Tales of the Zodiac - The Goat's Tale

by PJ Hetherhouse

  He describes his hosts as generous people who have fed him up to at least twice the size he was upon arrival. Furthermore, they’ve insisted that he do no work until his health and memory return fully. The latter, he is beginning to fear, will never return. He has no concepts by which to describe the passing of time since his arrival, simply saying that he has been here for all his life.

  Of course, Morrigan, with his easy habit of handing out nicknames, begins to address the boy as ‘Ram’ and, naturally, it is him, rather than our host, that we become more and more interested in. Similarly, it is clear that the boy is fascinated by us. To him, the world outside this cave scarcely existed before today. Now, it is clear he is beginning to realise that Morrigan and I are the key to providing answers. He and Morrigan grow increasingly convinced that we must all share a heritage. I, as ever, am doubtful.

  As the night moves on, the children drift off to sleep at their mothers’ sides. The women remain but are prohibited from joining in the conversation by the Burt. As alcohol begins to flow more deeply, the idea of the boy coming with us is clearly beginning to germinate in the minds of all three of us. To me, it seems an inconvenience and a distraction. Even discounting the fact that he is a completely unknown quantity, he becomes another mouth to feed, another obstacle taking me further away from my objectives. As he and Morrigan grow closer, I sense that I may be heading for conflict.

  Conversation flows. I, drinking as little as I can without seeming rude, begin to drift from it. Ram continues to interpret conversation between Morrigan and the Burt. Both are fascinated by the boastful stories that Morrigan weaves, of himself and the kingdom he comes from. The kingdom he describes does not sound like the kingdom I grew up in. For the first time, I begin to realise that my ‘friendship’ with Morrigan is closely linked to the extreme hardship that we are both enduring. I cannot imagine, somehow, that he and I would be friends back in the safety of the inn at Tallakarn. His stories reveal the gulf in our lives. How much sweeter the world must seem when you are able to dip in and out of it like a crow.

  Before too long, wife number one approaches me, gesturing to her knee.

  “Vunt?” She repeats the word several times, tapping on my back. Morrigan turns around, glint in his eye.

  “I think your luck’s in, ser. Sounds like she has something she wants to show you.” His face is ugly with drunkenness and his crudeness brings angry blood flushing to my face.

  “Vunt?” She continues, tapping her knee once again. For me, it seems more likely she is asking to see my injury. I point to my own left knee and smile in polite recognition.

  Upon this signal, she approaches me, rolls up my trouser leg and, after having placed a warm hand on the back of my calf, removes the bandage. Pain races through the wound as though she has put another arrow in me. Her reaction, a disgruntled assortment of tsks and sighs, suggest to me that she is not too impressed with Morrigan’s first aid skills. She talks loudly to her husband, drowning out Morrigan’s shaggy dog tales.

  Her husband barks back equally as loudly, then commands something of Ram. Finally, Ram passes the message on.

  “She wants to fix your knee. Follow her.”

  Something about the way Ram delivers this message makes it sound more like a command than a request. I don’t like the way the ‘fire and water’ has affected the boy’s demeanour. Nevertheless, I follow the small lady out of the room.

  Moments later, I am on face down on the floor of a smaller room. There is something cold on the wound, freshly cleaned, numbing it. Compared to the heat of the burrow, this cold sensation actually feels quite welcome. It is incredible how short a memory the human body can have.

  Meanwhile, wife number one stands away from me, concocting some sort of poultice. Smells of various herbs, unknown to me, fill the air and, suddenly, I begin to relax. It is not a sensation I am used to. In fact, I almost feel slightly panicky at the loss of control. This panic brings me back to my senses. Only for me to drift again, edging closer to relaxation. This cycle continues several times until I can trust the lack of control enough to let go.

  My eyes move around the room. Normally, my mind is a hive of activity, examining everything, worrying about it, interrogating my own thoughts, developing opinions, designing plans. In this moment though, I find myself simply being, allowing my eyes to move over objects with no concern about them or how they relate to me.

