Tales of the Zodiac - The Goat's Tale

by PJ Hetherhouse

  His sentence is interrupted as I push him back. He seems to have forgotten that I will not cow to anyone; his resistance has now inflamed the argument in my eyes. I will ensure that this develops into a problem.

  “All this cold’s made me forget what a stubborn prick you were. Always got to win, haven’t you?!” he smirks. Seemingly, something about my feistiness has sparked him back into amusement. However, he continues moving towards the girl, breezing me aside, fully aware that he is too powerful for me to subdue alone.

  “Just let me do it. You know it’s for the best as well as I do. Her blood’s on my hands, not yours,” he says, with an air of reconciliation in his voice. I, looming over his shoulder, reach my hand into his gaping shoulder wound and pull hard upon it. He whimpers like a small child.

  “Ahaa! Fark! You farking… ahaa!” He rolls around, clearly in a lot of pain. I kick his dagger away. In a flash, I roll the branch off the girl. I am not sure what it is that makes me do this. Perhaps I’ve lost my head. The need to prove a point, for a moment, becomes more important than my life.

  The girl jumps up and backs away hesitantly. If she is injured, she hides it well. Impressively, she has full awareness of where her curved blade landed and retrieves it almost immediately. She stands in a ready position, nervously assessing the situation. I join her in this assessment. I am quite prepared to fight her again if she attacks but, by the same coin, I am quite happy to let her run if she feels the need. We have, after all, eliminated her tribe already and the spoils of that victory will keep us alive. Morrigan backs himself up against a tree, clutching his wound. He looks faint and pale in the weak morning light.

  Realising that I am not going to attack and that Morrigan is incapacitated, she drops her blade and looks at me questioningly.

  “Go,” I shout, making the gesture. “Run!”

  Her eyes follow my hand as I gesticulate, as though I might be pointing to something. Instead of running away, she instead does the opposite, edging towards me slowly with her hands out, palms facing the floor.

  As she walks towards me in this slow and cautious manner, she keeps her black eyes fixed firmly upon me. It is clear that she is keeping her hands in a position where it will make me think she doesn’t intend to draw a weapon.

  “Farking kill her! Don’t get us killed to prove a farking point!” Morrigan wails, his voice imbued with pain.

  I stand stock still, with baited breath, trying my best not to draw my sword. Our eyes are locked, both brimming with distrust. For a moment, the world seems to stop. Nothing stirs except the slowly arriving sun.

  As she approaches, she drops to her knees, bends forward and offers me her white neck – the chance to decapitate her. There is, though, no temptation. I would probably rather kill Morrigan than bend to his will.

  “She’s asking you to kill her!” he begs, consciousness fading from his voice.

  “Stand up,” I say to her, once again performing the gesture. She lifts her head, returning her eyes to mine and stands up, performing a sort of bow. Her eye contact is intense. Without warning, she thrusts a bloody finger into a wound on my face. I bash it away hurriedly.

  “Oos,” she says, almost serenely. “Tooahvee.”

  “What?” I reply, shaking my head, trying my best to make it clear that I don’t understand.

  “Tooahvee,” she replies slowly, as though I’m stupid. She gestures from her own body to mine as though this might make sense.

  I shrug. She sighs and looks around, back to her weapon, before holding a hand up to my face.

  “Stay-ee,” she commands.

  “What? Do you speak my language?” I reply.

  Her face blanks with incomprehension. Is it possible that the word just happens to mean the same thing? Evidence of a shared heritage perhaps?

  “Stay?” I mouth quietly.

  “Stay-ee,” She replies, a slight enthusiasm in her voice, gesturing to the spot on which I stand.

  “Fine. Stay-ee,” I nod.

  At this, she pauses before heading over to her weapon. She picks it up and places it atop her open hands. Though still nervous, I have the very strong impression that we are no longer in battle. Returning, she holds her weapon out toward me. Her face is grave and solemn. I take a look towards Morrigan, slumped unconscious against the tree, before I take the blade.

