The two goats staggered slightly after knocking noggins. Fortunately for the two youngsters, they were pretty experienced at butting heads and no serious damage was done.
Billy blinked, startled. “Where am I?” he asked.
William opened his mouth to answer but screamed instead as six kilograms of angry tabby sank its claws into his rump. The cat was screaming too. Confused, and not wanting to be left out, Billy joined in.
William frantically bucked as hard as he could but the cat had a tight grip with her claws and refused to let go. With each kick of his back legs, William felt the claws tighten and the pain increase but he could not calm himself down enough to stop.
“Help me!” he wailed at his brother.
Billy, however, was frozen rigid barring his head, which was involuntarily bobbing up and down in time with his bouncing brother. “I don’t know what to do!”
“Anything!” cried William.
Bereft of any better ideas, Billy resumed screaming. As he did so, a ghostly shadow emerged from the mist above him and hurtled straight at William’s unwelcome passenger. There was a muffled thump, a caterwaul and the sound of goat hair being ripped loose, then William found himself feline-free.
“Thanks!” he said, as the two goats stopped screaming.
Billy stared at him wildly. “It wasn’t me!”
William slowly rotated and shuffled backwards until he was beside his brother; the two kid craned their necks forward but all they could see was the mist.
Another wail split the night air, this time accompanied by the screech of some fearsome beast from prehistory, followed by a sudden silence. The goats exchanged a glance but remained rooted to the spot with fear.
The vapours in front of them swirled and an owl’s face briefly appeared.
“Run, fools!” it cried, before being suddenly yanked back into the fog.
Showing posts with label goats. Show all posts
Showing posts with label goats. Show all posts
Wednesday, 21 November 2012
Monday, 19 November 2012
Chapter 14.2
The two goats continued in silence. This side of the hill, the evening mist appeared to have coalesced into a dense but narrow layer, barely covering the heads of the animals. For William, this meant that everything around him formed hazy shadows whilst, at the same time, he could make out stars above him quite clearly through widening gaps in the clouds. It was not a combination that did anything to offset his general feeling of unease.
Unease was not the only feeling growing for William. He could feel the static electricity around him continuing to build, which he found odd given the humidity. Occasional flashes of blue haunted his peripheral vision, which for a goat was somewhere behind his head. He found that he kept turning to look behind him but there was no one - and nothing - there. Of the earlier thunder, however, there was no more sign. This did not comfort him. Something was building and the more it built, the bigger it would surely be when it broke.
In between backward glances, William peered ahead in an attempt to determine their destination. This was uncharted territory for the young goat and he was determined to pick up any possible visual clues to his whereabouts should he have to describe the evening to Mog later - or, worse, should he have to return.
The Jones farmhouse was a looming shadow to his right: dark and menacing. In front, some fenceposts materialised out of the mist, running in a straight line across the path of the two brothers towards the house.
William instinctively dropped back a little and followed Billy, hoping that his brother’s immanent pilot would have knowledge that transcended that of its mammalian vehicle and avoid trouble. After their earlier encounter with the gun-toting scarecrows whilst Pan was at the helm, he found himself holding his breath, just waiting for the inevitable collision with the fence. Knowing Jones, it would be electrified and far exceed animal welfare regulations. With all the static in the air, the two goats would be electrocuted in a bright flash, leaving nothing but a pair of charred four-legged corpses for their grieving mother to find in the morning.
William shut his eyes. If this was the end, he would rather not watch. A sharp tug at his neck made him stagger forward and open them again. Without a conscious message from his brain, his legs had decided to join his breathing in its strike, apparently directing all bodily activity to his heart, which was beating like a hyperactive chipmunk playing maracas. (Chipmunks have surprisingly good rhythm, even at 150 beats per minute.) Billy meanwhile, had plodded steadily on and stretched the rope taut once more.
William scampered forward before he was dragged off his feet: his possessed brother possessed surprising strength. A dozen metres or so ahead he could see another row of fenceposts, hopefully as devoid of intervening fence as the cordon they had just navigated. Beyond that, the mist was a little thinner and he could make out a large hut or possibly a barn straight ahead, which could be their destination. A pale yellow glow surrounded the base as light from within leaked out. It would appear that someone, or something was in the cabin. It was not a thought that did William’s confidence any good; nor his continence, for that matter.
With another quick look behind him, William hurried after his brother. The mist was creepy and his mind was beginning to see shapes in shadows everywhere. He suddenly felt his herd instincts kick in with an overwhelming urge for safety in numbers, even if the number in this case was two.
He caught up with his Billy just as he reached the second row of posts. A sudden giggle burst forth from William’s lips as nerves combined with his internal monologue reaching “number two”.
“And what do you think is funny?” purred a slightly husky female voice over to his right.
William’s eyes widened as a misty shadow atop the nearest fence post developed a pair of green eyes. Feline eyes. William froze. Below the eyes, a row of sharp feline teeth appeared.
“Don’t eat me!” he cried.
“Eat you?” answered the cat. “What an interesting idea.” The teeth were joined by a second row, shaping into a smile. “I’ve never tried eating a goat before. Not a whole one, anyway. But then... you are quite small. And I am hungry!”
William saw a flash of claws in the moonlight and he could swear that the cat doubled in size as it tensed to jump. Herd instincts forgotten, it was every goat for himself as William turned tail and fled. Judging by the blood-curdling yowl and hiss behind him, he was not a moment too soon.
As the young goat streaked away from the cat, his panicked brain tried to catch up. He was fleeing directly away from the Jones farmhouse. Another fencepost reared up from the mist to his right as he sprinted past; this one was animal-free. His current heading meant that he was neither running towards Billy and Pan’s target nor back towards Duke and safety. So where was he heading?
Before he got a chance to do the necessary mental triangulation, William felt a now-familiar throttling sensation as he hit the maximum extension of the rope. Conscious decisions were postponed for a moment as his trajectory was converted from a straight line into an arc, gently curving back towards his previous heading with Billy. Within a couple of steps, he felt another sharp tug and the arc tightened.
William looked behind him and spied two green eyes still in pursuit, reflecting the diffuse moonlight brightly. His own eyes wide with fear, he ran harder and only dimly became aware that his circumferential route was now arcing him back towards the house. The rope was still taut, stretching away to his right, back towards Toby Ron’s land but Billy’s bell could still be heard ahead of him and he was closing fast.
William thought hard, squinting down the tether as he ran. Of course! The rope must have wrapped around a fencepost. Unless he did something about it, he was doomed to spiral round in ever-decreasing circles whilst his brother traced the opposite route. Whilst his brother traced the opposite route.
Alarms bells rang in the back of William’s mind just as Billy appeared from the mist in front of his face on a direct collision course. With no time to stop, William closed his eyes and braced for impact.
Unease was not the only feeling growing for William. He could feel the static electricity around him continuing to build, which he found odd given the humidity. Occasional flashes of blue haunted his peripheral vision, which for a goat was somewhere behind his head. He found that he kept turning to look behind him but there was no one - and nothing - there. Of the earlier thunder, however, there was no more sign. This did not comfort him. Something was building and the more it built, the bigger it would surely be when it broke.
In between backward glances, William peered ahead in an attempt to determine their destination. This was uncharted territory for the young goat and he was determined to pick up any possible visual clues to his whereabouts should he have to describe the evening to Mog later - or, worse, should he have to return.
The Jones farmhouse was a looming shadow to his right: dark and menacing. In front, some fenceposts materialised out of the mist, running in a straight line across the path of the two brothers towards the house.
William instinctively dropped back a little and followed Billy, hoping that his brother’s immanent pilot would have knowledge that transcended that of its mammalian vehicle and avoid trouble. After their earlier encounter with the gun-toting scarecrows whilst Pan was at the helm, he found himself holding his breath, just waiting for the inevitable collision with the fence. Knowing Jones, it would be electrified and far exceed animal welfare regulations. With all the static in the air, the two goats would be electrocuted in a bright flash, leaving nothing but a pair of charred four-legged corpses for their grieving mother to find in the morning.
William shut his eyes. If this was the end, he would rather not watch. A sharp tug at his neck made him stagger forward and open them again. Without a conscious message from his brain, his legs had decided to join his breathing in its strike, apparently directing all bodily activity to his heart, which was beating like a hyperactive chipmunk playing maracas. (Chipmunks have surprisingly good rhythm, even at 150 beats per minute.) Billy meanwhile, had plodded steadily on and stretched the rope taut once more.
William scampered forward before he was dragged off his feet: his possessed brother possessed surprising strength. A dozen metres or so ahead he could see another row of fenceposts, hopefully as devoid of intervening fence as the cordon they had just navigated. Beyond that, the mist was a little thinner and he could make out a large hut or possibly a barn straight ahead, which could be their destination. A pale yellow glow surrounded the base as light from within leaked out. It would appear that someone, or something was in the cabin. It was not a thought that did William’s confidence any good; nor his continence, for that matter.
With another quick look behind him, William hurried after his brother. The mist was creepy and his mind was beginning to see shapes in shadows everywhere. He suddenly felt his herd instincts kick in with an overwhelming urge for safety in numbers, even if the number in this case was two.
He caught up with his Billy just as he reached the second row of posts. A sudden giggle burst forth from William’s lips as nerves combined with his internal monologue reaching “number two”.
“And what do you think is funny?” purred a slightly husky female voice over to his right.
William’s eyes widened as a misty shadow atop the nearest fence post developed a pair of green eyes. Feline eyes. William froze. Below the eyes, a row of sharp feline teeth appeared.
“Don’t eat me!” he cried.
“Eat you?” answered the cat. “What an interesting idea.” The teeth were joined by a second row, shaping into a smile. “I’ve never tried eating a goat before. Not a whole one, anyway. But then... you are quite small. And I am hungry!”
William saw a flash of claws in the moonlight and he could swear that the cat doubled in size as it tensed to jump. Herd instincts forgotten, it was every goat for himself as William turned tail and fled. Judging by the blood-curdling yowl and hiss behind him, he was not a moment too soon.
As the young goat streaked away from the cat, his panicked brain tried to catch up. He was fleeing directly away from the Jones farmhouse. Another fencepost reared up from the mist to his right as he sprinted past; this one was animal-free. His current heading meant that he was neither running towards Billy and Pan’s target nor back towards Duke and safety. So where was he heading?
Before he got a chance to do the necessary mental triangulation, William felt a now-familiar throttling sensation as he hit the maximum extension of the rope. Conscious decisions were postponed for a moment as his trajectory was converted from a straight line into an arc, gently curving back towards his previous heading with Billy. Within a couple of steps, he felt another sharp tug and the arc tightened.
William looked behind him and spied two green eyes still in pursuit, reflecting the diffuse moonlight brightly. His own eyes wide with fear, he ran harder and only dimly became aware that his circumferential route was now arcing him back towards the house. The rope was still taut, stretching away to his right, back towards Toby Ron’s land but Billy’s bell could still be heard ahead of him and he was closing fast.
William thought hard, squinting down the tether as he ran. Of course! The rope must have wrapped around a fencepost. Unless he did something about it, he was doomed to spiral round in ever-decreasing circles whilst his brother traced the opposite route. Whilst his brother traced the opposite route.
Alarms bells rang in the back of William’s mind just as Billy appeared from the mist in front of his face on a direct collision course. With no time to stop, William closed his eyes and braced for impact.
Thursday, 1 November 2012
Chapter 13.5
William turned back to Duke and gave him an encouraging nod. He wanted to give him a thumbs-up but he had no thumbs. Their plan was working well so far. Duke had dug out under the electrified fence earlier that evening and William had gently steered his brother towards the deepest hollow. He was not sure whether Pan knew about electric fences but he had allowed Billy to be nudged to a point where it was just about deep enough to allow the young goat to scrape under, even if the tips of his tiny horns had been left glowing blue for a few seconds.
The two goats trudged on. The field opened out, giving William views down towards the valley ahead of him and up the slope to his right where the farmhouse of farmer Garth Jones stood, dark and foreboding, on the hill. The mist had cleared a little on this side of the fence but the faint haze in the air gave the house a ghostly glow and sent a shiver down William’s spine.
Although the lack of light indicated that no one was at home - or, at least, at home and awake - William was nonetheless disheartened to notice that Billy was slowly changing course to head towards it. He did not want a run-in with Farmer Jones. He certainly did not want to end up as mutton stew, as Billy had rather pessimistically predicated earlier that day. (The fact that, technically, mutton only really referred to sheep was not much consolation.)
It was at that moment that Billy stopped dead in his tracks.
“Billy?” William whispered. “Are you awake?”
There was no reply. As suddenly as he had stopped, Billy resumed his march although William noted that his course had shifted and they were definitely skirting around the house rather than heading straight for it.
This might have given him some comfort had he not also noticed something rather disquieting. He could feel his hair beginning to stand up a little and a general sense of oppression was building in the air. He glanced heavenwards. Cloud cover was light tonight but it felt like a thunderstorm was brewing.
Sure enough, that thought has scarcely entered his head when a thunderous crash sounded from the direction of Swansea. Somewhere, an owl hooted mournfully into the night. William gulped. He was well into his fifth or sixth boding by now and still none the wiser as to how this evening would end.
The two goats trudged on. The field opened out, giving William views down towards the valley ahead of him and up the slope to his right where the farmhouse of farmer Garth Jones stood, dark and foreboding, on the hill. The mist had cleared a little on this side of the fence but the faint haze in the air gave the house a ghostly glow and sent a shiver down William’s spine.
