by Jack Challis
His liking for goats and their milk aside, Peter did have a certain affinity for goats; he also had a rather goat-like appearance himself. Even his peers at primary school noticed this ‘kid-like’ resemblance; even though at that time he did not have the whiskers to grow a goatee beard, something which in adult life gave that final touch to his goatliness. The Shepherd had come to notice that goats were far more intelligent than sheep and better company. These agile hersine ruminants seemed on occasions to stand still and ponder certain facts, such as: ‘The goodness of all goats and the wickedness of man.’
Peter had taken his flock onto the high pastures in early May to enjoy the young spring grasses and herbs. He knew these mountains well and lived in a small round, sturdy, stone spittle with a heavy oak door and thick slate roof which was held in place by gravity and a heavy carpet of deep grassy turf.
These one-roomed shelters were built in medieval times to protect travelers from the packs of wolves preying on humans and livestock that were caught crossing the mountains after sunset. The humble but sturdy shelter in modern times was still good protection from the storms, cold wind and rain to which the mountains at that high altitude were still prone to during early summer.
It was just as well that Peter the Goat’s humble abode was solidly built. Although the packs of wolves had long disappeared, another far more dangerous and determined alien life-form would appear at his door this very night. This predator was not only hungry: but extremely intelligent!
Peter the Goat did not sleep peacefully that night; his two dogs were restless. If his dogs were uneasy so was Peter the Goat, for he relied on their keen noses. Around midnight he heard a dull thud further down in the valley, followed by a slight vibration. He thought little of it; small earthquakes in the Cambrian Mountains were not unusual occurrences.
However what he heard an hour later was most unusual. Some creature was persistently shuffling around outside the sturdy door of the stone hut. Whatever animal it was continued to linger by the entrance… regardless of his shouts and the barking of the dogs. Then it began digging in the earth at the bottom of the door! This was no bold fox or hungry badger that could smell the lovely cold, roast leg of Welsh lamb in his lunch bag. Little did the Shepherd know that it was not the smell of roast lamb that attracted the digger: but the warm-blooded life-forms within!
When the noise continued he noticed that his two sheep dogs looked intimidated, though fully awake. They lay quietly sniffing and staring at the bottom of the stout oak door instead of barking: they whimpered.
There was no doubting in Peter the Goat’s mind that his two dogs were afraid of the creature outside. This fact had an unnerving effect on the Shepherd. The powerful sound of excavation was accompanied by impatient grunts and hisses coming from the very base of the door; these unusual noises and the apparent confidence of the digger were beginning to intimidate the lonely Shepherd. Like most people who lived alone, he had a vivid imagination.
Peter wished he had borrowed Morgan the Milk’s shotgun! Slowly getting up, he could just make out from the light of his peat fire that the small gap at the bottom of the thick door had now been enlarged by about three inches! He spotted movement – as did the two dogs. They began barking, albeit more in fear than aggression.
‘Blooody… Nooora!’ was all he could exclaim. Normally his dogs would be chomping at the bit to be let outside to deal with the bold offender. The fear of his dogs transferred to their master. Why would his lively and bold dogs be afraid of the persistent digger, he pondered?
Looking closer, the Shepherd could just make out what looked like two appendages… no four, dark, sinuous, hooked fore-limbs were digging at the base of the door. These hideous appendages were working in unison trying to further enlarge the small gap between the door and the earth; this was a determined effort to gain accesses.
Or perhaps… he consoled himself the creature was just trying to get inside for shelter from the cold night winds. This was not the case: he and his dogs were the digger’s intended victims! The deformed being outside was not interested in shelter but rather in the three life-forms sheltering within – this alien had not feasted for a very long time: two hundred years!
There was something unnatural, sinister, about the movements and the noises outside. Whatever the intent of the digger, it was bold and determined to get inside. Peter the Goat’s courage failed him. The two dogs stared the other way when he looked questioningly at them for moral support: they were now shivering with fear. He went back to bed – what else could he do in the circumstances?
