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Stories for December

Wisdom lies in Adaptability.

 The Goats rose up, straightening their backs, with much creeping and popping of muscles, stretching of necks and elongating of form, they stood upright on their hind legs, their torsos adapting and changing to suit the upright posture.

Unsteady on their legs, without an elongated foot, such as humans sported, yet their own two hooves upon each foot made them more surefooted except when upright. They seemed to change as they stood, taking on a dignity not afforded to them as they browsed the pasture by the river on their four adaptable legs. The stringy hair upon their lower chin, a product of nature, seemed to give them gravitas like the beards of Aristotle, Plato and Socrates, their brown irises and large black pupils made them seem myopic as though they should be provided with modern wire-rimmed spectacles and that just made them look wiser still.

Their narrow heads, to me, did not denote a decreased brain function as all know that brain size is not an issue with intelligence. I had read about intelligence tests upon animals many years ago and more I had witnessed “The Gathering”

I felt this appropriate as I crawled forward, the grass hiding my slight sinuous body to witness all that I knew to be true. I slithered and hid, no one would see me as I watched the Goats, now upright, stride into the forest.

From the river banks and pastures, the changed Goats strode with purpose, with dignity, with form, in to the dark forest that lay close to the quiet and sleeping river. It was a still night, cold and quiet with little wind, unusual this close to the bludgeoning force of the North Atlantic where normally the wind blew with a titan’s fury and the Gargantuan ocean swallowed all in its titanic maw.

The creatures of the night noticed them; The River Sprite in her Majesty felt the goats pass as they left her protection and entered the forest. The Satyrs of the woods noticed them passing but hid from such a potent horde.

The dryads, bright and standing upon or hanging from the branches of their trees said nothing, they knew who the errant masters of the land were and would have not changed the understanding of the land, even if they could. A Moonchild stopped in her tracks and watched their passing whilst hunting for fallen nuts and berries and a lost Stromkarll witnessed their meeting and enclave and resolved to make a song of such a noble gathering when he had time.

 Later that night the Stromkarll found a hive full of honey and forgot all about the dramatic nature of the night, indulging itself in the pleasures of the sweet honey and a comfortable clump of dock leaves, where he fell asleep, full and happy, sitting upon his harp.

Yet there were many others there to witness the enclave, not least the goats that deigned to be there, for many would not attend, Goats are haughty beasts, thinkers, philosophers and magicians and believe themselves above the rest of faerie land.

The Goats gathered in ones and twos at first, as they knew that the farmer, who thought that he owned them, watched them and so they were careful, moving slowly, hiding in the shadows of trees when they stood upright. In the hollows by the river where they drank, they gathered and gossiped about what was coming, what was likely to be and what their leader may tell them.

 Slowly and considerately they came forward, slowly they mixed and talked between themselves and slowly they gathered together.

The Goats gathered by the altar in the forest and they grew silent as small groups joined the others gathered. Ones and twos became tens and twenties and then hundreds, most muttering to themselves under their breath but the closer to the altar they got, the more the silence grew, the more reverent they became. It seemed as though they had come to worship, much as people like you and me may when going to church.

I had crawled through the bracken and gorse, between the long grass and river rushes to watch.

Their ranks swelled in silence as all the goats in the area were drawn in for the Conclave.

Eventually; from the huge host gathered there, milling around, talking with each other and eating from the forest floor, whispering and guessing, among themselves; A goat removed himself from the whispering crowd and walked to the stone that was their altar. He did so with a dignity that is is rarely attributed to Goats, his straight back, intense eyes and wispy beard making him kin to the Goats of old, the wise ones, the great tellers of stories and of what it means to be a goat.

He spoke.

The moon shone brightly that night and his face was bathed in silver as he began, this only added to his gravitas, his face raised towards the moon with blinking blue eyes and long lashes.

 His voice rose and filled the forest as he launched into his speech. He bewailed the passing of friends and compatriots, their blood, he said, evident upon the altar behind him.

And it was. The stone was mottled with dried blood and moss in equal portions, the moss perhaps feeding on the blood of the dead Goats.

