Tales of the Zodiac - The Goat's Tale

by PJ Hetherhouse

  “You have no choice.”

  “We… we… have a boat. We were told to escape to Stone Island should anything go wrong,” says the red-haired maiden. “It’s down through this trap door. This… this… sanctuary was our last hope. We were told they would never find us.”

  Thirty-six

  While their final bolthole still had some semblance of luxury, the passage on the other side most certainly does not. Instead, it is a wet and slimy passage only large enough for one person, stooping, to pass through at any one time. None of this matters though; as the architects who must have designed it correctly deduced, anyone desperate enough to find themselves here would have no interest in anything apart from the boat at the other end. The only sources of light are the torches that each of us carry.

  Neither the boy nor the two girls accompanying him stop crying for the entire course of this desperate scramble. Shara, who I doubt has ever cried, follows behind them silently. It is here, in this grimmest of places that I realise the magnitude of what I am about to do; this boy has probably never even had to wipe his own bottom but now he is going to have to undertake a journey that only a handful of people have ever survived. All three of them are going to need to harden up exceptionally quickly.

  As we descend deeper into the island’s caverns, the air fills with a liquid coolness. The smell of damp earth gradually becomes imbued with the scent of salt. There is very little noise except for the spluttering panic of our new companions. I wonder whether the boy has ever found himself in a place like this before, a place where nature has almost complete control, where it is entirely possible that no person has set foot for hundreds of years.

  Every so often, I tell them to be quiet. These requests, however, don’t do any good. With each slight slip and stumble, each scattering spider, each errant drip of cave water, the boy manages to find another level of hysteria.

  “Gods don’t fear spiders,” I spit at him. “Much worse lies ahead.”

  Eventually, after some fair degree of scrambling, we are greeted by the gentle sloshing of the sea. A turn of the final corner reveals a natural cave harbour hiding shyly away from the open ocean. In the harbour, a small boat is moored. The choice of this island as a location for a palace was obviously a well-considered one.

  “Will this boat take me to my new kingdom?” the boy asks, a brightness piercing through his tears.

  “No. This boat will give us a small chance of being in a position to begin walking. And it may take us months to walk there. And even when we arrive, it will not be your kingdom. You will be a stranger like I am here. You need to get used to this idea. It’s that or death.” As these words spit forth from me, I realise that I must sound as harsh as Lady Vesta herself. I don’t rebuke myself for this though; they are facts that the boy needs to learn quickly.

  Shara, meanwhile, strolls to the front of the boat.

  “I don’t know these,” she grumbles.

  “Well, that makes two of us,” I reply. All I know is that we are likely to be at the mercy of the wind. Tentatively, I walk to the edge of the cave and stare out across the gentle azure sea. It cannot be more than a couple of miles to the large island that I have come to know as Crow Island. I know from studying maps of the area that Stone Island, the destination that the boy and his maidens had been advised to sail to, would require a degree of sailing around the coast to the west. Unless sailing is much easier than I’m expecting, I will be grateful simply to make it to land.

  Thirty-seven

  We make minimal progress in the first days following our flight from the palace. There are several reasons for this. Firstly, the boy is completely ill equipped and unprepared for the task. He demands attention and comfort at almost every turn. The maidens, Artume and Selene, begin with the misguided intention to carry him, but this intention quickly subsides as the first morning presses on. Even when walking, he is infuriating; his extravagant requests for food, his tendency to sing, to become distracted by interestingly shaped trees, to sulk, to wander off on a whim, all conspire to make me yearn for the simplicity of my gaol cell.

  A second reason for our slow progress is the great number of people moving around the island. Refugees such as ourselves and, more frequently, their corpses make the island a much more crowded place than the last time that we passed through. Furthermore, the snow savages themselves are spread over the island in abundance. Some appear to be settled on the island whilst others are following behind in the rear-guard of the invasion force. Whatever reason each person has for being here, every single one makes our progress more difficult. Shara’s beast-like ability to keep us concealed is proving to be vital.

  From the offset, I have made it clear to Selene, Artume and Leo that the wine is definitely neither the blood of Leo nor some magical force of life. I’ve told them that it is merely an antidote to a poison that everyone on Brightstone was receiving. Furthermore, I’ve instructed them to drink a little of the wine every day and to trust that, in time, they will no longer need it. I am sure that I have given them every single piece of information they could need. I have even tried my best to take control how much they are drinking. However, I don’t think, at any point, that a single one of them has truly believed the truth of my words.

  By the morning of the sixth day, with the exception of some I have hidden, there is no wine left. By the evening of the seventh day, the health of Artume and Selene is fading so rapidly that we have no choice other than to stop. At this point, I give them each a sip of the hidden wine. Leo, who is his infuriatingly buoyant self, doesn’t appear to need any. He must not have ever been poisoned.

  We have, by this time, reached a sheltered inlet on the Mother Island, just across the water from Crow’s island. The crossing, which is a tidal one, seems to represent an even clearer crossing in terms of the weather and the first step onto the mainland feels more frosty, more unwelcome, than I have felt since I arrived in Brightstone almost nine months ago. The cold sting on the air brings back a thousand horrible reminders. But it is what we’ve left behind that really concerns me.