  It is a wonderful, ornate weapon that is nothing like the normal dull iron that these savages usually hold. In fact, I would venture to say that it is even better made than anything I have seen in my own kingdom. Both the strength of the steel and the sharpness of the blade are remarkable. However, the most eye-catching aspect must be the small creatures engraved all over it, covering the open blade and the bone handle. They are small creatures that, given the frail examples I know of, seem to be an unusual choice. They are scorpions.

  Twenty

  “I don’t trust her,” I whisper, swaddled in fur, from my admittedly comfortable sick bed. The girl, Shara, shocked at how ill we were, has taken it upon herself to nurse us back to health. As I speak, she hands me a big, hearty bowl of broth. Much to my mind’s disdain, my mouth fills with saliva.

  “Why?” Morrigan answers, greedily wolfing down his own broth. He is wrapped up in his own furs next to me.

  “Well, what’s all this about?” I grunt, gesturing out into the icy prison where I seem to be trapped. A log fire crackles gently in the middle, filling the room with the smell of roast rabbit.

  “If she wanted to kill us, she could have killed us both that day, thanks to you,” comes the reply, slurped from the bottom of a bowl.

  “Speak for yourself. Maybe she wants to kill us slowly,” I reply.

  “You’ve spent the last week, warm and secure, in a snow den that she’s dug for us from the frozen ground. She’s nursed us both back from the brink of death. You’ve eaten so many rabbits that you should probably change your sign into one…”

  “I just don’t trust her. She doesn’t like me,” I repeat, using my spoon to peck tentatively at the steaming hot broth.

  “Enjoying her cooking though?”

  “It could be poisoned for all I know.”

  “Well, it’s some poison that a man can eat five or six bowls of it a day and still survive.”

  “Pah.”

  “Poor old Ser Goat. Always has to be right,” Morrigan sneers. His old warmth seems gradually to be returning.

  “We’d be dead without her,” he continues.

  “So you keep saying… but it doesn’t make any sense. We killed her tribe. Something’s not right here. You know that boy, that Ram?”

  “Oh yeah. That lunatic.”

  “Well, he was their prisoner, wasn’t he? You said they were going to eat him.”

  “Well, that was the impression I got. Yeah, but look what happened when I suggested it to him. I could be completely wrong, I suppose.”

  “No. You were right. He didn’t know it but they were fattening him up. They were going to eat him,” I reply. Thoughts of that boy, so strange with his burning chestnut features, have crossed my mind on occasion since. The clues were there in the burrow that day: their invasive hugs, their lecherous eyes, the almost luxurious surplus of food, the manacles. With hindsight, our being allowed to leave seems stranger and stranger. Part of me regrets not having been able to save him.

  “Where are you going with this? You think she’s fattening us up?! If that’s the case, she’s got a wait on her hands with you,” he answers cheerfully, snuggling back down into his fur.

  “Well maybe that’s what these people do… Maybe fat is a delicacy,” I whisper.

  “You’re crazy. Have you heard yourself?! Most people who get given a bowl of broth are grateful for it. You, meanwhile, are so suspicious that you farking think they’re using it to fatten you up. You’ve slid a long way, sprat.”

  “What’s your explanation then?” I spit.

  “Well… For some reason, and despite your being an awkward, miserable misanthrope, you sa
ved her life, didn’t you? I’m guessing she feels bound to you now. Not like you left her a hell of a lot of choice there, was it?”

  “Oh. So you still think I should have killed her, do you?” I snap.

  “Well, she’d probably be a lot happier. Haven’t seen her smile yet.”

  “We’d be dead though,” I comment.

  “Yes, Goat, we would be dead. Congratulations. You win.”

  At this concession, I sigh and roll over to face the wall of the snow hut. There is a deep conflict within me. I want, perhaps need, this girl, this Shara, to be on our side. Her skills in the wilderness have already been proved beyond immeasurable doubt; we are eating better than ever and, most importantly, she has saved our lives with this ingenious den made from bricks of snow. There is even some semblance of truth in the explanation provided by Morrigan. Perhaps she has become bound to us by some sense of honour. Maybe this is how the tribes operate.

