Tales of the Zodiac - The Goat's Tale

by PJ Hetherhouse

  By the time my shelter is dug, it is beginning to feel more like a grave. I can barely walk. There is still light in the sky but it is approaching its final flicker. The weight of exhaustion causes me to feel as though it has been hours since the battle, although I know from the sun that hardly any time has passed.

  Grimly, I reach for the base of the arrow lodged in the back of my knee. I have been taught in combat lessons that all the most effective weapons hurt more on the way out than on the way in. I now begin to realise that words alone have never done this fact justice; I feel every jagged edge of this evil weapon as it rips through my body in reverse, carving an entirely fresh wound. As I grit my teeth and pull, nothing exists except for agony, the pain of one thousand screaming suns moving through a small orifice just below the back of my knee. The wound throbs, sweat pours down my face, consciousness fades from me.

  “Looks painful,” quips Morrigan, crunching tactlessly through the melting snow. I’m unable to reply, too exhausted even for relief.

  “Could have at least dug me a shelter. Selfish bastard,” he smirks, trying, as ever, to soften me with good humour. I manage to murmur a curse in response but even I am not sure what it is supposed to mean.

  “Never mind. Looks like I’m up for the night anyway, seeing that you’ve given away our position and all. Come here, let’s check that scratch.”

  Fourteen

  Almost a month later, the few savages we have encountered have been surprisingly underpowered. Our superior weapons and training have counted for more than we expected. For this, I can only take a small credit. Morrigan, still fit and healthy, is a truly formidable opponent whilst, I, with only one good leg, am scarcely of any use. Morrigan’s superiority, however, is about the only positive to be drawn from our ordeal.

  My knee does not seem to be healing and hurts just as much with every agonising footstep. Morrigan does his best, daily, to keep the wound treated but, to all intents and purposes, my leg is nothing more than a dead weight. The weather conditions are also worsening. Although we’ve been following the coast, the sea itself has now become ice.

  On the one hand, this is a positive, an indication that the map we are following is accurate. It suggests we are approaching the frozen sea at the heart of the Mother Island. However, it is also a negative; the colder weather finds us using more energy but with less to eat. Meanwhile, the coastline curves southward, taking us into ever colder climes and, crucially, further still from Brightstone to the north.

  People living through such an ordeal can scarcely consider themselves to be alive. Instead, I feel that I am doing nothing but hobbling on towards death. The wound in my knee, deprived of rest or nourishment, never ceases to ache. I find myself needing to stop more and more frequently, trying not to be sick, not to leak warmth and fuel.

  It is to Morrigan’s credit that he stops each time, seemingly without complaint. It doesn’t take long before dark questions begin to cross my mind. Is he considering abandoning me? Would I abandon him in the reverse situation? Could either of us survive without the other? What could I do about it anyway?

  One night, he declares that we need to risk crossing the sea ice. The detour around the coastline will kill us, he feels. I, too weak to disagree, concur. Something about this situation provides a taste of how life must feel for my history master, with very little spare capacity to do anything but not die.

  The walk down to the sea ice is probably, in itself, the most treacherous task we have undertaken yet, a jagged and slippery obstacle course down an almost vertical cliff face. It would be just my luck to spend a life being derided as ‘the goat’ before falling to my death from a steep slope. But I am lucky; almost my entire life has been spent near cliffs and hills. I have almost lost count of the number of times that my father has sent me, scowling, to rescue silly kid goats stuck amongst the rocks. As such, the climb feels much more instinctive and familiar than anything else I’ve done for weeks. In fact, my leg hurts less during this descent than it has at any point over the month that has passed. So it is that, even with my burdensome injury, it is the clumsy and casual Morrigan who seems to struggle more. It does not take him long to fall.

  The incline of the slope is not so steep that a person is thrown immediately to the bottom of the cliff. Instead, he tumbles down with all the grace of an ugly rag doll. As he bundles past me, a cumbersome black mass of curses and thuds, I grimly realise that it is the most entertaining thing I’ve seen in months. A small smile escapes. He is making far too much noise to be badly injured. By the time I reach the bottom, he is up and dusting himself off.

  “Well, at least I beat you. I know how you hate to lose,” he laughs warmly. The humility of the man strikes me suddenly. I’m almost jealous of his ability to laugh at himself. It is a powerfully endearing trait.

  “And so elegant with it. Are you injured?”

  “I’m too cold to feel pain.”

  “I know the feeling,” I sigh, fully aware of how the weather has numbed my own injuries.

  “Right then. Onward,” he smirks.

  “Let’s just hope the savages aren’t stupid enough to enter the sea ice. There’s certainly nowhere to hide,” I groan, fully aware of the irony.

  Morrigan pulls his face into a rare grimace as we survey the immaculate whiteness in front of us. It is as white as eternity, scarcely different from the sky. There is nothing in the entire scope of our vision to determine one place from another. Walking through such blankness hardly seems possible.

  We have barely taken two steps on the ice before my fears are confirmed. There is, all of a sudden, a great deal of commotion from the rocks above us. My heart sinks as we turn our heads. Four people stand atop the cliff but, to my relief, they seem to be shouting at us rather than preparing to attack. From this distance, and it is hard to be sure, it would appear that two of the people are children. We draw our weapons nonetheless.