  On the eighth morning, both Selene and Artume remain incredibly weak. Once again, I give them both nothing more than a sip of the wine that they need. It is clear from their weakness that we can not leave camp. Shara takes Leo out to hunt whilst I spend the day keeping guard over the poisoned women. I can do nothing but steadfastly deny their demands for wine until I’m sure they will die without it. With every sip of wine that leaves the final wineskin, I cannot help but remember my own agony, the weeks of flirting with death, trapped in the torment of my cell. Burdened by the pain of these thoughts, I find myself willing the day to end.

  Thirty-eight

  I am sitting beside Selene. She is asleep and her kind moon face looks devastatingly sad. She is pale with weakness. Consumed by a protective urge, I begin to stroke her brow.

  Suddenly, I hear the sound of rustling in the nearby bushes. My heart leaps as I assume the worst. I jump to my feet, ready to defend myself. It is a mistake I make every time Shara returns from a hunt.

  Even though I am quickly learning never to be surprised by her, the bounty that she brings with her through the dying light is nothing short of staggering. Between her and Leo, they have brought back the corpses of over thirty animals, mostly birds and rabbits, including the body of a giant stag slung across the woman’s shoulders. If I didn’t know better, I would be sure that she was smiling.

  The boy, meanwhile, is so jubilant that he talks relentlessly to me throughout the cooking and consumption of the meal. Despite my frequent requests for him to stop, he does not seem to hear. He begins with some general bragging, declaring himself a great hunter and emphasising how proud the animals must have been to die at his hand. After this he proceeds to talk through every single hunt in painstaking detail. If his version of events is to be believed then Shara actually contributed very little to the cornucopia of food that now sits before us. It is fortunate for him that she doesn’t possess the Bright
-tongue.

  He does not remain around to help with the last action of the day, the smoking of the meat, choosing instead to wander off and fall asleep as soon as he finds himself growing bored. Shara and I acquit ourselves well to this task, eager to make sure that the day’s efforts are not wasted to rancidity and rot.

  “Today was good day. Boy not all stupid,” she sighs, skinning the fur from a rabbit with masterful ease.

  “Good. He needs to learn. All of us will need to help if we are to get home.”

  “Yes, it was hard for me to keep you and Crow Man. Is more hard for five,” she replies. The mention of Morrigan brings an unfamiliar sensation to my throat; it is the need to cry. It takes a great deal of physical effort to disguise this need. Desperate to change the subject, I move back to the boy.

  “So he hunted well?”

  “No. He tried. But he was good at finding fallen animals.”

  “In Tallakarn, we use dogs for that.”

  “What is dog?”

  “It is a… well… a sort of wolf that works with humans.”

  “Ah, I understand. This happen for my people. But is wolf.”

  “Oh.”

  “So boy helps like friendly wolf,” she smiles. It is a full smile and one that I don’t think I have ever seen. For the first time, I notice that some people might consider her attractive. Especially in this failing light.

  “Well maybe not that useful,” I reply. We both laugh. I can’t remember how long it has been since I genuinely shared a laugh with someone. Morrigan and I certainly did used to make jokes, but they were more often insults at the expense of the other and, for some reason, I never wanted him to see me laugh. For a long time, laughter felt like a sign of weakness, like a loss of control, an aspect that cannot be shown. As my mind drifts, our eyes meet for a moment that is slightly longer than comfortable and I am forced to ask a question to break the silence.

  “Do your kind eat humans?” As I ask this, I feel rather silly, as though I have simply blurted it out.

  “Only in times of great need. It does not taste good. Why do you ask?” A wry smile crosses her face. She does not smile often and it doesn’t suit her as well as her scowl.

  “Morrigan and I met people on the ice that we thought were cannibals.”

  “Well, ice men are cannibals. Not like my people,” she replies, in her matter-of-fact tone. “For them, happy man is number one food.”

  “A delicacy?”

  “What is delicacy?” she asks.

  “A favourite food.”

  “Then, yes, delicacy. In your tongue, many words mean same thing. It is strange. Happy man is delicacy.”

  “Happy man?”

  “They like to eat man who has died happy. It is very difficult but scared man tastes different. Not good. Most men die scared.”

  “So that is why they let us go?”

  “The taste of scared man is bad. The taste of battle is worse. They only want happy man. Goat man never happy. Maybe is that,” she replies. Another smile, her third of the night, tells me she is joking again.

  “So they might host a man to make him happy? And kill him at his happiest?” I ask, the reality of Ram’s situation beginning to make sense.

  “Yes. This is their way. No one is kind just because. There is always reason.”

  “But you were kind to me… Why did you help me?” I ask, changing the subject once more. Her warmth towards me makes me feel as though it is a question I can finally ask.

  “This question again…” She rolls her eyes in disgust. “It is the way of my people. We kill people or we… we… take… people.”

  “But I didn’t take you.”

  “You take me. You kill my people and you take me. You didn’t kill me. Kill or take is the only thing. I am yours.”

  “But I said you could leave,” I reply. At this response, she scowls in frustration.