The Shepherd watched and listened with a racing heart as the gap at the bottom of the door got larger and the impatient grunting and hissing grew louder; its determination was unnerving. The digging stopped!
A long silence followed. ‘Blooody Nooora!’ was all Peter the Goat could say: his heart now pounding. Total silence. The intruder had given up… and perhaps gone away, he hoped? But the silence was as scary as the noises; at least while it was grunting and hissing he knew where the creature was and what it was doing while it was digging. Then he heard an awkward but rapid scuttling sound on the turf roof. The digging started again! There could now be no doubt whatsoever, having failed to enter through the door it was now trying to enter from above! The dogs began barking furiously; more in fear than anger.
‘Blooooody… Nooora!’ mumbles Peter the Goat again, his goat-like eyes wide with hersine like fear.
The vigorous digging sound was again accompanied by impatient grunts and hisses. Peter the Goat watched as debris started falling from the roof, covering his sleeping bag and dropping down the back of his neck. There was no doubt in Peter’s mind; the digger was intent on reaching him and his dogs! Or was he just the intended victim? The Shepherd clutched his stout staff and waited: petrified.
Short work was made of the soft turf covering, but the thick, heavy slate slabs underneath were another story; they were welded together by the glue of ages and the roots of the hardy grass. The Shepherd listened to sharp claws scraping at the slate roof tiles and felt heavy clods falling on his legs. Some of the clods managed to put out his small fire: he was now in complete darkness! The mysterious digger made no headway with the heavy slates: then silence once again.
‘Flaming… hell,’ exclaims the Shepherd, this time in a whisper, ‘what the ***** was that?’ Peter the Goat and his two tentative dogs did not sleep for the remainder of the night. The Shepherd laid eyes wide open, listening to every sound outside, hoping that whatever it was would not return. As the grains of sand slipped though the hour glass, he could see fingers of light penetrating through the top of his door. But he was not fooled by the false dawn as Bryn Jones had been, earlier that very same morning.
Peter the Goat waited for true dawn; holding his thick staff, he carefully opened the door for the dogs to go out first. Immediately they began sniffing around, the hairs on their necks upright; with daylight, their courage had seemingly returned. The Shepherd was shocked at the damage at the site of the attempted break-in.
‘Good God and Evens!’ he exclaims, ‘a bloody JCB could not have done more damage… flaming hell… I am not stopping here another night… and be eaten alive – bugger it.’
It was obvious to him that some powerful creature was responsible; it had been a deliberate attempt to get at him and his dogs. No fox or even a badger could have had the power to accomplish such a feat. What stopped the determined digger was the large, heavy, oblong door lentil made of rock that had been buried in the ground.
The Shepherd followed his dogs keeping at a safe distance as they picked up the sent trail of the mysterious creature. He noticed his flock of sheep had scattered. The goats had taken to the highest ledges on the rock face that only goats could reach: silent witnesses of the events of that fateful and terrible night: they remained silent witnesses.
The dogs were braver now and started to follow a trail downwards. Both dogs soon stopped and sniffed at a complete sheep skin and s
plashes of blood, a sheep had been killed and expertly skinned by some sharp instrument – the entire carcass was missing. Not a single shred of flesh remained. This was certainly not the work of a poacher.
Continuing his descent, he came across another hide, once more all the flesh was missing; again expertly skinned. Ten paces further on another dead sheep. This sheep was intact but something was very wrong: the carcass had already completely decomposed!
‘Bloody…Nora,’ exclaims Peter the Goat, pulling at his goat-like chin whiskers. The Shepherd was perplexed; there was just no explanation to this. It would normally take several days before a dead sheep became high, black in color and putrid. Behind the dead sheep was a deep ravine, still in shadow and mist. The trail seemed to lead into this ravine. Seeing his two sheep dogs were reluctant to enter the shadows, Peter the Goat decided to have his breakfast first. In an hour the ravine should be flooded with sunshine.
