Fortuna and the Scapegrace

by Brian Kindall

  “That a girl,” said the man. “Hold your bony ass right there.”

  He fumbled with his belt.

  Be bold, Newfangle!

  I moved behind the would-be deflowerer.

  Be brave!

  I lifted my club.

  Be accurate!

  I flexed my arm.

  But above all, be…

  Before I could finish my internal bolsterment and bring my gallantry to its climax, Angeline lunged forward, rocked onto her front legs, and – Thumpk! – she hind-kicked the sailor squarely in the face.

  “Ahhh!”

  He tumbled onto his rear.

  I stepped back into the shadows.

  The man pressed a hand to his face and huffed. Then he glowered across at Angeline.

  I could see her well enough to know she was wearing what, on a goat, passed for a grin.

  “Blah-ah!”

  The sailor clambered to his feet, apparently with the intent of teaching Angeline a valuable lesson in submission.

  “You shaggy wench!”

  But Angeline would have none of it. As the man came close, she lowered her head and ran at him with her horns.

  “Ahh!” He doubled over and clutched his thigh.

  Angeline circled behind him and gave him another hard butt with her horns.

  He fell forward onto his hands and knees.

  Angeline hopped up onto his back, and then sprang off, kicking up her heels and landing nimbly on the wooden floor.

  “Blah-ah-ah-ah!”

  She appeared to be enjoying herself.

  I stayed hidden throughout the skirmish. There seemed no reason for me to get involved.

  The punch-drunk sailor finally staggered over to the steps, steadying himself with one hand on the rail, while holding the side of his face with the other.

  “You… You…”

  He seemed at loss for an eloquent rejoinder.

  “Blah-ah!” said Angeline and took a single step his way.

  But the spurned lover did not dally long enough to know if the goat had had a change of heart.

  He had had enough romance for one night.

  He fled up the steps and back to his bed in the forecastle.

  OTHERS CAME ON THE nights that followed.

  Pan’s minions.

  Would-be tuppers seeking to soothe their aching lusts by way of Cloud’s only available outlet for feminine interaction.

  To be sure, some of these aspirants were more courteous in their approach than others. They used soft, coaxing words and tender gestures and seemed truly smitten by the goat’s charms.

  One cock-eyed gent even came complete with a role-play fantasy.

  “Now, Betty-Mae,” he chided, when the goat would not directly comply with his advances. “You told me at the Sunday picnic I could have a kiss, and now I’m come to collect on that promise.”

  Eww!

  The depth to which a man can take peculiar seemingly knows no bottom.

  Others of the goat’s suitors were more coarse and forceful, not wanting to waste any time in idle chit-chat, but preferring instead to move directly onto the afore-imagined realization of their beastial epiphanies.

  Neither approach proved effective with Angeline. She treated them all the same. She had a coyness that far exceeded that of other goats I had known. Time and again, she rejected her wooers’ advances by way of a head butt or well-placed hoof, guarding her garden gate with all the self-possessed resolve of the most discriminating princess. I knew that she was not likely a virgin, since a nanny will not typically lactate until she has brought forth a kid. But somehow, in spite of this mammalian factoid, Angeline was able to remain seemingly vestal in her propensity and general attitude toward men.

  I found myself with nothing much to do but sit back and enjoy the comedy. It was difficult not to laugh out loud. Most hilarious! The only stress it caused me was that of losing sleep. For during the moon’s fullest cycle, the lunatics’ procession was unceasing. As much fun as it was at first, I was beginning to come up short on my much-needed rest. This resulted in endless fits of yawning during my lessons with Adamiah. I found myself struggling not to let my face drop into the pages of the open Bible from which I was supposed to be extracting wisdom.

  Eventually my weariness overcame me. In spite of the vaudevillian to-dos occurring right across the room, I fell asleep. This proved unfortunate for me. For as much as Angeline remained the chief attraction for most of the ship’s relief-seeking seamen, at least one fallen soul preferred, sorry to say, the purloined amenities of former poets.