Although the lack of light indicated that no one was at home - or, at least, at home and awake - William was nonetheless disheartened to notice that Billy was slowly changing course to head towards it. He did not want a run-in with Farmer Jones. He certainly did not want to end up as mutton stew, as Billy had rather pessimistically predicated earlier that day. (The fact that, technically, mutton only really referred to sheep was not much consolation.)
It was at that moment that Billy stopped dead in his tracks.
“Billy?” William whispered. “Are you awake?”
There was no reply. As suddenly as he had stopped, Billy resumed his march although William noted that his course had shifted and they were definitely skirting around the house rather than heading straight for it.
This might have given him some comfort had he not also noticed something rather disquieting. He could feel his hair beginning to stand up a little and a general sense of oppression was building in the air. He glanced heavenwards. Cloud cover was light tonight but it felt like a thunderstorm was brewing.
Sure enough, that thought has scarcely entered his head when a thunderous crash sounded from the direction of Swansea. Somewhere, an owl hooted mournfully into the night. William gulped. He was well into his fifth or sixth boding by now and still none the wiser as to how this evening would end.
Sunday, 28 October 2012
Chapter 13.3
The moon cast an eerie glow throw the building mist as two small horned quadrupeds crossed a field at the edge of Toby Ron Ken O’Bee’s land, accompanied by the faint tinkling of bells and Duke, the sheepdog.
“Good luck,” the latter whispered to William as a fence came into sight ahead ahead. “I’ll wait here. I would come with you but...”
William stopped and nodded. It was well known on the farm that Duke and Garth Jones had some bad history. The farmer had threatened to shoot Duke if he ever found him on his land again. Hopefully, the same would not apply to Toby Ron’s goats.
“Don’t forget the electric fence!” Duke added, as a slight tug on William’s collar got him moving again.
“I won’t,” he answered.
“Let’s hope that Pan knows about electric fences,” he muttered to himself as his brother reached the boundary in question.
“Good luck,” the latter whispered to William as a fence came into sight ahead ahead. “I’ll wait here. I would come with you but...”
William stopped and nodded. It was well known on the farm that Duke and Garth Jones had some bad history. The farmer had threatened to shoot Duke if he ever found him on his land again. Hopefully, the same would not apply to Toby Ron’s goats.
“Don’t forget the electric fence!” Duke added, as a slight tug on William’s collar got him moving again.
“I won’t,” he answered.
“Let’s hope that Pan knows about electric fences,” he muttered to himself as his brother reached the boundary in question.
Friday, 7 September 2012
Chapter 10.3
Mystic Mog tried fruitlessly to rub the sleep from her eyes. She was still not sleeping well and today’s news from the goats was not going to help. She sighed. “That could have gone better.”
“It could have gone worse.” Cyril told her. “They’re still alive for one thing.”
“Yeah!” added Billy.
“And I didn’t lose him this time!” said William.
“True,” conceded Mog. “But we still don’t know where Pan was taking him.”
“Wherever it was,” said Cyril, “it doesn’t look like he was heading for the same place as before.”
“Why would he?” asked Mog. “Presumably he achieved everything he wanted to the night before.”
“Maybe,” Cyril conceded. “But by that reckoning, he didn’t last night, so he may try again tonight.”
Mog thought for a moment. “True, I guess. I’m not really sure how that helps us, though.”
“William,” said Cyril, his tailing flicking in excitement as inspiration took hold. “Do you remember the route that you and Billy took last night?”
“I… I think so.” William told him.
“Good! Tonight, I want you to tie yourselves together as before. This time, however, I want you to go to sleep in a different spot. Try to work out the direction you were heading and pick one of Toby Ron’s fields that should let you bypass Watchtower Valley. Toby Ron and Duke should be able to help you there.”
Mog nodded. “Yes! That should work. If in doubt about the location, err on the side of caution. We don’t want you going through that field again. If Pan keeps failing, he might seek out a different vehicle.”
“Don’t worry,” Billy told him. “We really don’t want to go through there again!”
“Good!” smiled Cyril. “In the meantime, I suggest that you go home and make sure that William gets as much rest as he can before sundown. With any luck, he’s going to have a busy night.”
“It could have gone worse.” Cyril told her. “They’re still alive for one thing.”
“Yeah!” added Billy.
“And I didn’t lose him this time!” said William.
“True,” conceded Mog. “But we still don’t know where Pan was taking him.”
“Wherever it was,” said Cyril, “it doesn’t look like he was heading for the same place as before.”
“Why would he?” asked Mog. “Presumably he achieved everything he wanted to the night before.”
“Maybe,” Cyril conceded. “But by that reckoning, he didn’t last night, so he may try again tonight.”
Mog thought for a moment. “True, I guess. I’m not really sure how that helps us, though.”
“William,” said Cyril, his tailing flicking in excitement as inspiration took hold. “Do you remember the route that you and Billy took last night?”
“I… I think so.” William told him.
“Good! Tonight, I want you to tie yourselves together as before. This time, however, I want you to go to sleep in a different spot. Try to work out the direction you were heading and pick one of Toby Ron’s fields that should let you bypass Watchtower Valley. Toby Ron and Duke should be able to help you there.”
Mog nodded. “Yes! That should work. If in doubt about the location, err on the side of caution. We don’t want you going through that field again. If Pan keeps failing, he might seek out a different vehicle.”
“Don’t worry,” Billy told him. “We really don’t want to go through there again!”
“Good!” smiled Cyril. “In the meantime, I suggest that you go home and make sure that William gets as much rest as he can before sundown. With any luck, he’s going to have a busy night.”
Tuesday, 4 September 2012
Chapter 10.1
William awoke to a sharp tug on his throat. It was the middle of the night again. It was also misty again. In the boding stakes, things were already looking bad. Gradually, the young goat’s senses kicked in, one by one, and he realised that he was moving. Backwards.
More specifically, he was being dragged backwards across the paddock by a rope attached to the collar around his neck. While his conscious self thought “this is odd”, his unconscious self began to realise that the pressure around his throat was rather uncomfortable and was beginning to choke him. The pull on the rope was slightly off-centre, however, and the friction of his hindquarters caused him to suddenly spin round and face the direction of travel.
The rope now stretched away from William into the mist. With the pressure on his throat eased, his brain began to receive more oxygen and he awoke properly. He could not see what the rope was tied to but he knew it to be his brother, Billy.
Apart from the cat’s projectile vomiting, the meeting with Mystic Mog had not gone as badly as William had feared. Mog had been too shaken up by what she would only describe as an “Unpleasant Psychic Episode” to be angry with William for long for losing Billy. In truth, she was simply relieved that the young goat had suffered no damage from psychokinetic feedback or “mental friendly fire”.
Billy had obviously been annoyed at the revelation, especially after the praise that William had received from their mother for keeping him safe. Even he agreed that the experience with Mog was recompense enough and, though quick to anger, he was quick to forgive and forget. The main thing is that they were all determined not to let it happen again. This time, the two brothers were firmly attached. Wherever Pan took Billy, William had no choice but to follow – as he was currently finding out. Before tonight, he had not realised that his brother’s psychic weakness was so well compensating by physical strength.
The fence at the edge of the paddock loomed out of the mist, and William decide that it was time to take a more active role in his progress. With the nimbleness of, well, a goat, he managed to scramble to his feet without ending flat on his face. He then had a split second to discern whether Billy had gone under the fence or between the two crossbeams. The wrong choice would most likely result in an uncomfortable choking sensation and quite probably splinters in unfortunate places.
Between the crossbeams it was, and through William squeezed. Once into the field beyond, he wasted no time in closing the gap between himself and his brother. Where was Pan taking him this time? It was blatantly not the same route as last night, which took him down the lane, but William had been disorientated by his drag across the paddock and was not sure in which direction they were headed.
Normally, he would use the stars to pinpoint his position and direction but the mist and low clouds had ruled that out this evening. This did not stop him staring vainly up into the heavens, though, and he nearly walked straight into the back of Billy as a result, whose progress could best be described as slow and steady. That would probably not be a good idea – he did not want to risk waking him up.
Being careful not to trip either of them up with the rope, which was now slack and dragging along between them, William outflanked his brother and had a good stare at him. Were his eyes normally that glazed over? William assumed not but, having thought about it, realised that he had never really stared at his brother’s eyes before.
This time, William’s staring did cause him to walk into something – another fence. This was not a good sign. Toby O’Bee did not have too many pastures, so they would probably be leaving his land. William suddenly found the mist to be quite comforting, shielding them from view from any potential hostilities. At least, that is what he hoped.
There was no time to think about that now, though. Billy’s steady progress had already taken him through into the field beyond and if William did not follow promptly, he was in serious danger of getting tangled up.
Once into the field, his concerns were realised. This field was being used to grow some kind of food crop. Toby O’Bee was not a practising farmer. He did occasionally employ a local lad named Spike to make bales of hay when the sun shined but that was just for rustic charm.
The plants were head height for the young goat, and William found that he had to use the channel of flattened crops left by Billy if he were to stand any chance of keeping up. If the other goat was finding it heavy going, he was showing no sign of it. Presumably, such things were of no concern to Pan.
Ahead of them, William spotted a hazy shape in the mist that made his heart skip a beat. It looked like a human figure. And Billy was marching straight towards it. If they had entered the land of Garth Jones, this could be very bad indeed.
“Billy!” he hissed. “Billy, wake up!”
He may have been there to follow Billy but his primary concern was always his brother’s safety – and his own. Billy did not respond, however, and continued inexorably towards the figure. William would have to find another way. Gritting his teeth, he dug his feet firmly into the ground and braced for the sharp tug that was about to come.
When it did come, the tug on his collar was so sharp that it nearly pulled William off his feet. Billy had the strength of a creature possessed. But then, of course, he was. William now found himself being dragged across the ground once more, ripping up chunks of foliage as he went along, his feet ploughing furrows into the topsoil. This was blatantly not working. He was not even sure that his was slowing Billy down.
With great reluctance, William conceded defeat. Even if he was making a difference, Billy was now dragging William plus the harvest of a small African nation. As a result, the strain on the rope and William’s collar – and, therefore, William’s neck – was getting just too much to bear. He would have to try a more direct approach.
Shaking loose bits of plant off himself, William trotted after his brother.
“Billy!” he hissed again, hoping that the figure ahead of them would not hear. “You’ve got to stop!”
Just as he reached his brother, he heard a whir and a click from the direction of the figure.
“Uh oh.”
Suddenly the air was full of Jehovah’s Witness propaganda. William ducked in reflex and was pelted across his back and right flank. The deterrent was obviously designed with smaller creatures in mind, but they still stung as they made contact.
In contrast, Billy seemed totally unmoved. Pamphlets were hitting his legs and glancing off his small horns but he plodded on, oblivious. Then a leaflet caught him square on the nose. He froze, and the quickly ducked as a second leaflet shot at him on the same trajectory. This was caught him square between the eyes.
Billy looked round in confusion. “What the…?”
He ducked as another pamphlet shot past at high velocity. Then there was calm. The figure in front of the goats was still clicking but nothing was being launched at them.
“I guess it’s run out of ammo,” whispered William.
Billy just stared around, wide-eyed, trying to take stock of what was happening. The clicking stopped. The two goats looked at each other and then at the Jehovah’s Witness, which, to their surprise, promptly disappeared from view.
Billy threw William a quizzical look. William dropped it with a hapless shrug.
Suddenly the Jehovah’s Witness sprung back into view. This time it was wearing a crudely fashioned turban and the informational literature had been replaced by something rather larger; and considerably more scary – a Kalashnikov assault rifle.
“Run!” screamed William.
At least, he tried to scream “Run!”. The end of the word was cut off by his collar whipping him backwards by his neck; Billy had needed no encouragement.
William and Billy had never heard a gun being fired before, and it was loud: loud enough to firmly convince them that to be hit would be to enter a world of pain. (The goats had already visited Eric Lovell’s World of Pain earlier in the week, when Toby Ron had been redecorating the spare room. Fortunately, this was simply the result of a missing ‘T’, although some of the shades of one-coat emulsion were quite traumatic to behold. This one would be worse.)
Fortunately for the goats, Farmer Jones had not upgraded the targeting system of this model and so it was just spraying bullets round at random. This was little consolation to the two animals, however, and they fled as fast as they could, fertilising the ground as they went. As it was, one of the bullets whistled by William’s ear, cutting the rope as it went.
Feeling the rope go suddenly slack, Billy glanced over his shoulder to check on his brother’s progress. Seeing that he was OK, Billy turned back, just in time to run headlong into the fence at maximum speed. Such was his momentum, Billy crashed right through the wooden beam, back into the land of his owner, where he tottered shakily on his feet for a moment.
“Are you OK?” asked William, breathlessly, as he caught up.
Billy did not answer. Instead, he turned to look distantly at his brother, then simply keeled over and passed out.
More specifically, he was being dragged backwards across the paddock by a rope attached to the collar around his neck. While his conscious self thought “this is odd”, his unconscious self began to realise that the pressure around his throat was rather uncomfortable and was beginning to choke him. The pull on the rope was slightly off-centre, however, and the friction of his hindquarters caused him to suddenly spin round and face the direction of travel.
The rope now stretched away from William into the mist. With the pressure on his throat eased, his brain began to receive more oxygen and he awoke properly. He could not see what the rope was tied to but he knew it to be his brother, Billy.