  Meat hangs from the ceiling, curing. Fat candles blaze in each corner of the room. Clay pots rest upon the table, almost hiding the manacles. The fur of the wolf-skin rug beneath me feels soft to the touch. On the opposite wall hangs some sort of painting daubed upon the dried skin of an animal. The smell of the herbs moves up my nostrils further. It sounds as though she is ready.

  She places a lotion upon my knee that tingles slightly. It is not altogether unpleasant, like the tingle on one’s skin after a long day in the sun. Whatever she has placed there she then proceeds to fix into place using some sort of skin bandage. It feels secure and clean.

  “Sick,” she smiles, ‘sick’ presumably meaning something entirely different in her language. She helps me to my feet and beckons me back towards the main chamber. Even from a distance, I can hear that the room is now filled with laughter. Morrigan is quite clearly rotten with drunkenness.

  Upon re-entry, I see that the three have bonded even more in my absence. The Burt has his arm strapped around Ram, virtually groping his stomach. Morrigan is singing tunelessly, much to the mirth of the other two. All three have faces painted with the kind of happiness, that lust for life, that has always eluded me.

  The image in front of me almost seems to freeze. At once, I am filled with some deep regret; an understanding that I will never be able to enjoy myself like these other people. There is something within me – a restraint, a sadness, an inability – that keeps me apart from them. The saddest thing is that it is not only me that realises it. They realise it too. That is surely why they don’t even acknowledge my return. It is, I feel, time for bed.

  Sixteen

  I am now so accustomed to shivering myself to sleep, huddled in some snow-sodden pit, starving to death like a godforsaken animal, that the relative comfort of this burrow seems almost a luxury. It is warm and filled with furs. I wasn’t even this comfortable back on the island

  Upon touching my face, the mound of furs sends me to sleep with the same intensity as might a blacksmith’s hammer. My exhausted body has hungered for this sort of rest for so long that I seem to pass out rather than fall asleep. It happens instantly. I do not have time to consider or care about anything. I cannot remember such a warm sensation. The danger, of course, with this depth of sleep is that you can awake much later, feeling no better, with no sense of time having actually passed. So it is in this case.

  I wake up what seems like only seconds later, with the energy of a corpse. The sound of steel and shouting is gradually fading into my consciousness. My languor is such that I only begin to realise what is happening by stages, as reality filters in.

  Firstly, as with every morning for the past three months, my heart sinks as I remember who I am. Secondly, it occurs to me that the noise that has awoken me sounds much like that of a swordfight. Third, it occurs to me that it actually is. Fourth, I remember Morrigan. Fifth, I realise that it’s probably him fighting. As all these pieces gradually come together inside my awakening mind, I can think of nothing other than curses for the so-called Crow, this travesty of a knight seemingly bent on having me killed. I jump to my feet and dress as hastily as possible. Drawing my sword, I hobble out into the cave complex with some trepidation. My knee feels much better but, with the sickness of panic washing over me, this feels like scant consolation. Slowly, I follow the noise.

  It takes me some time to find them. They are closer to the exit than I am, having clearly moved from the main cavern some time ago. As I stagger towards them, I hope against hope that they’re just engaged in a drunken swordfight as some kind of jape. Morrigan does ha
ve a reputation of becoming embroiled in this kind of idiocy.

  However, as I draw nearer to the ever-increasing noise, I quickly realise that I couldn’t be more wrong. Ram and Morrigan are at each other, toe to furious toe. The strikes of iron upon steel reverberate throughout the tunnels.

  If it wasn’t so grave, there would be something slightly comical about the fight, taking place as it is within the narrow confines of a tunnelled cave system. Both Ram and Morrigan are big, broad men and their respective fighting styles are almost entirely inhibited by their inability to move their arms properly. Instead, Morrigan is retreating carefully towards the entrance, parrying the blows of Ram, who is pursuing with an equal amount of care. The Burt, meanwhile, is nowhere to be seen. Several of the smaller children, and one of the wives, are buzzing around their feet with great excitement.

