I didn’t need it. Couldn’t for the life of me say when it was cleaned last.”

  Nancy did not appear rattled now. She rummaged in her pocket for her silver flask and offered it to Fiona, the screaming continuing all the while. “I’m taking this as a sign he’s feeling better.”

  “Should we try to stop him?”

  “I can’t think how,” said Nancy.

  Fiona took the flask gratefully and drank. She felt admiration at the courage Nancy must have had to leave her house with the sound of screaming going on outside. The brandy burned going down, and Fiona felt its heat coursing through her limbs. The goat screamed on, its pitch rising from a man’s scream to a woman’s. It occurred to her that Robert’s vocal idiosyncrasies had been nothing compared to this, or, if this goat was Robert, that he really had not been in need of any additional bad habits.

  “Do you think anyone else can hear him?” shouted Fiona at last.

  Nancy chuckled. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.” She passed the silver flask again to Fiona. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  Fiona wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “What are you thinking?”

  “That this explains a lot of things. The tattered bicycle seats, all ripped to shreds. Piggy wouldn’t eat leather. That’s something a goat would do. And there was Bill Hanson’s trampled orchard last fall.” She paused reminiscently. “And don’t forget those pregnant does at the Martin’s place… .”

  “Oh no.” said Fiona in a small voice. “You don’t think… .”

  Nancy looked at her steadily.

  “There was screaming at Windsome Farm. And Emily mentioned that she’d found the latches open several times. Goats are escape artists. Why shouldn’t it work in reverse? It’s certainly possible.”

  Fiona was digesting this information when they heard the sirens joining the cacophony of goat screaming.

  Jim got there first, bursting into the barn, breathless from running up the drive. He looked first at the screaming goat, then at Nancy, then at Fiona, his face registering first surprise, then confusion, then dawning understanding.

  The two women exchanged glances and suddenly began to laugh.

  In moments there were more breathless men coming through the door, each bewildered: first separately; then together. Before long, there were ten would-be rescuers in the barn, all standing helplessly before the relentless screaming of an agitated goat and the convulsive laughter of Fiona and Nancy. Chief Bill Yahr looked on the scene with long-suffering patience.

/>   “I suppose as long as you’re all here,” said Nancy at last, wiping her eyes, “You may as well have a drink.” She opened the big bottom drawer of the desk in the corner, and pulled out a bottle she used to refill her flask, offering it first to the Chief. He took it, smiling tolerantly.

  After the bottle had been passed around, the mood of the barn lifted, despite the screaming. Relief from months of worry over an inexplicable phenomenon now shifted into general hilarity. As the level in the bottle dwindled, several of the wouldbe rescuers began to join in, experimentally, with the screaming. Their companionable noisemaking was no match for the goat. Human voices tired more quickly, which was perhaps, thought Fiona, just as well.

  Exhausted, she leaned her back against the wall and closed her eyes against the noise, noticing with surprise how one could become accustomed to anything. She felt someone sit next to her on the bench, and opened her eyes to see Jim. They exchanged a glance. Then he, too, leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, his legs stretched out in front of him.

  Abruptly, without warning, the screaming stopped. The conversations that had been shouted over the racket were suddenly audible, and they quickly sputtered out.

  Fiona looked over at the goat who might not be Robert. His eyes glittered in the warm light of the barn. If attention had been his goal, thought Fiona, he must be feeling extremely satisfied. As she watched, he turned his back on the crowd and began to rummage ravenously in his trough. It was the first time he had eaten since his rescue. Fiona looked over to see if Nancy had noticed. She caught Fiona’s look, smiled, and nodded. Whoever he was, the goat was going to be okay. Fiona leaned back against the wall and nudged Jim with her elbow.

  “We did it. He’s going to be fine.”

  But Jim did not respond. He was sound asleep.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The morning dawned with a sullen, gray light. Thick blue-black cumulus clouds covered the sky, signaling the shift of seasons. Spring would come soon, but it had not yet arrived. The water moved in heavy, unshining waves, striking the ferry with slow thuds. Nearly all the ice was gone, melted or blown north of Death’s Door. There were only a few remaining white cliffs of ice shoved up against portions of the shorelines. A stiff wind kept the ferry crew moving quickly and without much conversation. Passengers stayed in their cars with the engines running and the heaters on.

  On the second trip, before heading back, Pali stayed on deck as long as possible, dawdling with unnecessary tasks. Young Joe was in the pilot house. He had just passed his licensing test to be a captain. It was Pali’s helm today, but Pali was giving him the space to garner a sense of being in command, not always an easy thing for a young man. At two minutes to the hour, Pali headed up the stairs to the wheelhouse, taking the steps two at a time, using the railings to balance himself. As he crossed the upper deck, Pali could see Young Joe through the windows, standing at the helm. He went quickly up the several steps, opened the door, and stepped into the warmth. It was a relief to be out of the wind. He hadn’t realized how thoroughly chilled he was. He remembered suddenly, and with pleasure, the thermos of coffee he had tucked into a corner.

  Young Joe looked up, and nodded.

  “You can take her out,” Pali said, as Joe began to step back for him.

  The engines started their slow rumble, and Joe stood at the pilot’s wheel looking ahead, his face alight with pride and pleasure. He had a beginner’s sense of extra caution, and he was doing everything by the book, his whole body on alert like a young dog out hunting for the first time.

  As they passed the shelter of the breakwater and headed into open water, suddenly Joe stiffened. Pali could see it happen.

  “You all right, Joe?”