Apart from the cat’s projectile vomiting, the meeting with Mystic Mog had not gone as badly as William had feared. Mog had been too shaken up by what she would only describe as an “Unpleasant Psychic Episode” to be angry with William for long for losing Billy. In truth, she was simply relieved that the young goat had suffered no damage from psychokinetic feedback or “mental friendly fire”.
Billy had obviously been annoyed at the revelation, especially after the praise that William had received from their mother for keeping him safe. Even he agreed that the experience with Mog was recompense enough and, though quick to anger, he was quick to forgive and forget. The main thing is that they were all determined not to let it happen again. This time, the two brothers were firmly attached. Wherever Pan took Billy, William had no choice but to follow – as he was currently finding out. Before tonight, he had not realised that his brother’s psychic weakness was so well compensating by physical strength.
The fence at the edge of the paddock loomed out of the mist, and William decide that it was time to take a more active role in his progress. With the nimbleness of, well, a goat, he managed to scramble to his feet without ending flat on his face. He then had a split second to discern whether Billy had gone under the fence or between the two crossbeams. The wrong choice would most likely result in an uncomfortable choking sensation and quite probably splinters in unfortunate places.
Between the crossbeams it was, and through William squeezed. Once into the field beyond, he wasted no time in closing the gap between himself and his brother. Where was Pan taking him this time? It was blatantly not the same route as last night, which took him down the lane, but William had been disorientated by his drag across the paddock and was not sure in which direction they were headed.
Normally, he would use the stars to pinpoint his position and direction but the mist and low clouds had ruled that out this evening. This did not stop him staring vainly up into the heavens, though, and he nearly walked straight into the back of Billy as a result, whose progress could best be described as slow and steady. That would probably not be a good idea – he did not want to risk waking him up.
Being careful not to trip either of them up with the rope, which was now slack and dragging along between them, William outflanked his brother and had a good stare at him. Were his eyes normally that glazed over? William assumed not but, having thought about it, realised that he had never really stared at his brother’s eyes before.
This time, William’s staring did cause him to walk into something – another fence. This was not a good sign. Toby O’Bee did not have too many pastures, so they would probably be leaving his land. William suddenly found the mist to be quite comforting, shielding them from view from any potential hostilities. At least, that is what he hoped.
There was no time to think about that now, though. Billy’s steady progress had already taken him through into the field beyond and if William did not follow promptly, he was in serious danger of getting tangled up.
Once into the field, his concerns were realised. This field was being used to grow some kind of food crop. Toby O’Bee was not a practising farmer. He did occasionally employ a local lad named Spike to make bales of hay when the sun shined but that was just for rustic charm.
The plants were head height for the young goat, and William found that he had to use the channel of flattened crops left by Billy if he were to stand any chance of keeping up. If the other goat was finding it heavy going, he was showing no sign of it. Presumably, such things were of no concern to Pan.
Ahead of them, William spotted a hazy shape in the mist that made his heart skip a beat. It looked like a human figure. And Billy was marching straight towards it. If they had entered the land of Garth Jones, this could be very bad indeed.
“Billy!” he hissed. “Billy, wake up!”
He may have been there to follow Billy but his primary concern was always his brother’s safety – and his own. Billy did not respond, however, and continued inexorably towards the figure. William would have to find another way. Gritting his teeth, he dug his feet firmly into the ground and braced for the sharp tug that was about to come.
When it did come, the tug on his collar was so sharp that it nearly pulled William off his feet. Billy had the strength of a creature possessed. But then, of course, he was. William now found himself being dragged across the ground once more, ripping up chunks of foliage as he went along, his feet ploughing furrows into the topsoil. This was blatantly not working. He was not even sure that his was slowing Billy down.
With great reluctance, William conceded defeat. Even if he was making a difference, Billy was now dragging William plus the harvest of a small African nation. As a result, the strain on the rope and William’s collar – and, therefore, William’s neck – was getting just too much to bear. He would have to try a more direct approach.
Shaking loose bits of plant off himself, William trotted after his brother.
“Billy!” he hissed again, hoping that the figure ahead of them would not hear. “You’ve got to stop!”
Just as he reached his brother, he heard a whir and a click from the direction of the figure.
“Uh oh.”
Suddenly the air was full of Jehovah’s Witness propaganda. William ducked in reflex and was pelted across his back and right flank. The deterrent was obviously designed with smaller creatures in mind, but they still stung as they made contact.
In contrast, Billy seemed totally unmoved. Pamphlets were hitting his legs and glancing off his small horns but he plodded on, oblivious. Then a leaflet caught him square on the nose. He froze, and the quickly ducked as a second leaflet shot at him on the same trajectory. This was caught him square between the eyes.
Billy looked round in confusion. “What the…?”
He ducked as another pamphlet shot past at high velocity. Then there was calm. The figure in front of the goats was still clicking but nothing was being launched at them.
“I guess it’s run out of ammo,” whispered William.
Billy just stared around, wide-eyed, trying to take stock of what was happening. The clicking stopped. The two goats looked at each other and then at the Jehovah’s Witness, which, to their surprise, promptly disappeared from view.
Billy threw William a quizzical look. William dropped it with a hapless shrug.
Suddenly the Jehovah’s Witness sprung back into view. This time it was wearing a crudely fashioned turban and the informational literature had been replaced by something rather larger; and considerably more scary – a Kalashnikov assault rifle.
“Run!” screamed William.
At least, he tried to scream “Run!”. The end of the word was cut off by his collar whipping him backwards by his neck; Billy had needed no encouragement.
William and Billy had never heard a gun being fired before, and it was loud: loud enough to firmly convince them that to be hit would be to enter a world of pain. (The goats had already visited Eric Lovell’s World of Pain earlier in the week, when Toby Ron had been redecorating the spare room. Fortunately, this was simply the result of a missing ‘T’, although some of the shades of one-coat emulsion were quite traumatic to behold. This one would be worse.)
Fortunately for the goats, Farmer Jones had not upgraded the targeting system of this model and so it was just spraying bullets round at random. This was little consolation to the two animals, however, and they fled as fast as they could, fertilising the ground as they went. As it was, one of the bullets whistled by William’s ear, cutting the rope as it went.
Feeling the rope go suddenly slack, Billy glanced over his shoulder to check on his brother’s progress. Seeing that he was OK, Billy turned back, just in time to run headlong into the fence at maximum speed. Such was his momentum, Billy crashed right through the wooden beam, back into the land of his owner, where he tottered shakily on his feet for a moment.
“Are you OK?” asked William, breathlessly, as he caught up.
Billy did not answer. Instead, he turned to look distantly at his brother, then simply keeled over and passed out.
Sunday, 2 September 2012
Chapter 9.5
William shifted uncomfortably from leg to leg. “Can I whisper it in your ear?”
Mystic Mog threw a look at Cyril who deflected it to Billy with a deft shrug of his shoulders. Billy caught it square on the chin and was not happy.
“Don’t look at me,” he grumbled. “I was asleep at the time, remember?”
Mog grunted. She was still not sleeping well and this pair of petulant animals was getting more than a little tiresome.
“No,” she said firmly in answer to the first question.
William gave her a pleading look.
“No!” she repeated, the last remnant of kindness having ebbed from her voice along with her patience. “Just tell us where he went.”
William looked down at his hooves.
“I don’t think he went down there,” Mog chided. “Now, tell us!”
“I don’t know where he went,” he mumbled.
“What?” said Cyril. “I didn’t hear you?”
“That was the point.” William muttered. He sidled away from Billy slightly and spoke up. “I said I don’t know! I… I lost him.”
“You lost me?!” cried Billy. “Why you…”
Cyril was quick to intervene, and sprung across Mog’s clearing to put himself between the two goats.
“Eh! Calm down, calm down!”
William’s bottom lip had started to quiver. “I’m sorry. I did follow you. But it was very foggy. And you lost your bell.”
“I never…” Billy tailed off as he thought back. With reflection, he had woken up without the bell around his neck. He snorted and sat down sullenly.
Cyril could see the situation getting out of hand and was quick to try and restore some harmony.
“Eh, now, c’mon,” he told them. “Everyone just calm down and let’s see what William does know. Everyone calm down.”
Mog stepped back – without realising it, she had arched her back, puffed up her tail and was standing over the cowering young goat, claws out and ready for action. With a great deal of effort, she calmed her voice. “OK, William. Describe what happened up to the point that you lost Billy.”
William took a deep breath and told them how he had followed Billy as best he could through the fog down the farm track on to the road and then down the hill, towards Swansea.
“I lost him for a while then, by the turn-off to Farmer Jones’s place.”
Cyril gulped nervously. “You didn’t run into him or his tabby did you?”
“No,” William replied. “Thankfully, he didn’t go that way – he continued down to the main road. I did run into a strange character, though.”
The others listened with interest as William described his bizarre encounter with the small brown bird.
“I think he was trying to help but I really could not understand anything he was saying. I mean, it was English and the words themselves were OK, it was just the sentences. Which bough is about to break? And what fruit is ripe for the picking?”
“Sounds like the Zen Wren,” Mog told him. “Irritating little bastard. His wisdom is what you make of it. Personally, I’d ignore all that crap.”
“What?!” she asked as three faces gawked at her in disbelief. “I may be a psychic but it doesn’t mean that I believe in any old crap!”
“What happened when you reached the main road?” she asked, changing the subject.
“That’s where I lost him. I reckon he was heading for Swansea, though.”
“There’s not a lot in the other direction,” agreed Cyril.
“Well,” said Mog. “Doesn’t really help us either way. Towards Swansea and we have too many possible destinations to make a prediction. Away from Swansea and we don’t have enough.” Billy again looked like he was going to cry. He legs really ached from last night and there was no way he wanted that to be for nothing.
“Isn’t there anything we can do?” he asked, exasperated.
Mog closed her eyes and felt the quiet pressure of fatigue push at her eyeballs. There was one thing left to try but she did not want to try it. When she opened her eyes, however, three expectant faces were looking right at her.
“There is something we can try,” she conceded. “But I don’t hold out much hope.”
“What is it?” asked William, eager that some miracle cure might yet get him off the hook. Even Billy perked up for a moment.
“Well, you’re brothers,” Mog explained. “And, as such, will have a weak, latent psychic link. Although I cannot get a reading direct from young Billy as to where he went – he was asleep at the time, after all – I may be able to read from William. It will be tough, though. I will have to try and pick up faint psychic memories – so faint that William himself was not even aware of them at the time. I don’t rate our chances.”
William stepped forward and then hesitated. “Is it dangerous?”
“Well, dangerous is such a subjective word.” Mog answered evasively. “I mean, there is a small chance of your brain being turned into something the consistency of porridge but, hey, it’s more likely to happen to me. Or Billy.”
“What?!” said Billy.
“What?” asked Mog, full of innocence. “I’m joking!”
“Mostly,” she coughed under her breath.
William took another step forward, rallying as much of his courage as he could. “I am prepared to have a go if you are.”
Billy opened his mouth to argue and then thought better of it as Mog watched his brother trot up to the picnic table and place his front paws in front of him in readiness.
“OK,” she agreed. “Let’s do it!”
Mog felt William tense slightly as she grabbed his paws in hers.
“Now, close your eyes,” she commanded. “And try to relax!”
Cyril stared across at Mog expectantly. He knew she was tired but she had always pulled through when it really mattered in the past. Her face was a portrait of total concentration.
For twenty long seconds, nothing happened. Then the wailing started. It began quietly in the back of Mog’s throat and slowly increased in volume. As it reached an uncomfortable level, slight tremors began in Mog’s body, running from her shoulders down to the table. Cyril watched in concern. She did not normally wail during a serious reading – that stuff was just for paying customers. Something must be wrong.
When the first spasm wracked Mog’s body, Cyril was already leaping through the air. The wailing was now at the kind of volume and pitch that could smash glassware from across the room. He arrived as the Mog was having her second spasm.
Although small, Cyril’s speed gave him enough momentum to break the two animals apart. The wailing ceased immediately and William staggered backwards before falling over. Mystic Mog sat still for a moment, wavering slightly. Then she was violently sick.
Mystic Mog threw a look at Cyril who deflected it to Billy with a deft shrug of his shoulders. Billy caught it square on the chin and was not happy.
“Don’t look at me,” he grumbled. “I was asleep at the time, remember?”
Mog grunted. She was still not sleeping well and this pair of petulant animals was getting more than a little tiresome.
“No,” she said firmly in answer to the first question.
William gave her a pleading look.
“No!” she repeated, the last remnant of kindness having ebbed from her voice along with her patience. “Just tell us where he went.”
William looked down at his hooves.
“I don’t think he went down there,” Mog chided. “Now, tell us!”
“I don’t know where he went,” he mumbled.
“What?” said Cyril. “I didn’t hear you?”
“That was the point.” William muttered. He sidled away from Billy slightly and spoke up. “I said I don’t know! I… I lost him.”
“You lost me?!” cried Billy. “Why you…”
Cyril was quick to intervene, and sprung across Mog’s clearing to put himself between the two goats.
“Eh! Calm down, calm down!”
William’s bottom lip had started to quiver. “I’m sorry. I did follow you. But it was very foggy. And you lost your bell.”
“I never…” Billy tailed off as he thought back. With reflection, he had woken up without the bell around his neck. He snorted and sat down sullenly.
Cyril could see the situation getting out of hand and was quick to try and restore some harmony.
