Tales of the Zodiac - The Goat's Tale

by PJ Hetherhouse

  She was raised as an orphan in the nunnery of Brightstone Isle, the nunnery headed by Mother Maryam, Leo’s mother. Despite her austere and devout upbringing, she recalls her time there favourably. Things began to change when Leo was born. She was only seven years old when he was allegedly gifted by God to Mother Maryam. At the point of his birth, the nunnery changed its focus. All of a sudden, Mother Maryam herself became the subject of their worship. The nuns became known as Mother’s Maidens, they adopted the turtle insignia, the symbol of all mothers, and were sent out into the kingdom to perform acts of kindness on her behalf. Eventually, when she was twelve, she became trusted as one of Leo’s closest attendants, instructed to obey his every whim.

  Once again, despite the fundamental rottenness of the entire scenario, a misty fondness develops in her eyes each time she talks of her days spent alongside the boy. She describes how he and his attendants were insulated, almost oblivious to the atrocities that were taking place in his name. His role, she reveals, was almost entirely ceremonial; Maryam told him what to say, how to act, when to appear. The role of his attendants was simply to keep him happy, distracted and cared for. The closeness between the four young women that attended him is something that she can scarcely talk about without being moved to tears. It is clear that they, including the boy, were essentially the closest thing she ever had to a family. As such, it is only her gentle pleas on his behalf that spare him from the worst of my scorn.

  As the days develop into weeks, the knowledge that I will be able to sit down and talk to her each evening serves as one of the key impetuses allowing me to force my broken body onward. The other impetus is, of course, the desire to prove everyone else wrong. As deep snow turns to mountains, I shuffle forward, teeth gritted, encased in snow, without a thought of giving up.

  As we reach the great mountains that divide us from Tallakarn, I begin to understand why the snow savages have never been, and will never be, able to raise forces against us in the way that they did at Brightstone. These mountains, these foreboding titans, do not seem to show even the slightest concern over the maintenance of life; fauna becomes sparse, breathing becomes difficult, snow becomes heavy and impassable gorges become frequent. At one point, we have to backtrack three days of walking in order to avoid such an impasse. This price reflects perhaps the only decision that Morrigan and I made that has proved more productive than Shara’s: if we had crossed the frozen sea then we would have avoided the mountains entirely. It is a sign of how little energy I have remaining that I don’t even point this out.

  Deep inside the bosom of the mountains, there is no sign of snow savages. It is clear that, even with their limited needs, the mountains will not nurture them. Instead, the snowscape is inhabited only by a small number of well-adapted animals – goats, wolves, rabbits. It has been a long while since I have eaten goat and the dense taste brings memories of home flooding towards me.

  We push forward, sometimes backward, one awkward step at a time. As I hobble closer and closer, I begin to feel that my map and my understanding of the sun allow to me to steal at least a bit of ownership back from Shara. Shara, who in these foreign climes, is deprived of the foreknowledge that had previously made her seem so formidable. Simply the feeling of possessing some knowledge that no one else has finally begins to make me feel as though I am more than just an invalid.

  Being closer to home, however, means absolutely nothing in terms of the mountainous world we are forced to move through. Indeed, I might as well be on the other side of the world for all the familiarity they possess. They rise and fall in front of us, one after another, imperious and unflinching, fierce inclines dropping away to nothing, chill winds threatening to freeze us in our tracks. They are so hostile as to be almost awe-inspiring and, as we pass through their murderous mists, I become more and more convinced that they are the greatest allies that Tallakarn could ever hope to possess.

  Finally, after almost three months of stumbling, hobbling and grimacing, I am treated to my first glimpse of home. As we reach yet another peak emerging from yet another valley, I’m amazed to see a narrow sliver of sea opening out on the northern horizon. Between the sea and our mountain nest lies the vast flatness from where my journey began, the Gors. In the distance, about two days walk to the North East, lies its castle. Where I should feel excitement rising, instead I feel only relief; where there should be smiles, it is all I can do to hold back the tears.