He told of their gentle lives, beginning as kids, growing into goats of position and knowledge, Noted goats. He spoke of the friends that both he and they had known. He talked of their friends now departed and fled this world, he talked of the fields that they had walked and fed from. He spoke of their great home in the sky, of its clear water and soft grass, its covered rolling hills and how the sun always shone there.

It was never cold. He spoke of the great conversations they were having, their old friends, now gone to new grazing, talking of the nature of the grass and what caused it to grow. Where water comes from and how it flows when gathered together and the great yellow orb in the sky that made them warm.

Then he talked of the world around them, the one they walked upon and grazed and he spoke of the wisdom that the Goat held within him himself, that goats were weak and foolish whilst being wise. The congregation of Goats wondered as he said this, thinking that they knew all, the smartest of creatures, looking always towards wisdom as their saviour.

They knew their fields and the sun in the sky and the faerie peoples that lived around them, they knew the farmer. For goats; the world was always small.

What they could see or walk over, what others told them of and even occasionally what the folk would say. The sprites, moon-children, traveling stromkarll’s, dryads, pixies and even the monstrous passing Grendel, that towered like mountains and betrayed nothing of the thoughts in their heads shared their meagre knowledge with the goats.

These other “Kinds” shared their knowledge and told them of things to while away their hours as they sat, walked or fed with the heard.

Then he, The great goat, talked of how many more of the folk there were, that they grew more numerous with each passing generation.

He told that the folk encroached upon the lands of the people more and more often. He was upset that many of his brothers and sisters had gone to live with them forgetting that they also were of the people.

The ones lost to the folk became stupid, providing the folk with milk and cheese and latterly with blood and fat for sausage and meat for their stews. Everything was given in return for a warmer life with shelter over their heads and little hardship.

“But they are weak and foolish”, he almost growled out the words, “to give your life for a little warmth and comfort. That is not the way of the goat”.

“The folk are our enemy and must be resisted”, his passion was so apparent that most of the conclave bowed their heads, looking very much like upright goats which they had not since entering the forest.

He stopped and stood back and moved to the side using the altar stone for effect. The moonlight helped his point as the silver stone turned black in the moonlight covered with the dried blood of their friends and family. “You can see”, he finished “the folk’s real use for us”.

Many could see in their own minds this altar dripping with blood, goats blood, their throats slashed, friends that lay across it, others beheaded laid around it. It was imagined but all knew it to be true.

“One day”, he said, “we will rise against the folk” and the listeners, listened for he was the eldest and wisest of them all.

“We will tear them, in the night, in their sleep with tooth and hoof, we will hammer them unto death and so the many that died upon this stone shall be avenged”.

“We will, by our actions, cause our brothers and sisters in their own settlements to rise up and take their vengeance upon the folk. We will free them from their captivity and help heal all the ills that the folk have inflicted upon us and then we shall be heard again bellowing under the great sky”.

His voice rose almost to a bellow, and became hoarse as he shouted; Free Goats, once again, the goats that once were, the goats that we will be once again. We will be free.

 Part Two.

 It was dark as he woke, the sun barely bridging the horizon and the chill in the bedroom was frightening. June, his wife, was still sleeping and Neil, turned in the bed as he pushed the thick quilt off of himself and kissed June’s sleeping shoulder wishing her a good morning in his own way that he would not be here to say in person. Early rises were the domain of farmers, milkmen and delivery drivers and so he was used to the early rise.

This was one of the days that he dreaded. Being a farmer he was always up early and did not mind having to be so in the normal run of things, but not today.

Sure he felt tired and just wanted to go back to sleep as the first cock crowed but this was his life and he had been doing it for so long that he had become used to it. It was what he did.

It is what he would always do until he became too old or infirm to do it anymore. The simple fate of a farmer.

He thought that personally he would drop dead of a heart attack while still getting on with things and that no one would find him for weeks, his body bloated and bruised but even this thought did not discourage him, after all, he was just doing what he was raised to do, what he always had done and what he always did.

He moaned about it, complained about it, as most workers do, yet in a way he was devoted to his task and mainly (apart from the fact that he would rather be sunning himself on some beach somewhere in the tropics) for him this was the best job in the world.