  “There is no leave. This is not the way of my people. You have person. You kill them or you take them. If I leave, I am wrong to my people. Kill or take.” She stops for a moment, frustrated, before continuing again. “You talk about dog, about friendly wolf… It is same. If our people want to take wolf then they kill other wolf and take one. Wolf has honour. Wolf stay with new family. Wolf respect strength of people who take him.”

  “But you don’t respect me?”

  “I do respect you. You and Crow Man kill all my people. Many people. This is not easy. You were strong to wait through cold night to hunt us. You were clever to use fire to stop me. You spend long year in small room by eating beetles. No man stops you.”

  “I understand. But you could leave.”

  “I cannot leave,” she spits. “You take someone and they are yours. This is it.”

  “But if you don’t want…”

  “There is no want! I am yours. My blood and my weapon are yours. This is it. It is simple.” As she says this, her face is tight and intense, on the verge of fury. I decide to relent; her explanation makes sense in her own context and all I can do is accept it.

  “I understand. Nevertheless, thank you. I would not be here without your help.”

  “This is true. It is life. We smoke meat now so that we can eat when the snow is strong. For you, it is same. You take me so that I am there for you in the time of need.”

  “I suppose… I don’t think that is quite what I had in mind.”

  “This is how it is. What you think is nothing,” she scowls. She skins her next rabbit with such ferocity that I can’t help thinking she wishes it was me.

  “So how did you find me?”

  “When you fight Brightstone man, I hide. I shoot the other men. When they take you, I follow. I follow long way. By night, I enter Brightstone. It is very hard. I watch for long time, for one turn of the moon, before Crow man leave the Sun Palace. Crow man speaks better than Goat man. This is obvious.

  I follow Crow man and he helps me. He joins gold man. I hide with him for many moons. One day, Goat Man comes to us but he is followed. One man listens outside all night. I do not enter because of this man.”

  “Who? Who was listening?” I ask, facing the cold realisation that I was never alone on my single night of freedom.

  “I don’t know. They wear only black. Like a shadow.”

  “But Morrigan never mentioned you that night,” I ask in astonishment, scouring my memory for clues he may have given.

  “This is because Crow Man is not stupid. He sounds stupid. He looks stupid. But is not.”

  “Then Goat Man is taken once more. I hide with Crow Man. Again, it is many moons. Time passes and Brightstone grows weak. The snow man attacks. Crow Man is out fighting for days and nights. Many gold men die. One day, Crow Man returns but only to tell me where he goes. He tells me that Brightstone is nearly dead and where the boy will hide. Now, it is easy. All real men are fighting. It is easy to enter palace.”

  “But… but… you must have waited months. Why didn’t you leave?”

  “I will not answer this question again. Until you die, I am yours.”

  “And the poison? What about the bread? You must have eaten the bread?”

  “I don’t eat poison. I am not stupid.”

  We drift into silence for a moment as I struggle to comprehend the intensity of her devotion. It is complex. In fact, it is not even devotion; she is only here out of some deep, misguided faith in the way that things should be. There are clearly rules that govern her, rules that don’t make sense to me, rules that have evidently sent her to places where most humans wouldn’t even dream of going. Yet why should I be doubting them? If she had any wisdom in the sense that I understand it, then there is no doubt that I wouldn’t be here today. I should only be thankful.

  I take another look at her; that wild, savage face seems to be merely a façade hiding countless mysteries that I shall never understand. With this thought, I suddenly remember the two maidens and their own troubles. I finish trimming the last strip of meat before moving towards them. They are huddl
ed together beneath furs in one of several semi-permanent dens constructed for us by Shara. Both of them appear to be asleep.

  I approach Selene first. Her round and pale face glows in the emerging moonlight. I shake her roughly.

  “Do you want some of this?” I ask, offering her what is now a three-quarter empty skin of wine. Her eyes open suddenly; she is riddled with pain, grimacing at the very effort of being awake.

  “Yes,” she groans. I can almost hear how dry her mouth is from the effort it takes for her to speak. I hand her the bottle and she clutches at it eagerly like a kid taking to teat. She must have only taken a sip before I wrench it away from her, always cautious to ensure that there is enough left for the future.

  “If you’d have listened, you wouldn’t be in this mess,” I grumble. I do so in my own language so that she doesn’t understand. At the same time, I move around towards Artume and shake her. This time there is no immediate response. I shake her again.

  “Artume? Do you want some of this?” I shout, trying to ignore my gut instinct. Still there is no response. I shake her once more. There is no reply. I lower my ear to her mouth to listen for breathing but I hear nothing. Despite the futility, I find myself shaking her another time. For a moment, I consider lowering the wine to her lips in the hope that she’ll drink it. Then I realise that all that will achieve is to waste the vital last drops that Selene will need if she is to survive. Fury sweeps across me.

  I find myself storming towards the sleeping boy and grabbing him sharply from his nest. With the next action, I am dragging him towards his dead maid.

  “Do you see?!” I shout. “Do you see the evil that’s been done in your name?! If it wasn’t for you, this poor girl would still be alive.”