  But the counter argument still sticks in my gut. We may have killed her family. When she fought me, she fought with such emotion and fury that I had, for an instant, felt my death was certain. Even now, her treatment of us is almost entirely cold. Everything she has given us; every meal, every healing touch, even this shelter; is delivered with nothing other than sullen resentment. The language barrier only serves to make things more difficult. The disparity between her kind actions and frosty demeanour have made her a complete enigma to me, and if there is one thing I don’t like, it is unpredictability.

  “Shara,” Morrigan calls out, as casually as he might call over a serving maid at his local tavern. Hearing this, I roll back over to see what new game he is going to attempt to play. She, meanwhile, looks up from her own resting spot, located as far away as possible from us.

  “Shara, our beautiful scorpion, come over here, would you?” he croons. Morrigan’s attempts to seduce Shara are proving to be as obvious as they are fruitless. The most glaring error that he is making is his blind insistence on talking to her as though she understands what he is saying. This hides the second error he would otherwise be making: talking to her in a manner that is, at once, patronising, flippant, sarcastic and seemingly geared to be as much for his own amusement as any credible attempt at seduction. When she fails to respond, he beckons her over with his hands. At this, she rises and moves towards us. Morrigan rises from his furs and sits cross legged.

  “Thanks for the broth, Shara. Fantastic. The best broth I’ve had since lunchtime.”

  She looks at him blankly, not even bothering to feign understanding. Instead, there is an impatient air about her, as though she is just waiting for him to finish mumbling whatever meaningless sounds he is making in order that she can return to her own half of the den.

  “Come on, sit down! I bet you’ve got some stories for us!” he continues, gesturing to the floor.

  She looks at me for an instant before sitting. She does so with the same silent, defiant obedience that has characterised everything else she has done up to now.

  “I think it might have been your father that gave me this wound, you know. Hell of a fighter, he was. Almost had me, you know. Bet he’s killed some people in his time, hey?”

  Her response is probably not a lot different from how it would have been even if she had understood: silence.

  “What on earth makes you think that that’s a reasonable thing to talk about?” I snap.

  “I’m just trying to test your theory, Gruffydd. Calm down.”

  “She doesn’t understand anyway,” I growl, my temper rapidly approaching boiling point. I roll away once more.

  “Let’s talk about something different. Shara, have you ever heard of Brightstone?” he continues.

  “Bry-ee-ston?” she replies. For a moment, the tiniest sliver of emotion enters her voice. This is enough to bring me back round to face the conversation. I interrupt before Morrigan can fumble this tiny chink of hope.

  “Yes, Brightstone,” I reply, more slowly and deliberately than I fear Morrigan would have done. Accompanying these words, I spread my hands as though to suggest a large place.

  “Bry-ee-ston?” she replies, matching my hand gestures. She does so cautiously. Her pale face, so taken to scowling, begins to soften somewhat, and her eyes and mouth widen.

  Thus ensues the first meaningful interaction that either of us have had with Shara since we met. It develops slowly, through hand gestures and careful utterances, but it is soon becoming clear that this so-called ‘savage’ is perhaps quicker witted than both of us combined. She is certainly beginning to understand us much more quickly than we are able to understand her. Unfortunately, the word ‘Brightstone’ is, to her, a word laden with fear and misgiving. I can tell that it perturbs her. As understanding dawns, a grim solemnity seems to grow across her face.

  Finally, and more quickly than we could have anticipated, she is able to utter her first-ever words in our language.

  “We.” She points to us.

  “Go.” She points out the door.

  “Bry-ee-ston?”

  “Yes! Yes! We go Brightstone!!” Morrigan and I are both so shocked, so excited, at this development that we both seem to splutter these words out at the same time. Happiness and hope, those two most foreign of feelings, surge through me.

  “No,” she continues, her face black with fear, “no no no no no no no we go Bry-ee-ston.”