“Eh, now, c’mon,” he told them. “Everyone just calm down and let’s see what William does know. Everyone calm down.”
Mog stepped back – without realising it, she had arched her back, puffed up her tail and was standing over the cowering young goat, claws out and ready for action. With a great deal of effort, she calmed her voice. “OK, William. Describe what happened up to the point that you lost Billy.”
William took a deep breath and told them how he had followed Billy as best he could through the fog down the farm track on to the road and then down the hill, towards Swansea.
“I lost him for a while then, by the turn-off to Farmer Jones’s place.”
Cyril gulped nervously. “You didn’t run into him or his tabby did you?”
“No,” William replied. “Thankfully, he didn’t go that way – he continued down to the main road. I did run into a strange character, though.”
The others listened with interest as William described his bizarre encounter with the small brown bird.
“I think he was trying to help but I really could not understand anything he was saying. I mean, it was English and the words themselves were OK, it was just the sentences. Which bough is about to break? And what fruit is ripe for the picking?”
“Sounds like the Zen Wren,” Mog told him. “Irritating little bastard. His wisdom is what you make of it. Personally, I’d ignore all that crap.”
“What?!” she asked as three faces gawked at her in disbelief. “I may be a psychic but it doesn’t mean that I believe in any old crap!”
“What happened when you reached the main road?” she asked, changing the subject.
“That’s where I lost him. I reckon he was heading for Swansea, though.”
“There’s not a lot in the other direction,” agreed Cyril.
“Well,” said Mog. “Doesn’t really help us either way. Towards Swansea and we have too many possible destinations to make a prediction. Away from Swansea and we don’t have enough.” Billy again looked like he was going to cry. He legs really ached from last night and there was no way he wanted that to be for nothing.
“Isn’t there anything we can do?” he asked, exasperated.
Mog closed her eyes and felt the quiet pressure of fatigue push at her eyeballs. There was one thing left to try but she did not want to try it. When she opened her eyes, however, three expectant faces were looking right at her.
“There is something we can try,” she conceded. “But I don’t hold out much hope.”
“What is it?” asked William, eager that some miracle cure might yet get him off the hook. Even Billy perked up for a moment.
“Well, you’re brothers,” Mog explained. “And, as such, will have a weak, latent psychic link. Although I cannot get a reading direct from young Billy as to where he went – he was asleep at the time, after all – I may be able to read from William. It will be tough, though. I will have to try and pick up faint psychic memories – so faint that William himself was not even aware of them at the time. I don’t rate our chances.”
William stepped forward and then hesitated. “Is it dangerous?”
“Well, dangerous is such a subjective word.” Mog answered evasively. “I mean, there is a small chance of your brain being turned into something the consistency of porridge but, hey, it’s more likely to happen to me. Or Billy.”
“What?!” said Billy.
“What?” asked Mog, full of innocence. “I’m joking!”
“Mostly,” she coughed under her breath.
William took another step forward, rallying as much of his courage as he could. “I am prepared to have a go if you are.”
Billy opened his mouth to argue and then thought better of it as Mog watched his brother trot up to the picnic table and place his front paws in front of him in readiness.
“OK,” she agreed. “Let’s do it!”
Mog felt William tense slightly as she grabbed his paws in hers.
“Now, close your eyes,” she commanded. “And try to relax!”
Cyril stared across at Mog expectantly. He knew she was tired but she had always pulled through when it really mattered in the past. Her face was a portrait of total concentration.
For twenty long seconds, nothing happened. Then the wailing started. It began quietly in the back of Mog’s throat and slowly increased in volume. As it reached an uncomfortable level, slight tremors began in Mog’s body, running from her shoulders down to the table. Cyril watched in concern. She did not normally wail during a serious reading – that stuff was just for paying customers. Something must be wrong.
When the first spasm wracked Mog’s body, Cyril was already leaping through the air. The wailing was now at the kind of volume and pitch that could smash glassware from across the room. He arrived as the Mog was having her second spasm.
Although small, Cyril’s speed gave him enough momentum to break the two animals apart. The wailing ceased immediately and William staggered backwards before falling over. Mystic Mog sat still for a moment, wavering slightly. Then she was violently sick.
Monday, 27 August 2012
Chapter 8.3
Toby Ron looked at the retreating figures of Foxy Loxy, Turkey Lurkey and Weasel. “Well, that went all right.”
William looked at him, puzzled. “But we didn’t really tell them anything!”
“No,” Toby shrugged, “but they don’t seem to think you’re involved now.”
“But what if I am involved?” cried Billy.
“I think you should go and see Mystic Mog again. Hopefully, she’ll be able to tell you after last night.”
Billy did not look too pleased at this suggestion but began wandering towards the gate. Toby stopped him.
“But not until you’ve finished getting rid of those daisies,” he told the young goat.
“You’re joking!”
“S’alright, Billy.” William told him. “I’ll help.”
Mrs Goat smiled at one son while scowling at the other – something only mothers can really pull off. “Aren’t you a little angel? Billy, why can’t you be more like William?
“Goody goody,” muttered Billy as they wandered towards the floral region of the paddock.
“I heard that!” scolded their mum. “You should be nicer to your brother. Especially after he made sure you were OK last night.”
William stayed quiet. He was still feeling bad about losing Billy last night but not bad enough to own up to any failure in front of his mother. Particularly not when she was in this kind of mood. Biting his lip, William attacked the first patch of flowers. He just hoped that Toby Ron was right and Mystic Mog would have some answers.
William looked at him, puzzled. “But we didn’t really tell them anything!”
“No,” Toby shrugged, “but they don’t seem to think you’re involved now.”
“But what if I am involved?” cried Billy.
“I think you should go and see Mystic Mog again. Hopefully, she’ll be able to tell you after last night.”
Billy did not look too pleased at this suggestion but began wandering towards the gate. Toby stopped him.
“But not until you’ve finished getting rid of those daisies,” he told the young goat.
“You’re joking!”
“S’alright, Billy.” William told him. “I’ll help.”
Mrs Goat smiled at one son while scowling at the other – something only mothers can really pull off. “Aren’t you a little angel? Billy, why can’t you be more like William?
“Goody goody,” muttered Billy as they wandered towards the floral region of the paddock.
“I heard that!” scolded their mum. “You should be nicer to your brother. Especially after he made sure you were OK last night.”
William stayed quiet. He was still feeling bad about losing Billy last night but not bad enough to own up to any failure in front of his mother. Particularly not when she was in this kind of mood. Biting his lip, William attacked the first patch of flowers. He just hoped that Toby Ron was right and Mystic Mog would have some answers.
Thursday, 16 August 2012
Chapter 7.1
William’s head hung dejectedly as he followed the Spandecs, who in turn followed Toby Ron and Duke across the field towards the northern paddock. This was all his fault but he was yet to be punished. He had lost his brother and now he was dead. Perhaps that was castigation enough.
The scene that greeted them when they arrived at the paddock was not quite what William was expecting. His mother was there with a scowl on her face – not exactly the expression of a mourning mother. At the focal point of her scowl was young Billy, pushing up daisies as Toby Ron had said. As usual, he was moaning.
“It’s not fair!” he cried - and not for the first time, if his mother’s expression was anything to judge by. “This is stupid.”
Mrs Goat continued to scowl at her son. “It’s perfectly fair. Mr O’Bee warned you what would happen next time you threw one of your little breakfast tantrums.”
Billy continued muttering under his breath but resumed uprooting the little yellow and white flowers.
Foxy Loxy drew alongside Duke. “What exactly is the point of that?” he asked quietly.
“Toby Ron’s agreed to look after Streppy the incontinent Shetland Pony for Dynamo Joe, of Dynamo Joe’s Petting Zoo and Animal Electrical Experience,” Duke replied softly. “The poor fella’s lost it completely after that break-in a couple of weeks ago.”
Foxy nodded. “That’s a strange case, alright. What’s the deal with the daisies, though?”
“Streppy has a very sensitive stomach. Daisies give him the runs.”
“I say, dear boy!” said Turkey Lurkey, squinting and peering forward. “I know my eyesight is not great, but is that young goat not digging up each flower individually with his little horns? It’s hardly the most efficient method of daisy removal, is it?”
“I think that’s the point,” said Foxy.
“Quite so,” confirmed Duke. “He’s a bit of a moody goat, this one, and kicked over the milk bucket this morning. Not for the first time, mind you. Toby Ron wanted that milk to make some scones.”
“Ah, so this is his punishment?” asked Turkey.
“Sounds a bit harsh to me,” volunteered Weasel. “I figure that bucket probably leaked and you would have lost most of the milk anyway.”
“Well, that’s hardly the point!” said Turkey. “And it’s certainly no laughing matter!”
This last comment was directed at young William. At the sight of his brother hard at work and the accompanying explanation, all the worry and tension in him had drained away. Instead, he found himself shaking with laughter. The more he desperately tried to suppress it lest he also got in trouble, the harder it became, until tears were rolling down his cheeks. Any trouble now, however, seemed wholly trivial next to what he had been expecting - his brother was far too animated to be a corpse.
It was Turkey Lurkey’s turn to scowl and William’s turn to be scowled at. “This is the problem with the younger generation. No respect for discipline.”
The scene that greeted them when they arrived at the paddock was not quite what William was expecting. His mother was there with a scowl on her face – not exactly the expression of a mourning mother. At the focal point of her scowl was young Billy, pushing up daisies as Toby Ron had said. As usual, he was moaning.
“It’s not fair!” he cried - and not for the first time, if his mother’s expression was anything to judge by. “This is stupid.”
Mrs Goat continued to scowl at her son. “It’s perfectly fair. Mr O’Bee warned you what would happen next time you threw one of your little breakfast tantrums.”
Billy continued muttering under his breath but resumed uprooting the little yellow and white flowers.
Foxy Loxy drew alongside Duke. “What exactly is the point of that?” he asked quietly.
“Toby Ron’s agreed to look after Streppy the incontinent Shetland Pony for Dynamo Joe, of Dynamo Joe’s Petting Zoo and Animal Electrical Experience,” Duke replied softly. “The poor fella’s lost it completely after that break-in a couple of weeks ago.”
Foxy nodded. “That’s a strange case, alright. What’s the deal with the daisies, though?”
“Streppy has a very sensitive stomach. Daisies give him the runs.”
“I say, dear boy!” said Turkey Lurkey, squinting and peering forward. “I know my eyesight is not great, but is that young goat not digging up each flower individually with his little horns? It’s hardly the most efficient method of daisy removal, is it?”
“I think that’s the point,” said Foxy.
“Quite so,” confirmed Duke. “He’s a bit of a moody goat, this one, and kicked over the milk bucket this morning. Not for the first time, mind you. Toby Ron wanted that milk to make some scones.”
“Ah, so this is his punishment?” asked Turkey.
“Sounds a bit harsh to me,” volunteered Weasel. “I figure that bucket probably leaked and you would have lost most of the milk anyway.”
“Well, that’s hardly the point!” said Turkey. “And it’s certainly no laughing matter!”
This last comment was directed at young William. At the sight of his brother hard at work and the accompanying explanation, all the worry and tension in him had drained away. Instead, he found himself shaking with laughter. The more he desperately tried to suppress it lest he also got in trouble, the harder it became, until tears were rolling down his cheeks. Any trouble now, however, seemed wholly trivial next to what he had been expecting - his brother was far too animated to be a corpse.
It was Turkey Lurkey’s turn to scowl and William’s turn to be scowled at. “This is the problem with the younger generation. No respect for discipline.”
Saturday, 11 August 2012
Chapter 6.3
The police van pulled up round the side of Toby Ron’s house to be greeted by a small reception committee. William the goat was standing shakily by the door to the kitchen and had just been joined by Toby Ron Ken O’Bee and Duke. WPC Evans turned the engine off and gave Toby a brief nod as she let the animals out the back of the van.
Foxy Loxy and Turkey Lurkey were looking sprightly as ever. Weasel, on the other hand, was clutching the side of his head with one paw.
“What happened to him?” asked Evans.
“Hit his head against the side of the van when we took that corner on two wheels.” Foxy explained.
Evans looked at Weasel. “Why didn’t you strap yourself in?”
Weasel looked up moodily. “I figured you’d just brake suddenly and give me whiplash anyway.”
Shaking her head in disbelief, WPC Evans locked the back of the van and got back in the front.
“Cheerio, then!” Turkey Lurkey called after her. “Don’t get your pinkies caught in a blender.”
“See you guys,” she chuckled. “Good luck.”
With that, Evans started the engine and backed the van back down the drive. The three animals approached the welcoming party.
“And how can I help the Special Animal Detectives this morning?” asked Toby Ron. Foxy Loxy took a step forward, his police badge dangling visibly from around his neck. “We’ve making enquiries about the nearby bomb-blast yestermorn.”
Toby Ron shrugged. “I’ve already told the regular police what little I know. And that wasn’t much, I’m afraid.”
Foxy’s gaze drifted over to William, whose legs were still shaking. “We have reason to believe that one of your young goats may have had some involvement in events. We found tracks.”
William’s heart sank. This was what he feared. In his limited experience, ‘involvement in events’ was not a good thing.”
“Really?” asked Toby Ron. He also turned his gaze to the young goat. “William?”
“I haven’t been anywhere near the site of the bomb,” William told them. “Honest!”
This was true, as far as he knew. He was still in a panic over Billy’s disappearance and anxious to keep the conversation away from his brother. He was not very successful.
“I was under the impression that you had two young goats.” Foxy told Toby.