  *****

  I prefer not to elucidate too explicitly the encounter to which I am referring, as its recollection is tremendously humiliating and caused me an inner trauma from which I have yet to feel myself fully recovered. Suffice it to say that one moment I was in a pleasant dream – one brimming with rainbows and flowers and butterflies – and in the next I woke to find myself pinned beneath the weight of a hairy, foul-breathed nightmare.

  “Huh?”

  I squirmed, but, being belly down in the straw, was unable to get away.

  A girlish squeal uttered forth unsolicited from my being, which seemed only to further excite my aggressor.

  Of course, panic was my overriding emotion. I would be remiss if I said otherwise. But strangely, beneath my terror, I felt the queerest shudder of something more serene. If I had to give it name, I would call it absolution. Yes. Odd as it might sound for a man in my compromised position, something in me felt inclined to forgive the grunting beast who was so desperately trying to reach enlightenment by way of the consolatory possibilities so poorly offered through my physical person.

  Forgive him, I thought, for he knows not what he does.

  Truth be told, I had always felt commiserate with my fellow man, even the dumbest of the bunch. They were my fellow victims. Something there had always seemed not quite right in the way we were put together. A glaring flaw had most assuredly occurred in fastening the connection between a man’s procreative hardware and his good sense. One always suspected that a bored and mischievous God had designed us in this fashion as a way to keep himself amused. One imagined a grinning deity watching down on our foolhardy, penis-led adventures – an omnipotent prankster enjoying the punch line of a joke to which only He was privy. No doubt this was a sacrilegious thought on my part, but that had never prevented me from thinking it.

  At any rate, there I was – trapped and resigned and magnanimous.

  A general tussle ensued at my backside – a struggle with trousers and such.

  I gritted my teeth at premonition of the upcoming intrusion. I sucked in a breath.

  Well, I thought, it seems my earlier contract with God has been annulled.

  But then came that telling Thumpk!

  I felt a sudden alleviation of the weight from my back. My trespasser toppled sideways onto the floor. I scrambled to my knees and scurried away.

  “Blah-ah-ah.”

  Of course, it had been Angeline, my protectress sprung to action.

  “Blah-ah-ah.”

  The would-be sodomite gathered himself and endeavored to get to his feet. But the goat was too quick of hoof. Before he could stand, she kicked him in the chest, then again in the face.

  Thumpk!

  And Thumpk!

  It was fairly sickening to hear.

  The battered fellow rested there in a puddle of moonlight. A sorry sight. His trousers were all down around his ankles, and he wrapped his arms around his ribs as if he were suffering a sudden chill. His wild eyes searched in the darkness for Angeline. Even in the meager light, I could see that it was Scarface. His already uglied appearance was becoming evermore flawed.

  He did not utter a grievance or vulgarity, as one might expect, but seemed to know that he was beaten.

  “Blah-ah-ah,” warned Angeline.

  He nodded, as if he understood goat words, and warily stood, yanking up his pants and buckling his belt. Then he turned, limped up th
e stairs, and fled into the night.

  I sighed.

  Angeline came and rubbed against me. I patted her neck. “Well, friend, once again you have come to my rescue.” I laughed. “It seems you are more a Galahad than am I.”

  The goat licked my hand.

  “Blah,” she said modestly. “Blah-ah-ah.”

  FAT LIPS, DAMAGED TEETH, and purple hoof-shaped bruises marked the faces of about half of Cloud’s crew. They sulked around on deck like stunned and battered pugilists. Yes, it is a hard lesson to learn – unreciprocated love can break your heart, but it can also bust your jaw.

  The men’s downcast demeanors were further augmented by our boat’s sluggish progress. The air had yet to stir itself to even the feeblest breeze, and the sails hung from the yards like neglected laundry. The sea remained dead calm, with nary a dimple nor splish marring its glassy surface. One lost count of the many torpid days passing by since we had even slightly budged along our course. A lazy tension seized the ship. We seemed to be teetering on a brink. At some point that tension would surely snap, our inertia would be obliterated, and our conjoined fates would hurl forward with all the force built up during these idle and languorous days.