 After all if you really cared about it then you could actually achieve something. You were growing things, creating in the only way that he knew how.

Neil woke before the sun rose, even in the summer, and the days were long in Argyll in the summer when the night lasted only three or four hours.

He lay awake and thought of his day. Always he would set the alarm clock for just before sunrise though he never needed it, but perhaps one day he would and so set it faithfully every night though he knew he would be awake before the BBC breakfast show assaulted his ears. He would lie there in the twilight just before dawn or in the winter in the pitch black and think of all he had to do.

He forced himself out of bed each morning, though some mornings he took more forcing than others and, this was one of them, the rain the snow, hail and wind did not stop him even if he hated those days he still did his job.

Oh bugger, he thought, even as he woke for he knew his schedule and today was the day he had to butcher one the goats. He hated these tasks. He knew that they were necessary yet just doing his job every day, he became attached to the animals he worked with.

Every farmer will tell you that Goats, sheep, cows are just beasts and a way to make a living but even as they say that the vast majority of them lie.

That is the way they want to feel, that each cow is a commodity, each sheep and goat likewise, nothing other than a means to an end, a way make a living, to put food on the family table, pay the bills, buy the new car, afford a new byre or a summer house.

 For some this is maybe the case, for others like Neil, knowing that they have to slaughter a goat this day, gives him pause and he thinks, laying in the early mornings light; this goat has paid its way. It has provided him with milk and cheese even from the worst grazing land that the farm holds, for goats can make forage on even the worst of land.

It has more than paid for itself, it is a friendly beast but it is the eldest and he would rather the younger goats have their day.

On this day, he hates his job and though he has the thought in his head that they are just beasts he cares for them, they are his friends. almost his family.

He has his job to do as he always has, and later that day, in one of the many fields that cover his land he sees the one that is the eldest. The old goat is his friend; he loves the beast. He tries never to name his animals as in that act he gives them purpose and status and that makes it even more difficult to say goodbye to them.

 Inside he has names for them all, after all, is not the old one with the crooked horn a name of sorts, the Kidd with the white spot, that the eldest fathered last season. He always knows the Eldest, he always has and always will. He, hating himself for what he is about to do but using all his strength hammers the old goat in its side toppling it to the ground and quickly tying its legs he hoisted it over his shoulders.

 As he walked to the altar he thanks’ it for its sacrifice….

You have had a long and good life my friend. You have served me well and fed my children but one of the herd had to die for we need meat and you are the eldest.

Your life is not wasted for your meat will nourish my children, your fat will feed my fire and be used to make candles, your blood and innards; sausage.

I will use your pelt as a coat or blanket, and I will file your bones into tools. It is a good death for you, goat, for you serve others with it and you are the eldest. The younger goats, because of your sacrifice will live another long year or two.

Neil hated this task, it was one that he always dreaded yet it was necessary and he always only culled the eldest beast.

3.

 Moonrise, The Farms nearby by are in darkness and the time has come for conclave, the goats slowly straighten raising their snouts to the moon as though to check that all is safe.

They scent the night air and realizing that all is well they stand upright on their hind legs and make their way into the forest.

In ones and twos at first and then in ten’s and twenties as they grow near the altar, this small spitting becomes a torrential rain as then hundreds have arrived.

Everything is silent, all are greeted by the sight of a goat’s head lying by the side of the altar. A low moan escapes the crowd, a suppuration of grief comes from all, echoing in the surrounding trees and seeming to become one with the wind.

The wind dies and silence reigns and all of the assembly are dumbstruck. It seems that there will be no conclave this night until one goat slowly detaches itself from the herd and walks in silence towards the altar; head bowed in reverence.

“My friends, fellow goats, you see the atrocity that has been committed here, you see how little we are thought of that our friend and the eldest among us should have been slaughtered in this barbaric way.

I stand in his place before you as the eldest of the goats now living and tell you that his death must be avenged, I will tell you when, my brothers and sisters and the time will be soon, in a year or two.

The goats made their plans that autumn, the revolution was coming. It was a hard winter and the farmer again had to slaughter a beast and being the kind fellow that he thought himself to be he chose the oldest.

He always chose the oldest.

Raymond Walker.

Jan 2017.