William’s paranoia latched onto the word ‘had’. Did the police know something about Billy? What had happened to him?
“That’s right,” confirmed Toby. “Their mother’s watching over the other one.”
Was that a hint of melancholy that William detected in his owner’s voice?
“Can I speak to him?” asked Foxy.
Toby shrugged. “If you really want to.” He shook his head sombrely. “I don’t think you’ll get much out of him, though. He kicked the bucket at breakfast. It was an awful mess. He’s been pushing up daisies in the northern paddock ever since.”
Foxy Loxy and Turkey Lurkey were looking sprightly as ever. Weasel, on the other hand, was clutching the side of his head with one paw.
“What happened to him?” asked Evans.
“Hit his head against the side of the van when we took that corner on two wheels.” Foxy explained.
Evans looked at Weasel. “Why didn’t you strap yourself in?”
Weasel looked up moodily. “I figured you’d just brake suddenly and give me whiplash anyway.”
Shaking her head in disbelief, WPC Evans locked the back of the van and got back in the front.
“Cheerio, then!” Turkey Lurkey called after her. “Don’t get your pinkies caught in a blender.”
“See you guys,” she chuckled. “Good luck.”
With that, Evans started the engine and backed the van back down the drive. The three animals approached the welcoming party.
“And how can I help the Special Animal Detectives this morning?” asked Toby Ron. Foxy Loxy took a step forward, his police badge dangling visibly from around his neck. “We’ve making enquiries about the nearby bomb-blast yestermorn.”
Toby Ron shrugged. “I’ve already told the regular police what little I know. And that wasn’t much, I’m afraid.”
Foxy’s gaze drifted over to William, whose legs were still shaking. “We have reason to believe that one of your young goats may have had some involvement in events. We found tracks.”
William’s heart sank. This was what he feared. In his limited experience, ‘involvement in events’ was not a good thing.”
“Really?” asked Toby Ron. He also turned his gaze to the young goat. “William?”
“I haven’t been anywhere near the site of the bomb,” William told them. “Honest!”
This was true, as far as he knew. He was still in a panic over Billy’s disappearance and anxious to keep the conversation away from his brother. He was not very successful.
“I was under the impression that you had two young goats.” Foxy told Toby.
William’s paranoia latched onto the word ‘had’. Did the police know something about Billy? What had happened to him?
“That’s right,” confirmed Toby. “Their mother’s watching over the other one.”
Was that a hint of melancholy that William detected in his owner’s voice?
“Can I speak to him?” asked Foxy.
Toby shrugged. “If you really want to.” He shook his head sombrely. “I don’t think you’ll get much out of him, though. He kicked the bucket at breakfast. It was an awful mess. He’s been pushing up daisies in the northern paddock ever since.”
Tuesday, 7 August 2012
Chapter 5.4
The sky curved away on the horizon in front of William as he fell. Pale blue faded into the blackness of space. Above him, a million stars twinkled like massive balls of burning hydrogen seen from billions of miles away. Beneath him, a blanket of cloud stretched for as far as his eyes cared to roam.
The wind rushed past him. Although his eyes streamed, William continued to look around him as he plummeted at terminal velocity like a particularly woolly stone with tiny horns. And legs.
The young goat could begin to pick out features from the cloud layer below – tall towers of cotton wool surrounded by bumps and lumps. And over to his left, a fish riding a bicycle.
A fish riding a bicycle? He looked again but it was gone. The bumps and lumps were approaching at some speed. Closing, closing, closing and then suddenly, he was inside. The sky and stars were blocked out and there was nothing but white all around.
The sensation of falling became one of floating. William felt himself just hanging there in the featureless whiteness. Alone. Or was he?
Dark shapes began to appear out of the cloud, looming in his peripheral vision – which, being a herbivore, was a very narrow patch behind his head – but disappearing from whence they came as soon as he turned to look. He thought he caught a glimpse of the fish again. This time it was on a skateboard.
William opened his mouth to shout but no sound came out. A bell jingled somewhere deep in the whiteness.
“Why did you leave me, Wills?”
Billy? William frantically turned his head left and right, trying to pinpoint the direction of the bell and the voice but without success.
The fish came back, riding a motorcycle combination. As it rode past, as small brown bird jumped out of the sidecar and stood before him.
“It is better to search in the darkness and be a loser,” said the bird, “than to piss in the pool of reality and win chronic dysentery.”
William frowned. What did it mean? Before he could ask, the bird vanished once more and the feeling of falling resumed. He opened his mouth to scream and landed on something soft, getting a mouthful of it in the process. It looked like more cloud – and he was still completely immersed in whiteness – but it felt like straw. By his head, the bell tinkled again.
The bird reappeared.
“Don’t piss in the pool!” it said, and then made to peck William in the eye.
William awoke with a start, spitting out a mouthful of straw as he did so. What a strange dream! First he had been wandering through a cloud, following the sound of a bell, searching for Billy. He could not find him. Then there was falling and fish and strange birds and all sorts. Wait till he told Billy! It beat the time that Billy had dreamt he was a teapot.
Billy stretched the night’s tension out of his taut muscles and gave a yawn wide enough to swallow a coconut. (Depending on which of the lovely bunch you chose, naturally. Certainly the small one. Probably not one as big as your head. Unless, of course, you have a tiny head. Or your head has been shrunk by the JÃvaro tribes of South America, in which case you are dead and you probably do not really care about the size of William’s yawn. Anyway, it was a BIG yawn.) His front leg knocked something hard, buried in his straw bed. It jingled with an ominous familiarity.
William nudged the bell clear of the straw and stared at it. Slowly, his mind began to untangle his dream from the real events of the night before. He had been following Billy by the sound of his bell. And he had got as far as the main road and then... He focused back on the bell then looked across at Billy’s bed. It was empty.
“Oh, no...”
Jumping to his feet, William looked around frantically. His mother was nowhere to be seen either. His mind raced. She must have gone out looking for Billy. Worse, maybe Billy had been found somewhere and mother had gone to identify the body. Either way, William was in big trouble.
He trotted up to the house – carefully trying not to make too much noise on the gravel driveway – and peered into the kitchen through the back door. Toby Ron was talking to Duke about something. Both man and sheepdog bore solemn expressions of quandary.
“He wasn’t there?” asked Duke.
Toby Ron shook his head. “No. No one’s seen or heard from him. It’s like he just disappeared.”
“Blimey.”
“I know. I don’t understand it either. It’s not like him at all.”
William sagged as he listened to the two of them. No one had seen or heard from Billy. That had to be a bad sign. His brother was probably road-kill somewhere. And it was his fault.
Duke scanned around the kitchen, as if thinking something over, then returned his gaze to Toby Ron. “What do you think it means?”
Toby puffed his cheeks up with air then expelled it slowly in a big sigh. He shook his head.
“Trouble,” he said. “Big trouble for someone, no doubt.”
“Yeah,” thought William, crouching further to be almost completely out of sight. “Big trouble for me, I expect.”
“What can we do?” asked Duke.
At this point, William backed away from the door. He was not sure that he wanted to find out the answer to that question. It would probably involve punishing him for being so careless. But what could he do? Short of wandering around Swansea – an activity that would get him in even more trouble with his mother – there was not a lot he could do.
A crunching of gravel from the farm track behind him made him turn his head slightly. Coming up the track towards the farmhouse was a van. A police van.
William panicked. They must be bringing back his bereaved mother from identifying the body. Or maybe that had come to arrest him. Maybe Billy had been found beaten, unconscious or worse, and they thought that William had done it.
In his frightened state, his body and mind began playing a different game. His mind was all in favour of running away and hiding. His legs, however, were frozen solid. He had not felt this apprehensive since Rabbi Jim of the local synagogue had asked him and Billy to participate in an authentic reproduction of the first Passover.
The police van was now through the final gate before the house and was crunching its way up the drive. With a great force of himself, Will managed to move his left foreleg forward on step, and then his right. Perhaps he would be able to make his getaway just in time.
With a click, William heard the back door open behind him. Toby Ron and Duke would have seen him now. Lacking inspiration, William sat and awaited his destiny.
The wind rushed past him. Although his eyes streamed, William continued to look around him as he plummeted at terminal velocity like a particularly woolly stone with tiny horns. And legs.
The young goat could begin to pick out features from the cloud layer below – tall towers of cotton wool surrounded by bumps and lumps. And over to his left, a fish riding a bicycle.
A fish riding a bicycle? He looked again but it was gone. The bumps and lumps were approaching at some speed. Closing, closing, closing and then suddenly, he was inside. The sky and stars were blocked out and there was nothing but white all around.
The sensation of falling became one of floating. William felt himself just hanging there in the featureless whiteness. Alone. Or was he?
Dark shapes began to appear out of the cloud, looming in his peripheral vision – which, being a herbivore, was a very narrow patch behind his head – but disappearing from whence they came as soon as he turned to look. He thought he caught a glimpse of the fish again. This time it was on a skateboard.
William opened his mouth to shout but no sound came out. A bell jingled somewhere deep in the whiteness.
“Why did you leave me, Wills?”
Billy? William frantically turned his head left and right, trying to pinpoint the direction of the bell and the voice but without success.
The fish came back, riding a motorcycle combination. As it rode past, as small brown bird jumped out of the sidecar and stood before him.
“It is better to search in the darkness and be a loser,” said the bird, “than to piss in the pool of reality and win chronic dysentery.”
William frowned. What did it mean? Before he could ask, the bird vanished once more and the feeling of falling resumed. He opened his mouth to scream and landed on something soft, getting a mouthful of it in the process. It looked like more cloud – and he was still completely immersed in whiteness – but it felt like straw. By his head, the bell tinkled again.
The bird reappeared.
“Don’t piss in the pool!” it said, and then made to peck William in the eye.
William awoke with a start, spitting out a mouthful of straw as he did so. What a strange dream! First he had been wandering through a cloud, following the sound of a bell, searching for Billy. He could not find him. Then there was falling and fish and strange birds and all sorts. Wait till he told Billy! It beat the time that Billy had dreamt he was a teapot.
Billy stretched the night’s tension out of his taut muscles and gave a yawn wide enough to swallow a coconut. (Depending on which of the lovely bunch you chose, naturally. Certainly the small one. Probably not one as big as your head. Unless, of course, you have a tiny head. Or your head has been shrunk by the JÃvaro tribes of South America, in which case you are dead and you probably do not really care about the size of William’s yawn. Anyway, it was a BIG yawn.) His front leg knocked something hard, buried in his straw bed. It jingled with an ominous familiarity.
William nudged the bell clear of the straw and stared at it. Slowly, his mind began to untangle his dream from the real events of the night before. He had been following Billy by the sound of his bell. And he had got as far as the main road and then... He focused back on the bell then looked across at Billy’s bed. It was empty.
“Oh, no...”
Jumping to his feet, William looked around frantically. His mother was nowhere to be seen either. His mind raced. She must have gone out looking for Billy. Worse, maybe Billy had been found somewhere and mother had gone to identify the body. Either way, William was in big trouble.
He trotted up to the house – carefully trying not to make too much noise on the gravel driveway – and peered into the kitchen through the back door. Toby Ron was talking to Duke about something. Both man and sheepdog bore solemn expressions of quandary.
“He wasn’t there?” asked Duke.
Toby Ron shook his head. “No. No one’s seen or heard from him. It’s like he just disappeared.”
“Blimey.”
“I know. I don’t understand it either. It’s not like him at all.”
William sagged as he listened to the two of them. No one had seen or heard from Billy. That had to be a bad sign. His brother was probably road-kill somewhere. And it was his fault.
Duke scanned around the kitchen, as if thinking something over, then returned his gaze to Toby Ron. “What do you think it means?”
Toby puffed his cheeks up with air then expelled it slowly in a big sigh. He shook his head.
“Trouble,” he said. “Big trouble for someone, no doubt.”
“Yeah,” thought William, crouching further to be almost completely out of sight. “Big trouble for me, I expect.”
“What can we do?” asked Duke.
At this point, William backed away from the door. He was not sure that he wanted to find out the answer to that question. It would probably involve punishing him for being so careless. But what could he do? Short of wandering around Swansea – an activity that would get him in even more trouble with his mother – there was not a lot he could do.
A crunching of gravel from the farm track behind him made him turn his head slightly. Coming up the track towards the farmhouse was a van. A police van.
William panicked. They must be bringing back his bereaved mother from identifying the body. Or maybe that had come to arrest him. Maybe Billy had been found beaten, unconscious or worse, and they thought that William had done it.
In his frightened state, his body and mind began playing a different game. His mind was all in favour of running away and hiding. His legs, however, were frozen solid. He had not felt this apprehensive since Rabbi Jim of the local synagogue had asked him and Billy to participate in an authentic reproduction of the first Passover.
The police van was now through the final gate before the house and was crunching its way up the drive. With a great force of himself, Will managed to move his left foreleg forward on step, and then his right. Perhaps he would be able to make his getaway just in time.
With a click, William heard the back door open behind him. Toby Ron and Duke would have seen him now. Lacking inspiration, William sat and awaited his destiny.
Friday, 3 August 2012
Chapter 4.5
Billy was in a sulk. Again.
“I don’t want to go to sleep,” he moaned. “I don’t want some god to take control of me.”