  But not just yet.

  However, eager as I was to reach our destination, leave these bow-legged cretins behind, and make the acquaintance of one Prudence Merriwether, I found myself somewhat grateful for this extra time with my student. I had no clear vision of my future – just far-flung notions – but surely my own good fortune was dependent upon Adamiah’s ultimate proficiency as a Bible-thumping proselytizer. Every lesson that passed allowed us a greater guarantee of our venture’s success. Adamiah was slowly gaining competence. He might just fool those Edenites yet. And I must say, I was enjoying an unexpected satisfaction in watching him navigate the long and winding route from ignorant heathen to canny cleric, all under the aegis of my sure and steady hand.

  *****

  One morning, Adamiah and I found a patch of shade on deck and set about memorizing the Lord’s Prayer.

  “Repeat after me,” I told him. “Our Father…”

  “Our Father…”

  “Who art in Heaven…”

  “Who art in Heaven…”

  “Hallowed be thy…”

  “Blah-ah-ah.”

  I turned to find Angeline striding toward us. The crew parted to let her through, some of them downright bolting at sight of the goat who had so handily rebuffed their affections. It was most hilarious to watch. She clopped in our direction through the melee of scrambling sailors and stopped short just inside our patch of shade.

  The nanny stamped a hoof and dipped her horns in greeting.

  “Well, hello, My Lady. What brings you out in the open on this fine sunny day?”

  It was unusual for Angeline to be above decks, as she tended to spend her time lounging in her chamber below the waterline nibbling rope.

  “Blah-ah-ah.”

  I nodded.

  “What’s she saying?” asked Adamiah.

  “I am not exactly sure. Maybe she wants to join us as you learn to pray.”

  Angeline stepped closer. Her sandy eyes peered meaningfully into my face.

  “Blah,” she whispered. “Blah.”

  I felt the shudder of some communication passing between us – some deep animal message voiced from the wellspring of our common lingual pool – but it was a subliminal transmission, and, being a tad too civilized and arguably one step evolved beyond a goat, I was unable to translate her dialectic mutterance into words I understood.

  Angeline leaned in and kissed me on the cheek.

  She turned and strode to the port railing

  She gazed for a moment back over her shoulder.

  And then she leapt over the side of the ship.

  *****

  I was too stunned to immediately comprehend what I had just seen.

  Adamiah stood, looking over to the place from where Angeline had disappeared.

  “Say,” he said.

  Someone shouted, “Goat overboard!”

  I gathered my wits, jumped to my feet, and hurried to the rail with Adamiah and the others.

  Angeline had already surfaced and was swimming away from Cloud. Her action seemed deliberate and single-minded.

  What did she know? And where was she off to?

  She appeared for all the world to have abandoned ship.

  “Should we lower a skiff?” someone asked.

  “Nah. We’d never catch her.”

  Sure enough. Angeline was a surprisingly proficient swimmer. She chugged along so swiftly that one imagined she had traded out her legs and tail for fins.

  The men all watched after her, some of them rubbing their jaws, all of them no doubt harboring fond recollections of their coy Angeline – that coquettish Capricorn, that hirsute mermaid, that hemp-breathed angel of their fondest misguided dreams.

  A lump rose to my throat as I watched her paddling away.

  “Adieu, friend,” I whispered. “Bonne chance, and fare thee well.”

  Angeline grew smaller with the distance – a fading disturbance on that oceanic expanse – until, at last, she altogether disappeared.

  The crew hung their heads and wandered away from the rail.

  I spied a single cloud drifting above the horizon. I thought at first glance that it was in the shape of a boat, or perhaps a person – maybe even the face of my own mother – and that I was being granted a divine sign of reassurance.