  Fifteen

  There is something frantic about what the savages are shouting. Only a few words reach us through the chill wind but I am certain that they are not words of any language that we understand. Nevertheless, the intensity and manner of their gesticulations seem to be suggesting that we shouldn’t be down on the sea ice. In fact, they look like they are showing us a route back up towards them.

  “You’re going to think I’m crazy but… I think these chaps might just be friendly,” shouts Morrigan through the wind.

  “Why would anyone be friendly out here?” I snap back, hoping against hope that I’m wrong.

  “Ha ha. Talk about having faith in the human condition! What do you want to do, Ser Goat? Ignore them?”

  As he shouts this, he gestures quite deliberately towards the Big White that awaits us. Having been with him for almost two months now, I can only assume his laughter is lost on the wind.

  My eyes follow his arm out in to the wilderness before moving back to the cliff top above. One of the smaller figures is scuttling down the slope with an ease that a goat would be proud of. He is moving at quite a pace but with the confident assurance of someone who knows each rock inside out. It was the way that, before my knee injury, I would move over the eastern reaches of Ynys Gwyn.

  Meanwhile, the people on the top of the cliff continue to gesture us back up. I am now convinced that they intend us to interpret their hand signals as a friendly warning. This, crucially, is not the same as them actually being friendly. Nevertheless, desperation forces my hand once more; I am too weak to either fight or run. I have to hope I can trust them. Morrigan, meanwhile, has already decided, trudging over to meet the small descending savage at the bottom of the cliff face.

  As the savage reaches the bottom, he beckons me towards him before extending his hand to Morrigan in a hurried manner. With his help, we ascend the ice cliff back to the top. With the guidance of this boy, now clearly a child of ten or so, the climb almost feels easier than the original descent.

  Our greeting at the top of the slope seems to be a friendly one.
They are quite clearly a mother, father, son and daughter. All look similar with a squat, healthy appearance and skin that is sun-kissed by so much exposure to the ice. There is quite clearly very little in common between our languages and, because of this, communication is done almost completely through body language. There are lots of smiles and their traditional greeting is some sort of unusually invasive hug. Very quickly, we are offered what appears to be an invitation to their home. Something in the back of my mind doesn’t sit completely right with me. I can’t stop myself from wondering what such a family would have to gain from kindness to strangers. Nevertheless, desperate times call for desperate measures. I try my best to swallow my pessimism and follow on.

  Their home turns out to be a small underground complex. The opening is a cave near enough to the top of a nearby hill. As we approach, there is no particular sign of any other families or any community to which they belong. Morrigan, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they do not speak the same language, continues to ask questions, using overblown hand gestures and an increase in volume to make himself understood. Each time, their responses are the same: slightly sheepish and tinged by embarrassed laughter.

  Moving deeper into the cavern, the first thing I notice is the warmth. This sensation, lost to me for two months, immediately brings back memories of home. Perversely, it is only from stepping into the warm that I realise how very, very cold I actually am. Being able to remove my gloves for the first time in weeks is, surprisingly, almost an emotional experience.

  The smell also reminds me of home. It is that healthy, earthy, salty smell that is, perhaps, of nothing in particular other than a person’s home. It is not an especially nice odour but, nevertheless, my sense of smell, somewhat of a luxury sense when compared to the others, has been neglected for a very long time during this frozen journey.

  As I begin to adapt to the warmth and smell, I notice to my amazement that the burrow walls actually appear to be constructed rather than dug. The walls are made from brick in the same way that they would be in Tallakarn. The only difference is that instead of the rough stones we use, these stones are perfectly rectangular red stones. I have never seen anything like it.

  It also quickly becomes clear just how these savages, surviving in the middle of a frozen waste, appear to be so healthy. Many of the small caves we walk past contain dried or salted meat that they are quite clearly storing for hard times. Although it is not a large complex, every chamber is taken up with evidence of almost boundless industry and resourcefulness; fur coats, skin tents and weapons made from bone seem to almost litter the place.

  We are invited to sit when we reach the biggest room, deep underground, lit by fat candles. We are quite taken aback to realise that there are more people tucked away in this cosy and safe room. There is another woman who looks, perhaps, a little younger than the mother of the family that escorted us down. She is nursing a baby. Meanwhile another baby, of toddling age, scurries about on the floor. These three bear a very striking resemblance to the rest of their family. My mind races, trying to work out what the relationships must be.

  There is one last individual in the room who, tucked away in the corner, is quite clearly not related. He is, perhaps, a teenager, and it is by him that I am probably most intrigued. He does not resemble anyone that I’ve ever seen previously; his eyes and hair both seem to glow in an unsettlingly bright chestnut tone. On his shoulder is a branded mark that I can scarcely make out through the firelight; it is the face of a ram.

  “Hi,” says Morrigan, raising a friendly hand, once more forgetting how unlikely it is that anyone will understand.