On his return he was surprised to find the decayed carcass missing! The killer had obviously been watching him from the shadows of the ravine and removed the putrid sheep after he had left. This fact was not lost on Peter the Goat. The Shepherd slowly entered the ravine with a racing pulse, clutching his staff; the dogs were braver now in the bright sunshine. Walking along the ravine bed he soon found that the trail petered out, as the killer was now moving over rocky ground, leaving no trail; besides his dogs showed no interest in investigating the many dark rock crevasses. It was towards these crevasses that the sent trail seemed to lead. Despite his encouragement the two dogs would not continue.
Walking back to his Shepherd’s hut Peter the Goat could clearly see long flat strands of what looked like spiders silk glinting in the sun’s rays. Peter the Goat did not do spiders! The Shepherd hurried on, he would call on Sergeant Thomas: sheep killers had to be reported.
The rotund Sergeant Tom Thomas had just finished his usual large breakfast of fatty bacon, greasy eggs, saturated fried bread, sausage, mushrooms and a thick slice of black pudding all fried in a greasy pan; he was in a good mood. This fat policeman loved his food: damn his angina. ‘Good morning Peter – I thought you would be on the high mountain slopes – that’s what makes our lovely Welsh lamb taste like it does – the sweet grass and all those wild herbs mann.’
‘You are not the only one with a taste for my Welsh lamb – lost three sheep last night Thomas – killed right outside my door by something. Then the bloody thing tried to enter the hut. It was trying to dig under the door. Whatever it was…it wanted to eat me and my dogs!’
‘It must have smelt those lovely lamb-pies your wife makes… I can just taste one now,’ replies the fat policeman.
‘If that’s all you have to say Thomas, I’m going to borrow Morgan the Milk’s shot gun. That will teach what ever it was a lesson,’ threatens Peter the Goat.
‘No you won’t,’ answers Sergeant Thomas, ‘Morgan the Milk does not have a license and nor do you…besides he has no cartridges anyway.’
‘Well what are you going to do about my sheep then,’ demands the Shepherd.
‘What kind of animal was it?’ asks Sergeant Thomas.
‘It was not a fox or a badger – it took three sheep.’
‘Three sheep is it.’ repeats the Sergeant, ‘even an elephant could not eat three sheep in one go mann.’
‘Elephants don’t eat sheep,’ replies Peter the Goat.
‘I know that,’ answers Sergeant Thomas, ‘I was metaphorically speaking, see. Only a large animal could dispose of three animals in one go, unless it was poachers…those London boys, you know Cockneys… Geezers – nick anything, like on the television – mug their own grandmother and pinch her false teeth when she opens her mouth to shouts for help.’
‘It was not Cockney poachers Thomas,’ exclaims the Shepherd. ‘Besides not all Cockneys are crooks… my sister Karris missed the last train from London… this Cockney geezer bought her drinks all night, took her home and cooked her a full breakfast in the morning. And you know what… he never charged her a penny!’
‘Lovely girl your sister… I remember once.’
‘What are you doing to do about my sheep…? I am not spending another night up there,’ announces the Shepherd.
‘What do you think it was?’ asks the policeman.
‘It was some kind of creature…I saw its arms as it tried to dig under the door… it looked as if it had four…four arms mann! And there were long strands of web outside the door.’
‘Sergeant Thomas smiles, leans back in his chair and takes out a thick beef sandwich from a draw, ‘Look Peter the Goat, we have known each other since primary school. Something with four arms and I presume also with four legs, that leaves strands of web, has to be a spider…a giant spider mann! You had a nightmare bach…about a giant spider. That’s all see. You have always been scared of spiders. I remember at school you had hysterics when you saw a big spider on the wall,’ he chuckles. ‘And last Christmas in the Skinners you jumped out of your skin when a big one ran across the floor by your legs… remember?’
‘Look Thomas Thomas, it was not a giant spider see – I am forty two years old now. It’s true I have never liked spiders…well not crawling over me like – or joining me in the bath!’
‘Have you ever squeezed a big spider in your fingers, till it pops?’ The fat policeman enquires.
‘Bloody Nora… no way Jose! It would bite me mann. Have you seen the fangs on a big E-type house spider?’