  Twenty-one

  As we journey onward, Shara’s attitude towards Brightstone is proving as peculiar as it is disconcerting. She is determined to accompany us there yet is equally determined to dissuade us from going. This situation is especially vexing to me because she is entirely unwelcome. There appears to be nothing that can be said or done to rid myself of her assistance. Whenever I attempt to banish her, she returns with morsels of our language - ‘blood’, ‘sword’, ‘life’ – garbled out as though I am supposed to understand what she is trying to say. These words, along with ‘no’, ‘go’ and ‘Bry-ee-ston’, have quickly become favourites of hers.

  And, as if it were not bad enough that she is harder to shake than the cold from my bones, she appears at all times to be thoroughly depressed. Her expression, day to day, is so sullen and morose than I must actually appear quite carefree in comparison. This fact has, ironically enough, proven to be a source of no small amusement to Morrigan.

  Despite my misgivings, her company has changed the entire complexion of our trek. This is because there was, before we met her, a sense of both desperation and pride about our situation. We were desperate because we were dying. Every decision we made was, quite literally, vital. Yet, at the same time, we were proud. Proud of the fact that we hadn’t yet died. Proud of the fact that we seemed to have what it took to survive. Proud of the fact that we seemed to actually know what we were doing. The presence of Shara has put an end to both of these delusions.

  A lifetime in the wilderness has made her so adept at the basics that she seems almost nonchalant in carrying them out. We soon learn that almost everything we’ve been doing is wrong; we’d been making our shelters bigger than we needed, in the wrong kind of snow; our fires burned too quickly; and even the way in which we’d been preparing our food had proved wasteful. With each inadequacy that she notices, she shows no joy. Instead, her expressions and manner scarcely conceal the contempt that she holds for us. Not an hour goes by where I don’t wish she would leave.

  Her fighting prowess, an asset that I know personally to be extremely dangerous, has not come to the fore either; it is clearly a skill that she does not unleash until it is absolutely necessary. Instead, we find ourselves travelling with an almost savage stealth, tracking through the increasingly forested terrain like shadows.

  As the tree cover increases and the days lengthen, so the snowfall begins to lighten. Slowly, piece by piece, it feels that life is returning to us. To someone like Morrigan, returning to both his natural bulk and good humour, there appears to be no caveat to this reversal in fortune. I, however, cannot relax. In order to trust someone,
I need to understand them. This girl provides nothing but an enigma to me. The only thing that I do know for certain is that she is taking us in the right direction. She is also absorbing our language at a reasonable enough rate to make herself understood. We are about three weeks into her acquaintance when she stops sharply in the deepest forest.

  “Many man here,” she grunts, pointing to a variety of tracks in the surrounding mud. “Snow man here. They hunt Brightstone.”

  Silently, I survey the scene. She is, as always, right. There is more evidence of human activity in this part of the forest than I have seen since I left Ynys Gwyn – tracks in the mud, broken branches, trampled vegetation.

  “An army?” asks Morrigan, echoing my worst thoughts.

  “What is anarmy?” she replies.

  “Many men that hunt,” Morrigan answers. It is these interchanges, and his trust in her to understand, that seem to be developing her language quicker than could be imagined.

  “Then, yes, anarmy. Snow man anarmy. Brightstone dangerous. We die there.”

  “Shara, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times. You go. You no come Brightstone. You are free,” I snap.

  “No no, we go Brightstone. Goat man wants die,” she snaps back. Her tone continues the passive aggression that she seems to be developing almost as quickly as her control of the language.

  “How far then?”

  “Two days. But dangerous. Many man here. Anarmy.”

  “Then we must be careful.”

  “Goat man wise,” she replies mockingly. Morrigan’s chuckles complete the insult.

  Twenty-two

  It is only several days later that we awake to the most unusual sensation: a warm sun. The gentle warmth coaxes me from my sleep with a tingle that immediately reminds me of home. For a fraction of a second, I half expect to hear my father, to smell the scent of cured goat against the fragrant summer air.