  “What’s happening?!” I shout, bewildered. I don’t want to enter the fight and make anything worse than it already is.

  “We have to leave!” shouts Morrigan, still somehow managing to effect his usual jocular style over the sound of his steel.

  “You have to die!” screams Ram, with nothing jocular about him. Each thwack of his axe upon Morrigan’s sword seems thunderous. I know enough to know that I would not be able to keep a hold of my sword under such a barrage.

  “Where’s the Burt?”

  “He’s asleep. These chaps can’t handle their drink!”

  Ram roars, disconcertingly loudly, in fury at this further provocation. I sheathe my sword; this seems to be nothing more than a drunken ruck. I shall let them clash it out on the snow. Perhaps one or maybe both of them will learn their lesson about the dangers of excess. I can always intervene if it looks to get any more serious.

  Ram, with this furious aspect upon him, and the obvious might behind each swing of his axe, all of a sudden seems much more intimidating than he did in the night previously. But having seen Morrigan swat aside savage after savage on our journey so far, I am confident in his ability to diffuse the situation. He doesn’t seem particularly angry himself.

  And so it is, in a restrained and cautious manner, so unusual for a fight, that this chain of people meander towards the surface, Morrigan walking backwards, Ram striking forwards, two of the children buzzing in between, one of the wives tugging on Ram to stop and, finally, me following, trying my best to adopt an air of neutrality and reserve. Gradually, as the tunnel becomes lighter and lighter, it is clear that morning is already upon us. With the increase in light, the intensity of the fight increases also.

  As they reach the surface, the fight erupts from the cavern like hot water from a geyser. Abandoning the caution of the climb, they are all of a sudden alive with a quite breath-taking intensity. Each clash of weapons is loud enough to shatter the sky. Ram is most certainly the aggressor and, quite unexpectedly, a much stronger fighter. Morrigan, with a far superior sword and the advantage of his armour, seems comfortable enough in repelling the blows but they are coming in so quickly and powerfully that he doesn’t appear to have a chance of countering. He probably absorbs about twenty or so of these strikes before he asks for my help.

  “Some help, please,” he curses, his previously endless supply of good nature seemingly approaching empty. There is the faintest air about his request that reveals an emotion hitherto unseen – panic.

  Without hesitation, I unsheathe my sword and, quicker than Ram can react, slash him across the back of his exposed hamstring, intending to stop him without fatal injury. I know at once from the resistance of the flesh that the wound is deep and accurate. However, as I withdraw, Ram merely reacts as though he’s been bitten by a fly. He turns to me and punishes me with a severe blow that I am only just able to block. To my great surprise, he is still fast enough to parry Morrigan’s returning swing and, somehow, keep the initiative in the fight. Blood leaks from the back of his leg, painting the snow red. He roars.

  Somehow, the fight continues for quite a bit longer than would be expected for two against one. Especially when the one has a serious slash wound to the back of his hamstring. Ultimately, it requires the intervention of the Burt, furious at everyone, to bring the fight to an end. If it were a tournament bout then Ram would have won it. This would not only be due to his being outnumbered but also in terms of his front-footedness, his number of blows and, most importantly, the fact that he would probably have killed us were it not for our host’s timely intervention.

  The squat little man rampages out of his burrow like a particularly angry vole. Seeing him brandish his pole, it is quite clear that we have greatly underestimated him also. He wields it so proficiently and fluidly that it almost seems to be part of his arm. With imperious dexterity, he disarms Ram with two simple pokes. As he does, we both instinctively drop our weapons, Morrigan with his chivalric code and I with a simple desire to not make things any worse.

  Then the lecture begins, incomprehensible and furious, aimed mainly at Ram, who is forced back down into the belly of the cavern. It is strange to see the submissiveness that washes over the boy as the little man shouts and prods at him. We, meanwhile, are given the impression, particularly by wife number two scuttling up with Morrigan’s possessions, that we are no longer welcome. As he screams a torrent of angry gibberish in our direction, he brings his finger ominously and slowly across his throat.