  But no – I was mistaken.

  That cloud melded and trans-morphed into something else altogether.

  Some airy harbinger.

  Something double-dealing.

  It was but a menacing puff of white in an otherwise vacant blue sky.

  WITH MY EMPLOYMENT AS Angeline’s paladin so summarily terminated, I was faced with a pressing conundrum – Where, now, would I spend my nights?

  The forecastle (for scar-faced reasons I need not expound) seemed a dubious option.

  And although I am loath to admit it, without the goat there to help me fend off intruders, my straw bed in the hold seemed an equally poor refuge.

  Adamiah’s quarters, although cramped, appeared to be the best choice. His bunk was too narrow to accommodate a bedfellow, but upon assessing the limited floor space, I decided I could make do with curling myself beneath his table. The problem now was in how to broach the subject. I found myself too ashamed to openly admit my dilemma to my charge. I was, after all, supposed to be his dauntless mentor – all wise and capable of handling any troubles the world threw my way. By what degree would Adamiah’s estimation of me be diminished if I admitted I was… was… well, if not overtly fearful, at least marginally trepidatious about sleeping alone? I see now that it was somewhat ignoble of me, but I did not dare to risk losing credibility in his eyes for worry that it might somehow disengage me from his fortune.

  I lollygagged with Adamiah on deck, yakking with him on such enthralling subjects as Golgotha and the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, all the while waiting for an opportunity to turn the conversation toward my quandary.

  The afternoon slipped into evening.

  Stars began to glitter on the darkling edge of the sky.

  The day watchman climbed down from the crow’s nest, and the night watchman climbed up.

  Still, I found no occasion to turn the conversation toward my dilemma and felt I was soon going to be left with no choice but to openly beg a favor.

  I took a breath, parsed my words in my head, and was about to bring forth my plea when –

  “Say,” said Adamiah, “do you want to see something humorous?”

  “Uh,” I stammered. “I, uh, sure.”

  “Well then follow me.”

  *****

  He led me to, of all places, the very cargo hold where I had been making my bed. We descended the steps, traipsed past Angeline’s empty cage, and pressed through a back doorway to a part of the ship I had not yet visited. It was too dark to see,
but Adamiah lit a lantern and the room came into view before us.

  The space was packed wall to wall with crates and barrels.

  “What is this?” I asked.

  “These are the goods I purchased for Prudence’s father.” Adamiah held up his light. “Look here.”

  He hung his lantern from a rafter and pried the lid from one of the boxes. It was packed with books. Adamiah held one up for me to see. “We probably should have been studying this instead of that other version I have in my berth.”

  I took the book and examined its cover. It read, The Holy Bible of the Shining Redemption.

  “Is it somehow different from other Bibles?”

  “Somewhat, I think. It’s the interpretation as taught by Brother Merriwether. The church had me get them printed back east. It caused quite a row with the place I sent the galleys. They said it was an abomination against God and that we’d all burn in hell for our transgressions.”

  “So how did you get it printed?”

  “Oh.” Adamiah shrugged. “I just offered them more money.”

  I thumbed through the tome. It was fashioned the same way as any other Bible I had ever seen – a black leather covering wrapped around parchment pages. There did not appear to be anything out of the ordinary. But, as the old adage warns – do not judge an inside by an outside. I would have to probe its pages and find the passages that had so troubled the printers.

  “Now look here,” said Adamiah. “This is what I was talking about.”

  I put the book back in its box and followed Adamiah to a large crate.

  “You’ll never guess what’s in here.”

  I regarded the big wooden box. It was stacked alongside of about a hundred others of like size and shape.

  “Are they all the same thing?” I asked.

  Adamiah bobbed his head and grinned.

  I tried to think what bulk commodity the Shining Redemption might need to do its soul-saving work but could not.

  Adamiah forced up the edge of the lid and reached inside. “Close your eyes,” he instructed, “and hold out your hand.”