  Forty-four

  Of all the places that I have travelled, the frozen sea must have been the worst. It was not just the cold that made it so. For although the mountains and the tundra were equally as cold, they at least had the benefit of scenery. In these lands, the route is dotted with landmarks by which one can track ones progress. It was the absence of any such landmarks, in other words the sheer monotony, that made progress across the sea so difficult.

  The same could be said for the saltmarsh through which we complete the last leg of our journey. The low, barren, perfectly flat landscape creates an illusion of almost perfect stillness; it is possible to hobble for miles without any sense of change. The languid inertia of the land fuels my impatience as we track ever closer to the castle.

  Similarly to the mountains, it is only being forced to physically endure the approach to the kingdom that allows me to truly understand quite how difficult it would be for an enemy to move against us. Bereft of the guide that had escorted Morrigan and me to the opposite end of the marsh, we are instead forced to plod gingerly through a deceptive maze of bogs, ditches and puddles. Instead of taking the two days I had estimated, we find ourselves struggling forward for almost four.

  Only now, as we reach the end of the fourth day, is it evident that our approach has been noticed. We are probably about three kilometres from the castle when we notice a horse, or perhaps a mule, ambling towards us in the distance. Sitting proudly astride the mule, if it is possible to do such a thing proudly, is a vague brown dot of a man holding a large green banner, the crocodilian banner of the Gors. Despite the fact that he is too far away to make out his features, I recognise him as Robin, the young squire who led me out of the swamp all those months ago. Behind him, on foot, linger a loose rabble of men dressed like peasants. I suspect that they are swamp archers, the skirmishers renowned throughout the kingdom for their defensive utility.

  As with our entry to Brightstone, the thought flashes through my mind that we are very likely to be treated as hostile. My only reassurance is that the squire riding towards us should, I hope, recognise me before the archers make his decision for him. I take further hope in the casual languor of their approach; they seem to be strolling forward in a manner as flat and dead as the marsh itself. As I muse over this, memories of the young squire himself come trickling back to me; he was a meek and quiet boy, perhaps a few years older than me, with scarcely a word to say for himself.

  “It is all right. I know the boy on the horse. We just need to keep moving as though we mean no threat,” I say to the rest of the group.

  “Men behind are archers,” says Shara.

  “I know. And good ones. They are the guards of the marsh. We will be all right. I’ll speak to the boy first.”

  “Hmm…” is Shara’s doubt-ridden reply. In response, I raise both my hands towards him to show acknowledgement and, I hope, my peaceful intentions.

  “Just keep moving. They know we’ve seen them, and they’re more likely to attack if they think we’re trying to avoid them.”

  Despite my protestations, my companions slow down more and more as Robin draws nearer. He himself never ups the pace from the leisurely trot at which his mule seems comfortable. Finally, he moves close enough into view for me to confirm that he is definitely the person I suspected. He is wearing a green tabard over the top of dull iron armour and has the miserable, ruddy face of a hard-drinking man twice his age. The only real indication of his youth is the sweep of brown hair that almost covers his glassy blue eyes.

  “Who goes there?” he whimpers ner
vously, and without authority.

  “Robin! It’s Gruffydd of Ynys Gwyn. Well, that should be Ser…” I splutter, falling suddenly to the mud. It is as though, without warning, my body has finally succumbed to the months of exhaustion that have passed. Selene rushes towards me to help me back to my feet but it is too late. My mind, knowing that I am safe, begins a full foggy retreat. As I fall, something within me seems to say ‘no more’.

  “Ser Gruff?!” shouts the boy, suddenly excited. “We’d thought it might be… Oh Lord, you look terrible. Help! Quick! Help me get him upon the mule!”

  The sense of urgency and shock coming from the boy sends my face aflame. Why is he troubling himself with me? Surely it should be one of the women or perhaps Leo that needs to go on the back on the mule? Instead, I suddenly find myself surrounded by Robin, Shara and Selene in a frenzy of activity. A deep sense of shame washes over me at the indignity of it all, at my powerlessness, as I am hoisted up onto the dirty old mule. The truth of the matter is, though, that however emasculating the whole experience is, I do not have the energy to fight it. Instead, it is all I can do not to pass out.