“But he is the goat god,” encouraged William. Billy was always moaning but this time he did have a point. William did not much fancy the idea of being possessed by an otherworldly spirit, either. (Taking possession of spirits from another world, namely Toby Ron’s shed distillery, on the other hand, was something that both goats were more than happy to do. Whoever coined the phrase, “as sick as a parrot,” obviously had not seen a pair of juvenile goats tanked up to the eyeballs on home-made gooseberry vodka.)
“I don’t care!”
“Come Billy,” soothed their mother. “Don’t be such a fusspot. It’s a great honour to be chosen as a mortal vessel by Pan.” She wiped a tear from her eye. “Your father would have been so proud to have known he’d sired a Wanderer.”
“But I thought you were artificially inseminated, mum,” said William.
“Don’t spoil the moment,” chided his mother.
Now it was William’s turn to sulk, although he was much quieter about it than his brother. Although he did not want the possession himself, he did not see why it made Billy so special.
“Don’t know what’s so clever about being a Wanderer,” he muttered under his breath. “It’s me that’s got to do the hard work.”
Mystic Mog had a strong suspicion that Pan would take control of Billy again. When he did so, William was to follow him and see where he went. Hopefully, it would give some insight into what in the world (or even out of it) was going on.
William stifled a yawn and lay down, resting his head on his front hooves. The plan was all very well in theory, but it relied on Billy going to sleep in the first place. It was already nearly an hour past their usual bedtime, and still the young goat complained.
William’s eyelids began to sag heavily. It had been a tiring day. The visit to Mystic Mog’s had been the longest trip away from home in his whole short life. He had seen so many new and exciting things. Another yawn surfaced and he gave in to this one. Surely his brother had found the day equally tiring.
Closing his eyes, William listened to his mother’s gentle drone, encouraging Billy to accept the great honour with which he had been endowed, blah, blah, blah. Whether Billy was affected or not, William could not tell, but it was certainly working on him. It was just as well there was a back up plan in case Pan took his time to show up. Oh well, plenty of time to worry about that later. For now, he would just rest here and wait.
William opened his eyes with a start. It was suddenly very dark. His mother was no longer talking – Billy must have drifted off at last. Either that, or she had bored herself to sleep. William looked left at his brother’s bed of straw in the corner of the paddock. It was empty. Billy was gone.
William cursed softly under his breath. How long had he been asleep? More to the point, how long had Billy been awake? Even more to the point, how long had Billy been in a state of waking sleep, under the control of Pan?
A small jingle in the darkness gave William heart. They had tied a bell on a piece of string around Billy’s neck to wake up William if he went wandering. It had obviously worked, but only just. There was a risk that it might also wake Billy up but given that he was suspected of sleepwalking through an explosion, this seemed unlikely.
The adrenaline of nearly missing his brother – and the trouble he would surely get in – coursed through William’s veins and, within a few seconds, the young goat was up on his feet and fully awake. The jingle sounded again and he pushed his way through the gate, following the sound into the inky blackness of night.
It was too quiet. William was used to the steady chirping of birds and chirrups of grasshoppers in the fields nearby. Mist was rolling off the hills, and everywhere acquired an eerie glow in the light of the full moon. Somewhere over in the woods an owl hooted, sending shiver down his spine. This was scarier than the time when old Mrs McClusky visited Toby Ron last winter without her glasses and confused William for a woolly jumper.
Another jingle, and William was out onto the farm track that led from Toby Ron’s down to the road. His eyes had still not adjusted to the lack of light and he caught his head on a low branch.
“Ow!”
Squinting into the darkness, he thought he could just make out the hazy silhouette of Billy, down the hill at the end of the track. He took a step forward but, distracted for a moment, he lost his footing in the deep grooves left by tractor tyres in days past, when Toby’s land was an authentic working farm. When he looked up, Billy had disappeared again. Allowing himself a moment for another shiver in the cold, William trotted onwards.
The mist was deceptively thick and by the time he had reached the end of the track, William found himself quite isolated, as if in a cloud. (Or up Mount Snowdon, which is basically the same thing only you can get run over by a train.) Worse still, as he stepped onto the broken tarmac of the lane, there was still no sign of his wandering brother.
“Pan, help me!” he muttered aloud, looking first left and then right with increasing desperation. “Give me a sign Pan, please!”
Over to his left, from the woods again, another owl hooted. Was this a sign? The woods were, after all, in the direction of yesterday’s bomb-blast. It would make sense for Pan to take Billy there. And owls did sound a little like panpipes.
His mind made up, William clopped up the lane. He almost missed the next jingle of Billy’s bell, coming as it did from behind him. He was going the wrong way. What did owls know?
William turned around and hurried down the hill, towards Swansea. Where was Billy going? The thought of following Billy simultaneously scared and thrilled the young goat. He had never been to the city before. He hoped that it would not be too dangerous. Billy had never been there either.
That fact was irrelevant though, he realised. The question was, had Pan been to Swansea before? With that thought came one that was much more disturbing. Pan was an ancient Greek god. How much did he know about modern life? Would he know about cars and buses? Would he care? Would he just let Billy get run over and then find another mortal vessel?
Spurred on by these fears, William increased his pace. Billy could not be too far ahead, surely?
Rounding the next bend, a signpost loomed out of the mist. William stopped. He had reached a junction. Straight on, the lane continued down the hill towards Swansea. To his right, another narrow road led off towards Nuthanger Farm, the farmstead of Toby Ron’s nemesis, Garth Jones. William hoped than Pan had not taken Billy that way. Farmer Jones was even scarier than Swansea.
William caught sight of some movement out of the corner of his eye, making him jump. A small brown bird jumped from twig to twig in the bush opposite the junction.
“E...excuse me?” stammered William. “I was wondering if you could help me?”
The bird hopped onto a higher branch and eyed William quizzically, head tilted to one side.
“It is better to wander and wonder,” said the bird, “than to hurry and worry.”
“Er, yes,” agreed William, confused. “Quite. I’m, er, looking for my brother, Have you seen him?”
The bird tilted its head the other way and continued to stare but said nothing.
“He’s a goat,” pressed William. “Like me. Has a bell tied around his neck. Did you see which way he went? It’s very important.”
“The bough may be about to break but remember that the fruit is ripe for the picking,” replied the bird enigmatically, before hopping back onto a lower branch.
William stood rooted to the spot, silently opening and closing his mouth in confusion. He did not know what to say. There was no clearer way to ask the question.
The goat’s head instinctively tracked a sound from down the hill: Billy’s bell! Problem solved. He looked back to thank the bird politely for its ‘help’ but it had gone. William shuddered again. Everything tonight seemed to have a nasty habit of simply disappearing.
The bell was now jingling a lot. William hurried after it towards the lights of the main road, which were just penetrating the mist ahead. He was not sure what the time was but hopefully it was too early for many people to be out driving; he did not fancy tracking Billy and dodging traffic at the same time.
Another jingle of Billy’s bell carried through the night air and then there was silence. William stopped for a moment to listen, trying to pick the sound up again. He could just hear sound of a car engine somewhere in the distance, but otherwise nothing.
He moved on, hugging the right-hand hedge of the lane for security. Two minutes later, he reached the main road. The terrain was more open here and the mist was thinning out slightly. He looked around but there was still no visual sign of Billy. Again William had to make a decision: right towards Swansea or left away from it?
So far, it had been Swansea all the way, so William decided to go with this. If he was going to stand any chance of catching up with his brother, he could not afford to keep stopping like this.
Pausing for one last listen, William stepped onto the main road. Something snagged on his front right paw. He pulled it hard and it came free, accompanied by an all-too-familiar tinkle.
William froze. He did not want to look down, for he knew what he was going to see. Resigned to the inevitable, he looked anyway. A length of twine lay tangled round his leg, stretching away to a thorny bush that cornered the junction of main road and country lane. Closer inspection found the frayed end where the cord had snapped.
His heart in his mouth, William looked behind and allowed his eyes to track back along the string to its other end. His fears came true. The twine terminated with a small, slightly battered, bell. Of the young goat who was meant to be attached, there was no sign.
“I don’t want to go to sleep,” he moaned. “I don’t want some god to take control of me.”
“But he is the goat god,” encouraged William. Billy was always moaning but this time he did have a point. William did not much fancy the idea of being possessed by an otherworldly spirit, either. (Taking possession of spirits from another world, namely Toby Ron’s shed distillery, on the other hand, was something that both goats were more than happy to do. Whoever coined the phrase, “as sick as a parrot,” obviously had not seen a pair of juvenile goats tanked up to the eyeballs on home-made gooseberry vodka.)
“I don’t care!”
“Come Billy,” soothed their mother. “Don’t be such a fusspot. It’s a great honour to be chosen as a mortal vessel by Pan.” She wiped a tear from her eye. “Your father would have been so proud to have known he’d sired a Wanderer.”
“But I thought you were artificially inseminated, mum,” said William.
“Don’t spoil the moment,” chided his mother.
Now it was William’s turn to sulk, although he was much quieter about it than his brother. Although he did not want the possession himself, he did not see why it made Billy so special.
“Don’t know what’s so clever about being a Wanderer,” he muttered under his breath. “It’s me that’s got to do the hard work.”
Mystic Mog had a strong suspicion that Pan would take control of Billy again. When he did so, William was to follow him and see where he went. Hopefully, it would give some insight into what in the world (or even out of it) was going on.
William stifled a yawn and lay down, resting his head on his front hooves. The plan was all very well in theory, but it relied on Billy going to sleep in the first place. It was already nearly an hour past their usual bedtime, and still the young goat complained.
William’s eyelids began to sag heavily. It had been a tiring day. The visit to Mystic Mog’s had been the longest trip away from home in his whole short life. He had seen so many new and exciting things. Another yawn surfaced and he gave in to this one. Surely his brother had found the day equally tiring.
Closing his eyes, William listened to his mother’s gentle drone, encouraging Billy to accept the great honour with which he had been endowed, blah, blah, blah. Whether Billy was affected or not, William could not tell, but it was certainly working on him. It was just as well there was a back up plan in case Pan took his time to show up. Oh well, plenty of time to worry about that later. For now, he would just rest here and wait.
William opened his eyes with a start. It was suddenly very dark. His mother was no longer talking – Billy must have drifted off at last. Either that, or she had bored herself to sleep. William looked left at his brother’s bed of straw in the corner of the paddock. It was empty. Billy was gone.
William cursed softly under his breath. How long had he been asleep? More to the point, how long had Billy been awake? Even more to the point, how long had Billy been in a state of waking sleep, under the control of Pan?
A small jingle in the darkness gave William heart. They had tied a bell on a piece of string around Billy’s neck to wake up William if he went wandering. It had obviously worked, but only just. There was a risk that it might also wake Billy up but given that he was suspected of sleepwalking through an explosion, this seemed unlikely.
The adrenaline of nearly missing his brother – and the trouble he would surely get in – coursed through William’s veins and, within a few seconds, the young goat was up on his feet and fully awake. The jingle sounded again and he pushed his way through the gate, following the sound into the inky blackness of night.
It was too quiet. William was used to the steady chirping of birds and chirrups of grasshoppers in the fields nearby. Mist was rolling off the hills, and everywhere acquired an eerie glow in the light of the full moon. Somewhere over in the woods an owl hooted, sending shiver down his spine. This was scarier than the time when old Mrs McClusky visited Toby Ron last winter without her glasses and confused William for a woolly jumper.
Another jingle, and William was out onto the farm track that led from Toby Ron’s down to the road. His eyes had still not adjusted to the lack of light and he caught his head on a low branch.
“Ow!”
Squinting into the darkness, he thought he could just make out the hazy silhouette of Billy, down the hill at the end of the track. He took a step forward but, distracted for a moment, he lost his footing in the deep grooves left by tractor tyres in days past, when Toby’s land was an authentic working farm. When he looked up, Billy had disappeared again. Allowing himself a moment for another shiver in the cold, William trotted onwards.
The mist was deceptively thick and by the time he had reached the end of the track, William found himself quite isolated, as if in a cloud. (Or up Mount Snowdon, which is basically the same thing only you can get run over by a train.) Worse still, as he stepped onto the broken tarmac of the lane, there was still no sign of his wandering brother.
“Pan, help me!” he muttered aloud, looking first left and then right with increasing desperation. “Give me a sign Pan, please!”
Over to his left, from the woods again, another owl hooted. Was this a sign? The woods were, after all, in the direction of yesterday’s bomb-blast. It would make sense for Pan to take Billy there. And owls did sound a little like panpipes.
His mind made up, William clopped up the lane. He almost missed the next jingle of Billy’s bell, coming as it did from behind him. He was going the wrong way. What did owls know?
William turned around and hurried down the hill, towards Swansea. Where was Billy going? The thought of following Billy simultaneously scared and thrilled the young goat. He had never been to the city before. He hoped that it would not be too dangerous. Billy had never been there either.
That fact was irrelevant though, he realised. The question was, had Pan been to Swansea before? With that thought came one that was much more disturbing. Pan was an ancient Greek god. How much did he know about modern life? Would he know about cars and buses? Would he care? Would he just let Billy get run over and then find another mortal vessel?
Spurred on by these fears, William increased his pace. Billy could not be too far ahead, surely?
Rounding the next bend, a signpost loomed out of the mist. William stopped. He had reached a junction. Straight on, the lane continued down the hill towards Swansea. To his right, another narrow road led off towards Nuthanger Farm, the farmstead of Toby Ron’s nemesis, Garth Jones. William hoped than Pan had not taken Billy that way. Farmer Jones was even scarier than Swansea.