‘Well as it happens… I have a big house spider thats been living in my draw for months see… massive it is… I think it has been eating my sandwiches… let me get it out and show you.’
‘Bloody-hell – no Thomas! I hate the way they run… the way they watch you with those little shiny eyes. When I was young, a bloody big one got into my cot – I screamed the house down – my mum came in and gave me a good clout around the ear and told me to shut the **** up!
‘Why didn’t you tell her about the spider?’ Sergeant Thomas asks.
‘Because I hadn’t learnt to talk yet …for Christ sake… I was only three years old mann.’
‘I was only joking Peter,’ chuckles, Sergeant Thomas… ‘that is about the spider in my draw… just making a point see bach. You are an arachnophobic,’ states the sergeant, taking out yet another beef sandwich.
‘No I am not!’ exclaims Peter the Goat, ‘in fact if anything I am overweight. What are you going to do about my sheep mann?’
You know Peter, you can’t beat a nice beef sandwich…not too much mustard mind you,’ answers sergeant Thomas. ‘I don’t know what is happening in Tala Pandy. First there is that little fat sod Caddoc Morgan, claiming that: ‘something big and hairy jumped on his back – stuck its smelly fingers in his gob… as a bridal see… and rode him like a bloody donkey. Now… you and this giant spider thing… you are not drinking too much of that rocket fuel Peter, are you?’
‘I did not touch a drop last night,’ answers Peter the Goat.
‘That reminds me, move your illicit still, the new Inspector of police Mr. Burgerhouse was here sniffing around last week.’ … he had a Customs and Excise officer with him.’
‘Sounds like the bloody Gestapo to me,’ responds Peter the Goat.
‘I wish we had a Burgerhouse in the village… could eat a nice burger right now… with all the trimmings,’ sighs the Sergeant, taking out another beef sandwich from his draw; watched disdainfully by the Shepherd.
‘Besides, I have a young rookie policeman coming today – you know what young coppers are like?’
‘What about my sheep?’ persists Peter the Goat.
‘I will phone the lads in the next valley, there has been talk of a big black cat killing sheep!
‘What about my sheep?’ insists Peter the Goat?’
‘I will make enquiries,’ answers Sergeant Thomas sadly taking out the last thick beef sandwich from his desk.
‘Bloody Nora mann… that’s four beef sandwiches you have eaten during my complaint! Peter the Goat get
s up and leaves, disgusted; he would buy some cartridges for Morgan the Milk’s shotgun – bugger the license, his life was in danger. Before he reaches the gate, Sergeant Thomas opens the door.
‘Give my love to the missus, Peter the Goat. The next time she is baking, I would not say no to a couple of her lovely lamb pies in thick gravy. Ho… and Peter, don’t think of buying any cartridges for Morgan the Milk’s shot gun will you… or I might just remember where your illegal still is!’
Peter the Goat half turned and half smiled, muttering under his breath ‘all coppers are b******s!’
Chapter Four
Blodwyn’s Dilemma
Floating on the balmy evening air came by;
every color’s prisms flashed she; every shade of sea, forest and sky; Ignoring earthly mortal me as over passed.
A thousand dancing spangles lit in her wake. I stood still enchanted by the spell she cast;
and watched the night take her away. Tis Grunwalde Angharad: Queen of the Fairies I knew! And lively ran, for it is not wise to stand and stare; as if rooted stay,
when the Queen of the Star-worshiper is at her evening’s play.
It was friday and as usual Sergeant Thomas rode his bicycle down to Brian Jones’ smallholding; he was looking forward to a nice rack of fat Welsh lamb for his coming Sunday lunch. Blodwyn was feeding the geese, ducks and chickens when the policeman rode up.
‘Fatten those geese up Cariad,’ he says, ‘I will be ordering two for Christmas again – you can’t beat a brace of geese – goose fat is wonderful on roast potatoes and parsnips. And happy birthday to you Blodwyn, my little Gethin is looking forward to your party. If there are any of your mother’s home made pork pies in lovely jelly left over…’