  “He bids us a pleasant journey,” smirks Morrigan, tongue firmly back in his cheek. “They’re going to eat that boy. He should have listened to me.”

  As he says this, I remember the manacles on the table. A chill moves through me as I consider the implications. The cold morning wind doesn’t help.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Everything. They’re grooming him down there like a domesticated pig,” he replies, his voice tinged with regret. A red flush, surely a combination of drunkenness and exhaustion, covers his cheeks.

  “Then we should rescue him?” I suggest, my knightly instincts rising to the surface.

  “What do you think I was trying to do,” he snorts, a hint of exasperation in the reply.

  “It looked like you were trying to let him kill you.”

  “He wouldn’t hear a word of it. They’ve completely broken him. That… That was a reaction to me suggesting he needed to come with us,” he sighs. His eyes are wet with cold.

  “Then maybe we should try again… Maybe I should talk to him?”

  “With all due respect, charm is not exactly your strong point,” he smirks. “No, I don’t think there’s anything we can do. Not after seeing Burt in action. This is one of these situations where we just have to let it go. Shit happens. It’s not easy but we have no choice.”

  Sadly, and against every instinct in my body, I realise that he is right. Even the boy himself had outfought us both and that was before Burt got involved. The only mystery really is why he chose to stop it rather than help the boy. Given his effortless superiority over him, it wouldn’t have taken much for him to simply dispatch us and scrape us into his next dinner pot. Confusion, relief and panic bury the knightly instinct to rescue. I look towards the sea ice ahead and can’t decide whether being left alive is much of a blessing after all.

  Seventeen

  My concerns turn out to be valid. Our decision to cross the sea ice has proved to be idiocy of the highest order. Not a day passes where I don’t wake up surprised to be alive. It is an incredible place. Nothing exists here except for coldness. And even coldness is nothing but the absence of warmth. It is the forsaken world of some unhappy god, a creator who has stricken everything – all colour, all energy, all life – from the canvas and forgotten to start again.

  The sea ice takes all the hostility of the tundra and distils it into an even purer form of brutality. Where the tundra had changeable weather, the sea ice has unflinching icy winds. Where the tundra was difficult to navigate, the sea ice is impossible. Where the tundra had scarce resources, the sea ice has none.

  There is no food. This deficit is not down to any la
ck of skill on our part; there is not even a hint of food. There are no elusive birds overhead, no well-concealed rabbits, no sprightly deer. There is nothing. Instead, we are forced to make do with the dwindling meat supplies that Morrigan knew to steal from the Burt’s larders. As I eat the stolen food, I become complicit in his dishonesty. Becoming complicit in this dishonesty, a state forced on me by the ordeals of my journey, shows me just how far I have sunk.

  Yet it is only that dishonesty that has kept me alive. For the first time in my life, I am confronted with an uncomfortable fact: the world does not conform to my moral code. A man who had thought stealing beneath him would, in my situation, already be dead. This perversion, this reverse karma, this all-or-nothing situation, would wipe out all moral men in the blink of an eye. The key at the bottom of it all, the code by which life should be lived, feels further away from me than ever.

  Even this doesn’t trouble me like it once would have done. It is hard to care about such abstract things while the air pummels away at you like white water. Our geography master once told us how the wind can, over time, carve rocks but this claim has scarcely seemed credible until now. Now, I can actually feel it happening. Not across years, but across moments. Not across rocks, but across my nose. I no longer know how a normal nose should feel. It is, with the exception of my knee, the most painful part of my anatomy.

  My feelings for Morrigan swing from bitter resentment to disgruntled tolerance. He is, on the one hand, the reason we are walking through this whitest of hells and yet, on the other, the only reason I am not yet dead. With each hobbling step I take, I am not sure how thankful I am for this latter blessing. I have begun to find every aspect of his character infuriating: his unceasing smirk, his desire to look on the bright side, the awkward way in which he heaves his clumsy frame across the ice.