William caught sight of some movement out of the corner of his eye, making him jump. A small brown bird jumped from twig to twig in the bush opposite the junction.
“E...excuse me?” stammered William. “I was wondering if you could help me?”
The bird hopped onto a higher branch and eyed William quizzically, head tilted to one side.
“It is better to wander and wonder,” said the bird, “than to hurry and worry.”
“Er, yes,” agreed William, confused. “Quite. I’m, er, looking for my brother, Have you seen him?”
The bird tilted its head the other way and continued to stare but said nothing.
“He’s a goat,” pressed William. “Like me. Has a bell tied around his neck. Did you see which way he went? It’s very important.”
“The bough may be about to break but remember that the fruit is ripe for the picking,” replied the bird enigmatically, before hopping back onto a lower branch.
William stood rooted to the spot, silently opening and closing his mouth in confusion. He did not know what to say. There was no clearer way to ask the question.
The goat’s head instinctively tracked a sound from down the hill: Billy’s bell! Problem solved. He looked back to thank the bird politely for its ‘help’ but it had gone. William shuddered again. Everything tonight seemed to have a nasty habit of simply disappearing.
The bell was now jingling a lot. William hurried after it towards the lights of the main road, which were just penetrating the mist ahead. He was not sure what the time was but hopefully it was too early for many people to be out driving; he did not fancy tracking Billy and dodging traffic at the same time.
Another jingle of Billy’s bell carried through the night air and then there was silence. William stopped for a moment to listen, trying to pick the sound up again. He could just hear sound of a car engine somewhere in the distance, but otherwise nothing.
He moved on, hugging the right-hand hedge of the lane for security. Two minutes later, he reached the main road. The terrain was more open here and the mist was thinning out slightly. He looked around but there was still no visual sign of Billy. Again William had to make a decision: right towards Swansea or left away from it?
So far, it had been Swansea all the way, so William decided to go with this. If he was going to stand any chance of catching up with his brother, he could not afford to keep stopping like this.
Pausing for one last listen, William stepped onto the main road. Something snagged on his front right paw. He pulled it hard and it came free, accompanied by an all-too-familiar tinkle.
William froze. He did not want to look down, for he knew what he was going to see. Resigned to the inevitable, he looked anyway. A length of twine lay tangled round his leg, stretching away to a thorny bush that cornered the junction of main road and country lane. Closer inspection found the frayed end where the cord had snapped.
His heart in his mouth, William looked behind and allowed his eyes to track back along the string to its other end. His fears came true. The twine terminated with a small, slightly battered, bell. Of the young goat who was meant to be attached, there was no sign.
Monday, 30 July 2012
Chapter 4.1
Billy dragged his hooves in the dirt as he and his brother William followed Cyril the Squirrel to Mystic Mog’s. Normally, Mog would not be open for business during the day but Cyril fancied that the current strangeness of events would lead the cat to remain available for consultation around the clock. Hopefully, her guardian owls would see things the same way.
Cyril looked behind him at the two goats. They were being very slow. The younger goat, William, was busily looking around at all the new sights and sounds. The goats did not get off Toby Ron’s land very often (partly because Garth Jones had threatened to shoot them) and William was determined to make the most of this opportunity. Toby Ron had warned Cyril that the little goat may get a bit too excited and just wander off somewhere.
“He’s a smart kid, that one,” Toby had said, “but you’ll have to keep an eye on him. He hasn’t yet learned that there’s a time and a place for asking questions. Sometimes his curiosity can get him into trouble.”
“It killed the cat,” thought Cyril. “That’s a lot of trouble. Best not tell William that, though: he'll just ask which cat and how did it die.”
“What’s this, Mister Cyril, sir?” asked William, very politely interrupting the squirrel’s thoughts.
“It’s an empty drinks can, William,” sighed Cyril.
“Oh. But why did…?”
“Because people are lazy, William,” Cyril cut in, “and don’t respect the environment. Now come on!”
This was the umpteenth time that Cyril had had to stop and answer questions about litter, snails, stinging nettles, singing blackbirds and various other countryside phenomena. Not that William’s brother was being any better. Young Billy was skulking around miserably, occasionally muttering negative comments about the whole affair. He was not at all happy about the prospect of visiting Mystic Mog.
“I heard she used magic to turn old Harry the nymphomaniac gerbil into a toadstool!” Billy explained when pressed on the matter. “And then he went out of his mind with fear and was mistaken for a polo and eaten.”
“How could anyone mistake a toadstool for a polo?” asked William.
“It didn’t happen like that at all!” Cyril told them. “Mog used magic mushrooms to treat Harry for his sex addiction. He was cured too. He was on the way home when he thought he saw Richard Gere. He panicked, ran out into the road to avoid him, and was run over by a Volkswagen Polo.”
“Oh.”
“Now, come on both of you, or we’ll never get there at all and I’ll turn you into a toadstool.”
“You can’t do that,” argued William.
“Probably not. But I can have fun trying.”
As it happened, Cyril’s earlier worries about arriving at Mog’s during the day were unfounded – by the time Cyril had goaded the two goats to her woodland den, dusk was beginning to draw in.
The owls were waiting.
“Her mysticality is waiting for ya, nahmsayin?”
“Er, right. Thanks?”
Mystic Mog was, indeed, waiting. If it was possible, Cyril thought that she looked even worse than when he had seen her earlier that day. And she had not been attacked by half a dozen Jehovah’s Witnesses. She looked at the three of them with weary eyes.
“You were too late,” she told Cyril. It was definitely a statement, not a question.
“Yes.”
“I feared as much. And your friends?”
Despite the massive difference in size that made the manoeuvre pointless, the two goats slowly backed away and tried their best to hide behind the squirrel, away from Mog’s penetrating stare.
“Toby Ron’s goats,” explained Cyril. He nodded his head at Billy. “This one went walkies in the middle of the night. Doesn’t remember anything about it, though.”
Mog transferred her gaze to William. “And this one?”
Cyril opened his mouth to answer, thought for a moment and then closed it again. “To be honest, I’m not sure.” Cyril looked round. “Why are you here?”
William was still backing away from the scene. He stopped when he hit something or, more precisely, somebody – one of Mog’s guardian owls.
“Where are you going, mo’ fo?”
William jumped. “Oh, terribly sorry. I, er…”
Seeing the young goat in such a fluster softened Mog’s mood and, despite the terrible strain she was feeling, she managed to put on what she hoped was a comforting smile.
“It’s OK,” she told William, “we’ll get to you soon enough.”
Still not realising that each time she smiled she showed off her impressive teeth in a disturbing fashion and that the goats were now convinced that she wanted to eat them, Mog turned back to Billy.
"C’mon then, kid. Let’s have a look at you.”
Cyril stepped aside and nodded encouragement as Billy. Billy stood transfixed, trembling slightly.
“Billy!” Cyril hissed through clenched teeth. “Stop making a scene and let Mog give you the once over.”
“I can’t...” Billy moaned. “I don’t think my legs work anymore.”
There was a loud snap as Mog clicked her claws in front of her face, drawing the attention of both animals.
“Come, here,” she commanded, staring into Billy’s eyes.
Even though he was not the focus of Mog’s stare, Cyril had to fight hard not the approach the cat himself. The young goat had no chance of resistance nervously trotted up to Mystic Mog’s picnic table. Still staring into his eyes, Mog took Billy’s front hooves in her paws.
“Just relax,” she hissed gently.
Compelled to obey, Billy closed his eyes and remained silent.
“That’s good…” soothed Mog.
William and Cyril could do nothing but stand and watch. There was not actually anything really happening but they felt obliged to look anyway. Cyril made a mental observation that the high-pitched wailing that so often accompanied Mog’s routines was absent: this really was serious stuff.
After about five minutes of inactivity, during which time William had been staring at Billy and Mog as if either – or both – of them were about to explode, Mog released the young goat’s paws.
“He’s a Wanderer,” Mog told Cyril flatly.
“Not a very quick one,” Cyril moaned. “What do you mean?”
It was young William that piped up with an explanation: “A goat Wanderer is a chosen one who is used as a mortal vessel for the great goat-god, Pan himself.”
Mog nodded at him. “I’m impressed.”
William stared shyly at his feet. “I read a lot,” he mumbled.
Cyril was still not entirely sure what they meant. “So, Billy…?”
Mog sighed. “Billy went walkies, as you put it, because Pan, the goat-god, took control of him.”
“Why?”
Billy was looking really worried now. “Yeah, why?”
“Hard to say, exactly,” answered Mog. “The spirit-world cannot interact properly with this one without a little help. Pan was using young Billy here as his eyes and ears. And legs. What it was he wanted to see though, I’m not sure.”
“I think I might know,” offered William. “This is traditionally the time of year for followers of Pan to perform the Sun Dance and welcome in Pan’s new season.”
Cyril leant over and whispered in Mog’s ear: “Why didn’t Pan choose that one? He seems rather bright.”
“He needs an empty vessel, so to speak,” replied Mog softly.
“Oh.”
“Can you tell me a bit more about this Sun Dance?” Mog asked William.
“It is a dance first attributed to Spurymedes, one of the founding fathers on the Pan cult. Today, a modified version incorporating certain astrological phenomena is usually performed at dawn to greet the rising sun when Saturn - the ruling planet of Capricorn - has reached ascendance.
“The dance should be performed by twelve cultists, each representing a sign of the zodiac, and is accompanied by the music of the traditional instrument, the wooden panpipe. Just before dawn, one chosen cultist must address the goat-god and then each cult member must present himself (and his member) – or herself – to Pan.
“Cultists then do a circular dance until the sun has fully risen. Originally, this was centred about a stone altar on which” – William paused and looked over sheepishly at Billy (quite easily done if you are a goat) – “a goat had been sacrificed. However, later generations of cultists decided that the goat-god would not really appreciate the sacrifice of a goat and this practice was dropped sometime in the middle ages. In colder climates, the stone altar went on to be replaced by a camp fire.”
“Blimey!” said Cyril. “Toby Ron was right. Goats really do have a good memory…”
Mog scowled at him. “Do go on, William.”
“Once the sun had fully cleared the horizon, it was tradition to sacrifice the addresser of Pan. Originally, this was done on the same altar, mingling cultist and goat blood. Sometimes this would take the form of self-sacrifice. At other times, the sacrifice needed a bit more persuading. In times of extreme hardship, it was not unknown for the entire band of dancers to commit suicide in an attempt to attain the favour of their god for their tribe or family.
“Again, in modern times this practice has been dropped in the face of changing public opinion. People tend to be less willing to sign up to rituals that have a high risk of death, these days. Pan is not much worshipped these days and, my understanding is, his modern followers have decided that he wouldn’t want to lose any more. I’m not sure if they have replaced the sacrifice of the addressing member with anything.”
“One more question, William,” said Mog. “When you say cult members must ‘present themselves’ to their god, how do they do this?”
“There was one cult group in the late sixties that had an elaborate ceremony involving peacock feathers, flared trousers, and a rubber chicken. Generally, though, it is by the removal of all one’s garments and standing naked before him.”
Mog nodded. “This is most disturbing.”
“Does this sound like the group in your dream?” asked Cyril.
“Yes,” nodded Mog solemnly, “it does.”
“But that’s great!” Cyril exclaimed. “Well, not all those people dying, obviously,” he added quickly, “but young Billy here must have seen the whole thing. He’ll know who did it!”
Billy looked confused. “Seen who? Do what?” He hung his head sadly. “I haven’t seen anything.”
Cyril shot Mog a perplexed glance.
“Pan only takes control when a vessel is idle,” explained Mog. “Y’know – asleep. As soon as something happened to awaken Billy, his consciousness would shunt Pan out.”
“And what would wake him?”
“I dunno. What normally wakes someone? A slap in the face? A loud noise?”
“Like a bomb you mean…?”
The two of them looked at Billy. “I don’t remember any bombs,” he muttered. “I woke up in a field near home. I don’t know how I got there.”
Mog shrugged. “Maybe he’s a heavy sleeper. He might have woken up only when Pan decided to leave.”
“Maybe he never made it to the site of the bomb at all?” William suggested.
“Either way, he won’t remember details.”
Cyril sat down grumpily. “Great. So, we’ve got a possible eye-witness who may or may not have seen it happen but anything he did see, he won’t be able to remember. What use is that?”
Billy looked like he was going to cry.
“Excuse me!” William volunteered, “but we may have an eye-witness who saw and remembers everything – Pan.”
Cyril looked to Mog for confirmation.
“He’s right,” Mog agreed. “Doesn’t help us much, though.”
“You’re in touch with the spirit world aren’t you? Can’t you contact him, like?” Mog shook her head. “I don’t do gods. They tend to get rather tetchy. And that’s if you’re lucky. Control-freaks the lot of them. Much as I would like to know what’s going on, I’d rather not have my soul sucked into the ether through my nostrils.”
“So we’re back to square one?”
“Not necessarily. If it was a suicide and my dreams are not connected, this should be the end of it. If not... well, Young William has got a point. If Pan did witness the whole thing then I’m sure he wouldn’t be very happy about someone blowing away a dozen of his most loyal followers. Even if he didn’t see it, he still got to be a pit peeved. He’s got access to this world now through Billy here and, if I know Pan, he’ll want to take full advantage of that to try and find out what’s going on.”
“Do you know Pan?” asked Cyril.
“Not really, no.”