  “Please be careful,” says Robin, addressing the whole group. “The marsh becomes very dangerous here.” As he says this, I note that some semblance of authority has finally entered his voice; the realisation that he is dealing with two women, a child and an invalid seems to have steeled him somewhat. He takes the reins of the mule and begins to lead. Some moments later, once we are moving, he turns to speak to me once more.

  “Did you reach Brightstone?” he asks. The vague halo of awe around his words cheers me up somewhat, makes me feel less useless.

  “That should be ‘Ser Gruffydd’,” I slur, not in response to the new question but, instead, in an attempt to continue my original introduction. I only realise how I must sound as the words leave my mouth.

  “I’m sorry. Did you reach Brightstone, Ser Gruffydd?” replies Robin, chastened, without a hint of reproach in his voice. Were I not so cheered by his immediate deference, I would be slightly embarrassed. As it is, however, I am not. Trailing behind, the rest of my companions appear to be struck dumb with shyness.

  “Yes,” I reply solemnly. As I begin to speak, any desire to expand upon my answer seems to fade from me. My eyelids begin to droop. The fatigue that invades me is overwhelming, seizing upon this moment of relaxation in the same way that a starving man might leap upon a crumb.

  Forty-five

  It is the next morning before I am in any state to continue the conversation. Although I remember very little of my evening, it is quite possible that I have not had such a comfortable night’s sleep since I departed this lonely castle all those months ago. Last night seemed to pass by in a dreamlike blur. The details elude me. For instance, I am certain that I must have eaten and, from the pains in my stomach, eaten well but, due to exhaustion, I have no memory of it. In the same vein, I have very little idea of how much I said or to whom.

  The one thing I do know is that I awoke in a feather bed so soft and welcoming that the act of leaving it felt as tortuous as anything else I have endured. Indeed, most of the morning’s experiences – from the opulence of my room through to the richness of my breakfast – have made my first hours back in Tallakarn amongst the most luxurious in my life so far.

  Besides the master’s room, my bedroom must be the best in the castle – a marked change from the squires’ quarters where I spent my previous stay. Both the bed linen and the rug are an expensive green colour, a colour matched by the two upholstered chairs accompanying the dark wooden table in the corner. Upon the table, and various other dark wooden furnishings, sit a wealth of silver ornaments, all polished and gleaming, set off by the gentle morning light. Perhaps the most dominant feature of the room, besides the bed, is the large hearth opposite it. From the smell of smouldering coal, I surmise that the fire probably accompanied me to sleep.

  Breakfast is also something to behold. Much in the way a lord’s meal might have several courses, so our breakfast is presented to us in similar stages. To begin with we are treated to a compote of summer berries. This is followed by a second course of eggs and porridge. We finish with a sticky-sweet honey bread.

  I have scarcely finished licking the honey from my fingers before we are joined by the lord and lady of the house. On my previous visit, when Morrigan and I were passing through in the opposite direction, the couple had not been present. This, therefore, is my first meeting with them, and one that I had not been expecting.

  Leo, Selene, Shara and I are sitting in a row on the top table as they enter. There is nobody else in the room, save for the people attending the table, and the conversation between us has been poor. In fact, a curious stillness seems to hang over each of them. I have seen it before in goats: the way a new animal appears almost paralysed in fear when introduced to the flock. Since waking, I have seen more deference from each of them than they ever showed when they were hauling me through the snow.

  As the lord and lady enter, I instinctively stand to greet them. My companions do likewise. Ser Geraint casually waves us back down into our chairs, as though he doesn’t wish to bother us. He is another knight whom I can only identify by his heraldry – a black crocodile swimming on green.