  Joe did not answer. He seemed frozen at the wheel. Pali could see his face from the side. Joe’s eyes were focused straight ahead, a look of shock or fear on his face.

  “Joe,” said Pali again. “You okay?” Pali stepped forward instinctively to take the helm, but Joe held fast to the wheel, and Pali, concerned about his young crewman, but with his duty always first in his mind, debated whether to push Joe aside and take over. The ship, though, was clearly in no danger, and although he stayed near and on alert, Pali did not force the situation.

  After what seemed like forever Pali saw Young Joe’s body relax. Joe’s head went down for a moment, and then he looked up again, taking deep breaths.

  “Joe,” said Pali. “Are you sick? What’s going on? You have to tell me.”

  “Joe! Answer me!”

  Joe took a deep breath and spoke, his eyes still ahead. “I felt it, Captain,” he said with an odd formality. “I felt it.”

  “You felt what?” Pali was beginning to be impatient. “Come on, Joe. Out with it! Talk some sense.”

  Joe turned his head and looked straight into Pali’s eyes. “The ghost. I felt the ghost. I felt his hand on my shoulder. Just like you said.”

  Pali said nothing, unable to gather his thoughts. He did not ask any questions. He didn’t know that he was silent, or that he was standing and staring. Joe was invisible to him in that moment, and he felt he was alone in the pilot house.

  A change in the light made Pali shift his gaze. He saw a faint gleam ahead, and in one swift moment, a shaft of sunlight pierced the blue clouds and hit the water. The lake was alight with blue gleaming, changing the bleak landscape in an instant. In that moment, as if a switch had been flipped inside his brain, Pali felt an old insistent rhythm. In that flash of sun, the lines of his poems—not one or two, but all of them—formed in his mind with crystalline clarity and played their soft music in his head and heart. They were not lost. They were all there, one after another, spinning their lines unceasingly. Immersed in their music, Pali watched as the wind broke the clouds for one more moment of light. It glimmered in a straight golden line from the open sky to the water, and then, in the next second, it was gone.

  Pali stood still. He felt his heart beating within him. He looked ahead at the shifting, blue-gray waters that a moment before had sparkled in the sun. The Island was ahead, serene in the soft light of a cloudy morning. He felt the slow diffusion of emotion in his chest, his arms, his body, and he knew in that moment that all was well. He was bathed in a tide of gratitude.

  He put his hand on the shoulder of his helmsman.

  “I’ll take her, Joe,” he said. The two men, no longer separated by age, looked into one another’s eyes with mutual understanding. Joe stepped back to make room for his captain.

  His mind resonant with the rhythms of his words, Pali took the ferry’s wheel in his two hands and turned his eyes toward home.

  The sound of the Skype ring woke Fiona from a deep sleep. She wasn’t sure at first where she was until she realized she had fallen asleep on the couch. As she moved her head, she caught the faint smell of barn in her hair.

  “Hey,” said Pete. “Guess what?”

  “What?” Fiona’s voice croaked a bit.

  “I’m taking some time off. I’ve been accumulating it for a while now.”

  “And you’re coming here?”

  “If you’ll have me.”

  Fiona smiled sleepily. “I guess I will. Will you be here for my swearing in?”

  “That depends. I’m flying out tomorrow. I’ll be there in three days—depending on how you count.”

  “That gives me time to get some food in the house.”

  “And to throw away the black bananas.”

  It was after nine o’clock when Pali went in to say good night to his son. Ben was sitting up in bed with only a reading light on, his book face-down on the blankets, the new badge in animal husbandry proudly displayed above the desk nearby. He was wearing one of Pali’s old t-shirts, still far too large for him, and a disreputable but beloved pair of sweatpants. The edges of his hair were wet from washing, and he smelled of soap and toothpaste. Pali felt again the sweep of gratitude he had felt that morning. He sat without speaking on the edge of his son’s bed. “Dad,” said Ben, after a
moment.

  “Yes?”

  “Dad, I’ve got to tell you something.” Ben paused and shifted his position, gathering his courage.

  Pali, aware that there was some struggle going on, waited, patiently, as he would if there were a wild animal he didn’t want to frighten.

  Ben took a deep breath, and turned his eyes on his father.

  “You know how we take the oath in Boy Scouts? The oath to be morally straight?”

  Pali nodded solemnly, but said nothing. He thought he had an inkling of what was coming.

  “Dad, I’ve got to tell you something. And you’ve got to believe me. I swear I’m not making this up.”

  Pali frowned slightly. This was not going in the direction he had expected. He had expected some confession involving the other night’s mishap. He knew most of the story already from Jim, but he had been waiting to hear Ben tell it.

  “The other night, on the lake…” Ben swallowed. He was about to jump off an emotional precipice, and he hesitated for long seconds as his father counseled himself to silence. “Rescuing the goat… . Something happened.”

  Pali turned his full attention to not showing any reaction. Whatever this was, he wanted Ben to know he could say it. He sat very still, trying not to deter this confession by showing his own feelings.

  “There was someone there, Dad. Someone helping me. At least… . I think it was someone.”

  Pali felt his breath stop.

  “I didn’t see anyone. But I felt him. I felt a hand. I felt someone pulling me out of the water; helping me pull the goat out of the water.”

  Pali did not move or stir, his eyes fixed on his son’s face. He noticed suddenly something he hadn’t seen until now. The chubby sweetness was almost gone. The brow and cheekbones were gaining definition. It wasn’t the face of child anymore.

  “I didn’t see him. I don’t know who it was. But it was a feeling. I knew it. I knew he was there the whole time. He helped me find Ms. Campbell. He was with me the whole time.”