Cyril looked behind him at the two goats. They were being very slow. The younger goat, William, was busily looking around at all the new sights and sounds. The goats did not get off Toby Ron’s land very often (partly because Garth Jones had threatened to shoot them) and William was determined to make the most of this opportunity. Toby Ron had warned Cyril that the little goat may get a bit too excited and just wander off somewhere.
“He’s a smart kid, that one,” Toby had said, “but you’ll have to keep an eye on him. He hasn’t yet learned that there’s a time and a place for asking questions. Sometimes his curiosity can get him into trouble.”
“It killed the cat,” thought Cyril. “That’s a lot of trouble. Best not tell William that, though: he'll just ask which cat and how did it die.”
“What’s this, Mister Cyril, sir?” asked William, very politely interrupting the squirrel’s thoughts.
“It’s an empty drinks can, William,” sighed Cyril.
“Oh. But why did…?”
“Because people are lazy, William,” Cyril cut in, “and don’t respect the environment. Now come on!”
This was the umpteenth time that Cyril had had to stop and answer questions about litter, snails, stinging nettles, singing blackbirds and various other countryside phenomena. Not that William’s brother was being any better. Young Billy was skulking around miserably, occasionally muttering negative comments about the whole affair. He was not at all happy about the prospect of visiting Mystic Mog.
“I heard she used magic to turn old Harry the nymphomaniac gerbil into a toadstool!” Billy explained when pressed on the matter. “And then he went out of his mind with fear and was mistaken for a polo and eaten.”
“How could anyone mistake a toadstool for a polo?” asked William.
“It didn’t happen like that at all!” Cyril told them. “Mog used magic mushrooms to treat Harry for his sex addiction. He was cured too. He was on the way home when he thought he saw Richard Gere. He panicked, ran out into the road to avoid him, and was run over by a Volkswagen Polo.”
“Oh.”
“Now, come on both of you, or we’ll never get there at all and I’ll turn you into a toadstool.”
“You can’t do that,” argued William.
“Probably not. But I can have fun trying.”
As it happened, Cyril’s earlier worries about arriving at Mog’s during the day were unfounded – by the time Cyril had goaded the two goats to her woodland den, dusk was beginning to draw in.
The owls were waiting.
“Her mysticality is waiting for ya, nahmsayin?”
“Er, right. Thanks?”
Mystic Mog was, indeed, waiting. If it was possible, Cyril thought that she looked even worse than when he had seen her earlier that day. And she had not been attacked by half a dozen Jehovah’s Witnesses. She looked at the three of them with weary eyes.
“You were too late,” she told Cyril. It was definitely a statement, not a question.
“Yes.”
“I feared as much. And your friends?”
Despite the massive difference in size that made the manoeuvre pointless, the two goats slowly backed away and tried their best to hide behind the squirrel, away from Mog’s penetrating stare.
“Toby Ron’s goats,” explained Cyril. He nodded his head at Billy. “This one went walkies in the middle of the night. Doesn’t remember anything about it, though.”
Mog transferred her gaze to William. “And this one?”
Cyril opened his mouth to answer, thought for a moment and then closed it again. “To be honest, I’m not sure.” Cyril looked round. “Why are you here?”
William was still backing away from the scene. He stopped when he hit something or, more precisely, somebody – one of Mog’s guardian owls.
“Where are you going, mo’ fo?”
William jumped. “Oh, terribly sorry. I, er…”
Seeing the young goat in such a fluster softened Mog’s mood and, despite the terrible strain she was feeling, she managed to put on what she hoped was a comforting smile.
“It’s OK,” she told William, “we’ll get to you soon enough.”
Still not realising that each time she smiled she showed off her impressive teeth in a disturbing fashion and that the goats were now convinced that she wanted to eat them, Mog turned back to Billy.
"C’mon then, kid. Let’s have a look at you.”
Cyril stepped aside and nodded encouragement as Billy. Billy stood transfixed, trembling slightly.
“Billy!” Cyril hissed through clenched teeth. “Stop making a scene and let Mog give you the once over.”
“I can’t...” Billy moaned. “I don’t think my legs work anymore.”
There was a loud snap as Mog clicked her claws in front of her face, drawing the attention of both animals.
“Come, here,” she commanded, staring into Billy’s eyes.
Even though he was not the focus of Mog’s stare, Cyril had to fight hard not the approach the cat himself. The young goat had no chance of resistance nervously trotted up to Mystic Mog’s picnic table. Still staring into his eyes, Mog took Billy’s front hooves in her paws.
“Just relax,” she hissed gently.
Compelled to obey, Billy closed his eyes and remained silent.
“That’s good…” soothed Mog.
William and Cyril could do nothing but stand and watch. There was not actually anything really happening but they felt obliged to look anyway. Cyril made a mental observation that the high-pitched wailing that so often accompanied Mog’s routines was absent: this really was serious stuff.
After about five minutes of inactivity, during which time William had been staring at Billy and Mog as if either – or both – of them were about to explode, Mog released the young goat’s paws.
“He’s a Wanderer,” Mog told Cyril flatly.
“Not a very quick one,” Cyril moaned. “What do you mean?”
It was young William that piped up with an explanation: “A goat Wanderer is a chosen one who is used as a mortal vessel for the great goat-god, Pan himself.”
Mog nodded at him. “I’m impressed.”
William stared shyly at his feet. “I read a lot,” he mumbled.
Cyril was still not entirely sure what they meant. “So, Billy…?”
Mog sighed. “Billy went walkies, as you put it, because Pan, the goat-god, took control of him.”
“Why?”
Billy was looking really worried now. “Yeah, why?”
“Hard to say, exactly,” answered Mog. “The spirit-world cannot interact properly with this one without a little help. Pan was using young Billy here as his eyes and ears. And legs. What it was he wanted to see though, I’m not sure.”
“I think I might know,” offered William. “This is traditionally the time of year for followers of Pan to perform the Sun Dance and welcome in Pan’s new season.”
Cyril leant over and whispered in Mog’s ear: “Why didn’t Pan choose that one? He seems rather bright.”
“He needs an empty vessel, so to speak,” replied Mog softly.
“Oh.”
“Can you tell me a bit more about this Sun Dance?” Mog asked William.
“It is a dance first attributed to Spurymedes, one of the founding fathers on the Pan cult. Today, a modified version incorporating certain astrological phenomena is usually performed at dawn to greet the rising sun when Saturn - the ruling planet of Capricorn - has reached ascendance.
“The dance should be performed by twelve cultists, each representing a sign of the zodiac, and is accompanied by the music of the traditional instrument, the wooden panpipe. Just before dawn, one chosen cultist must address the goat-god and then each cult member must present himself (and his member) – or herself – to Pan.
“Cultists then do a circular dance until the sun has fully risen. Originally, this was centred about a stone altar on which” – William paused and looked over sheepishly at Billy (quite easily done if you are a goat) – “a goat had been sacrificed. However, later generations of cultists decided that the goat-god would not really appreciate the sacrifice of a goat and this practice was dropped sometime in the middle ages. In colder climates, the stone altar went on to be replaced by a camp fire.”
“Blimey!” said Cyril. “Toby Ron was right. Goats really do have a good memory…”
Mog scowled at him. “Do go on, William.”
“Once the sun had fully cleared the horizon, it was tradition to sacrifice the addresser of Pan. Originally, this was done on the same altar, mingling cultist and goat blood. Sometimes this would take the form of self-sacrifice. At other times, the sacrifice needed a bit more persuading. In times of extreme hardship, it was not unknown for the entire band of dancers to commit suicide in an attempt to attain the favour of their god for their tribe or family.
“Again, in modern times this practice has been dropped in the face of changing public opinion. People tend to be less willing to sign up to rituals that have a high risk of death, these days. Pan is not much worshipped these days and, my understanding is, his modern followers have decided that he wouldn’t want to lose any more. I’m not sure if they have replaced the sacrifice of the addressing member with anything.”
“One more question, William,” said Mog. “When you say cult members must ‘present themselves’ to their god, how do they do this?”
“There was one cult group in the late sixties that had an elaborate ceremony involving peacock feathers, flared trousers, and a rubber chicken. Generally, though, it is by the removal of all one’s garments and standing naked before him.”
Mog nodded. “This is most disturbing.”
“Does this sound like the group in your dream?” asked Cyril.
“Yes,” nodded Mog solemnly, “it does.”
“But that’s great!” Cyril exclaimed. “Well, not all those people dying, obviously,” he added quickly, “but young Billy here must have seen the whole thing. He’ll know who did it!”
Billy looked confused. “Seen who? Do what?” He hung his head sadly. “I haven’t seen anything.”
Cyril shot Mog a perplexed glance.
“Pan only takes control when a vessel is idle,” explained Mog. “Y’know – asleep. As soon as something happened to awaken Billy, his consciousness would shunt Pan out.”
“And what would wake him?”
“I dunno. What normally wakes someone? A slap in the face? A loud noise?”
“Like a bomb you mean…?”
The two of them looked at Billy. “I don’t remember any bombs,” he muttered. “I woke up in a field near home. I don’t know how I got there.”
Mog shrugged. “Maybe he’s a heavy sleeper. He might have woken up only when Pan decided to leave.”
“Maybe he never made it to the site of the bomb at all?” William suggested.
“Either way, he won’t remember details.”
Cyril sat down grumpily. “Great. So, we’ve got a possible eye-witness who may or may not have seen it happen but anything he did see, he won’t be able to remember. What use is that?”
Billy looked like he was going to cry.
“Excuse me!” William volunteered, “but we may have an eye-witness who saw and remembers everything – Pan.”
Cyril looked to Mog for confirmation.
“He’s right,” Mog agreed. “Doesn’t help us much, though.”
“You’re in touch with the spirit world aren’t you? Can’t you contact him, like?” Mog shook her head. “I don’t do gods. They tend to get rather tetchy. And that’s if you’re lucky. Control-freaks the lot of them. Much as I would like to know what’s going on, I’d rather not have my soul sucked into the ether through my nostrils.”
“So we’re back to square one?”
“Not necessarily. If it was a suicide and my dreams are not connected, this should be the end of it. If not... well, Young William has got a point. If Pan did witness the whole thing then I’m sure he wouldn’t be very happy about someone blowing away a dozen of his most loyal followers. Even if he didn’t see it, he still got to be a pit peeved. He’s got access to this world now through Billy here and, if I know Pan, he’ll want to take full advantage of that to try and find out what’s going on.”
“Do you know Pan?” asked Cyril.
“Not really, no.”
Saturday, 21 July 2012
Chapter 2.5
“I hate goat’s milk, “ complained Billy. “Why can’t we have cows milk like normal people?”
Billy’s mum glared at him. “We are goats, Billy. I can only produce one kind of milk.”
Billy kicked at the ground moodily with his front right hoof. “Uncle Joe says he had cow’s milk when he was a kid.”
Mother Goat sighed. “Uncle Joe and I were orphans, Billy. Cow’s milk was all Mr O’Bee could find.”
“It’s not fair!” he whined.
“Your brother doesn’t seem to mind," she retorted. "Besides, you’re not getting any milk at all until you tell me where you disappeared off to this morning.”
“Nowhere,” Billy sulked.
“Don’t lie to me, Billy,” his mother warned.
“I’m not lying, mum," he asserted. "I just woke up in the field next to the woods. I don’t know how I got there.””
“Billy!”
By now, Billy was close to tears. “Mum, I swear! Ask Duke. He’ll tell you I was asleep when he found me.”
Mrs Goat studied her son for a moment for signs of deceit. Seeing none, she softened. “OK, son. It’s OK. Now, have your breakfast.”
She watched him as he butted her to get the milk flowing. What he had told her was true. Duke had found him asleep this morning. And Duke was not a sheepdog to lie. (Except when Mr O'Bee gave that strange two-tone whistle with the warble in the middle, but she didn't mean that kind of lying.) Besides, her maternal instincts told her that her son wasn’t telling porkies. The way he was drinking now, though, implied that he’d been for more than just a quick hike to the woods last night. Something strange was afoot. And not just Uncle Joe’s bunions.
Billy’s mum glared at him. “We are goats, Billy. I can only produce one kind of milk.”
Billy kicked at the ground moodily with his front right hoof. “Uncle Joe says he had cow’s milk when he was a kid.”
Mother Goat sighed. “Uncle Joe and I were orphans, Billy. Cow’s milk was all Mr O’Bee could find.”
“It’s not fair!” he whined.
“Your brother doesn’t seem to mind," she retorted. "Besides, you’re not getting any milk at all until you tell me where you disappeared off to this morning.”
“Nowhere,” Billy sulked.
“Don’t lie to me, Billy,” his mother warned.
“I’m not lying, mum," he asserted. "I just woke up in the field next to the woods. I don’t know how I got there.””
“Billy!”
By now, Billy was close to tears. “Mum, I swear! Ask Duke. He’ll tell you I was asleep when he found me.”
Mrs Goat studied her son for a moment for signs of deceit. Seeing none, she softened. “OK, son. It’s OK. Now, have your breakfast.”
She watched him as he butted her to get the milk flowing. What he had told her was true. Duke had found him asleep this morning. And Duke was not a sheepdog to lie. (Except when Mr O'Bee gave that strange two-tone whistle with the warble in the middle, but she didn't mean that kind of lying.) Besides, her maternal instincts told her that her son wasn’t telling porkies. The way he was drinking now, though, implied that he’d been for more than just a quick hike to the woods last night. Something strange was afoot. And not just Uncle Joe’s bunions.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)