  Like Morrigan, he doesn’t carry himself in the manner of a normal knight. Instead, with his dirty stubble and unkempt hair, he looks like a well-dressed tramp. This unsavoury air is made worse by his darting green eyes, which appear more like those of a man waiting to pick one’s pocket than host one’s luxurious stay. Marking him out in further contrast is his armour, brown leather rather than plate, and his build, small and spindly rather than broad. It is only as I note these differences that I remember the man is a marsh archer.

  “Welcome to the Gors, Ser Gruffydd. And welcome also to your companions,” he says, beaming proudly. Despite the clear formality of his voice, he still rolls his R’s in the same manner as his squire.

  “Thank you. It is an honour to stay with you,” I reply, trying desperately to remember my etiquette. “Please allow me to introduce my companions. They are all refugees from the fallen empire of Brightstone. This is Leo, the former emperor. This is Selene, his attendant, and this is Shara, my wilderness guide.” I daren’t give even a hint of Shara’s savage ancestry for fear that it might change their attitude towards her. As I introduce each of them, they all nod timidly to Ser Geraint and his wife.

  “I trust that you have been treated well?” asks Lady Ffion, smiling softly. She is both better spoken and better presented than her husband, with a fiery red spiral of hair and a soft green dress that could well be velvet.

  “Yes, I couldn’t have hoped for better,” I reply, wondering how few times that answer is actually meant when given in polite company.

  “And your companions? Can they speak the language?” she continues, perhaps subtly picking up on their lack of personal gratitude. At this, I turn my head to Shara who, sharp as ever, picks up the cue.

  “Yes… I couldn’t have hoped for better,” she mimics, head cowed. From the awkward, almost animalistic manner in which she delivers her thanks, I can only conclude that a smile would have been too much to ask.

  “Thank you. You are very kind,” adds Selene bravely, through the thickness of her Bright-tongue accent. A little tingle of pride moves through me as I sense her dignity shining through.

  “And Leo? Would you like to thank the Lord and Lady?” I continue, feeling the same desperate urge for him to impress as I might if he were my own son.

  “What for?” is the reply. The only saving grace is that he chooses to ask this, the most impertinent of questions, in his own language. Seemingly, and despite understanding both languages well, he is not prepared to stoop from his mother tongue in front of these people.

  “For their food and their bed,” I reply, in Bright-tongue, not wishing to insult the couple.

  “I shouldn’t have to thank people for that. It is the will of God,” he replies. Seethi
ng inside, I turn to Ser Geraint and Lady Ffion to cover up his rudeness.

  “My apologies. The boy is young and shy. He is not quite yet up to speaking our language.”

  “It is not a problem,” she replies graciously. “We are honoured to host you all and are glad that you have enjoyed your stay.”

  As she talks, they both beam with a kind warmth; it is clear that they enjoy the role of host, a role that is probably not too often bestowed upon them. They approach the breakfast table with casual ease, the kind that one might expect from family members, and sit opposite us. This is a nice touch; I know full well that there are some lords and ladies who would never deign to suggest the equality that sharing a table implies. On the other hand, if promises are to be kept, then the reality is that I am their equal; I have earned my knighthood in blood and ice.

  “I am sure you have more stories to tell than I can possibly imagine,” smiles the roguish knight. His eyes are quick and friendly.

  “Yes. I suppose I have,” I reply. “I have almost as many stories as I do injuries.”

  The lord and lady both laugh, although only as much as is necessary to be polite. At heart though, I feel reluctant to talk.

  First of all, I am eager to leave, to continue to Tallakarn, to bring to fulfilment that scene with the king that has rolled over so many times in my head. Second, I don’t even really know where to begin; so much has happened, so many memories have passed, so many feelings have waxed and waned. To begin telling my story – the things I have learned, the places I’ve seen, the people I’ve met – would take days to do it any justice. Do I really want to start now? How many times will I have to retell my story before it has been heard enough? Also, rattling away in the back of my mind, is the politics of it all. Surely the king, however much I detest him, should be the first to receive my story? In reality, it is perhaps him rather than me who should decide who else will ever get to know.