  “Hi?” replies the unusual teenager, seeming surprised to understand us. At this realisation, he suddenly springs up, filled with almost as much excitement as we are.

  “You speak our language?” I ask, suspiciously. Now that he is standing, moving towards us, I can see that instead of looking plump like ‘his family’, he is instead compact and muscular. His copper features are striking, frightening even. Despite our common language, he does not look like someone from our kingdom.

  “Yes…” The answer seems to surprise even him. “But I don’t know how… Where are you from?” The language falls from his mouth in an unnatural and stilted way, in the manner of someone who is speaking a language that they do not fully understand – in the manner that one of our people may speak Bwlch or Kernowek, for instance.

  The host, seemingly insulted at the strange little sideshow, gestures brusquely for the boy to sit. He then shouts something at his wife, gesticulating enthusiastically. The boy sits once more, but not where he had been. Instead, he seats himself across from us in the loose circle that the room naturally forms.

  “Do you understand this chap?” asks Morrigan, more quietly, gesturing to our host.

  “Yes…” The boy’s reply, once again, sounds confused and unsure.

  “Then tell him we’re sorry. And thank him.”

  “I will.” The boy nods sagely as he agrees.

  “And ask him if we could please have some food.”

  “I will.”

  “And tell him my friend is injured.”

  “I will.”

  “And thank him.”

  “It is fine,” the boy repeats. “There is plenty of time. They are generous hosts.” After assuring us of this, he turns to speak to the host in his own language. Even in this language, he does not appear to be entirely comfortable or fluent. There is a brief conversation between the two before he returns to talk to us.

  “The Burt,” he gestures to our host, “would like to welcome you to his home and invites you to share in his food. But first, he would like to know who you are.”

  “My name is Crow. This man is Goat. We are pleased to meet you, Burt,” interjects Morrigan before I can answer. His tone of voice is, again, loud and deliberate. Respectfully, he addresses the host rather than the boy. Burt once again talks to the boy in his own language.

  “We do not have names in the way that you do. A ‘Burt’ is the leader of the household. Unless the others speak to you, you speak only to him. You can speak with me, to interpret. He is unhappy that we understand each other and warns it is an insult to exclude him from conversation.”

  It is now I realise that the boy’s intonation reminds me of a less sophisticated version of Vesta; an accent that is, at once, neutral yet foreign. My eyes are, once again, drawn to the black ram branded on to his left shoulder.

  “Then I suggest that if we have questions for you, or vice versa, we add them into conversations we are having with him. This way, he will not realise he’s being excluded.”

  “That makes sense. I’ll tell him you accept and thank him.”

  And so begins an intriguing double conversation with both our host and his other guest. The evening is fuelled by an incredibly generous variety of smoked and dried meats as well as an almost hostile distilled liquor called ‘spebru’, which, we are told, translates as ‘fire and water’.

  We learn that the savages are loosely allied with about ten or so other families in the area. Their livelihood largely consists of hunting seal or fish from the frozen sea, although they have also been known to capture other land animals. The tribe that they are allied to is, by and large, one of the more peaceable peoples, although their attitudes towards strangers vary. We are assured that we have been very lucky to have been met by our particular family.

  We are warned that ‘the real savages’ live further west. Beyond the frozen sea, we are told, most of the people we are likely to meet will be cannibals: those that eat the flesh of the slain. The man talks gravely, terrified, as he describes the so-called ‘pale tribe’, led by a ‘pale man’, who visit periodically, demanding hefty tribute.

  Whilst I have no doubt of the authenticity of his feelings – his concerns, his grief, his fears – everything he says seems to further emphasise what Lady Vesta has already told me. A tribe will always refer to their neighbours as savages; they will always mythologise a
nd fear the great unknown in just the same way they will seek to sanctify their own culture. I can imagine an islander, myself even, less than a month ago, talking in the exact same way about the world beyond the mountains.

  Our own tale is, of course, also a source of great interest. Despite my reservations, Morrigan spills the truth of our kingdom and our purpose without so much as a second thought. To these people, clinging onto their lives on a block of ice, such a kingdom must sound unfathomable, fantastical even. The Burt demands to know where such a kingdom could be located and, Morrigan, perhaps having been warmed too thoroughly by the liquor provided, happily obliges. The Burt laughs as he sees it located on our map.

  “The end of the world!” he smiles.

  Meanwhile, they have never heard of Brightstone and know even less about any Son of God. For these people, religion as we know it must have been forgotten centuries ago. In fact, they seem particularly unexcited by it all.

  “The wrong god!” Burt assures us gleefully.

  The other guest, it turns out, has a life story that trumps every other person in the room: it is a blank page. It slowly becomes apparent that he has literally no knowledge of anything. Before we entered, he wasn’t even aware of the language we greeted him in and, yet, somehow he finds himself to be fluent in it. Neither our language nor the language of our hosts, he points out, is the language that he uses to think. The language in which he thinks is another language, one that he has never heard spoken. As far as he is concerned, his life began when he was hauled, half dead, from the sea by the Burt and his family. He has since developed a basic knowledge of their tongue, which he describes as a simple and functional one, out of necessity.