Tales of the Zodiac - The Goat's Tale (21 page)

I count the passage of at least five days before I am able to move even slightly. It is certain that Selene, Shara and their broth are the only reason that I don’t die during this ordeal. The time seems to pass by in a blur of fever-fuelled nightmares. Mealtimes and my tender conversations with Selene are experienced, in a similarly dreamlike fashion, as brief islands of peace amongst the chaos of recovery. The experience has taught me that human beings are not designed to recover from trauma such as the type I have suffered; the pain of my body slowly repairing itself has felt no different from the pain of a body slowly drifting towards death.

My interaction with Shara has been much less during this period. She seems to spend it almost eternally outside – hunting, repairing, scouting, guarding – in order to keep us all alive and well. It almost passes without mention that she singlehandedly felled the lion’s mate during the attack.

Besides this vital work, another mercy she delivers is that she keeps the boy busy. With her, he receives none of the pandering that he receives from Selene and, following his first childish intrusion into my recovery, it seems that she has endeavoured to keep him from me wherever possible.

She is, however, present on the first day that I am able to step from my nest of furs. I do so gingerly and with the assistance of Selene’s soft white hand. Her response is, rather predictably, a tear-filled smile. However, the other two only manage to muster responses that suggest they are in competition with each other as to who can be less sympathetic.

“That looks difficult. I’m glad that didn’t happen to me,” says the boy.

“Good. Now we must continue,” is Shara’s contribution.

“I’ve only just taken my first step,” I gasp, the discomfort of balancing a damaged knee against a foot with no toes already beginning to take its toll. Shara scans me from head to toe, eyes full of her usual disdain.

“It is all right, you can walk. I know this. As long as Goat Man can stand, he can walk. And as long as Goat Man can live, he can stand. His head is as strong as stone.”

“I need more time.”

“There is no more time. We are very weak here. If you can stand, we can move.”

So it is on Shara’s command that we begin to move. The shelter that she built for my recuperation stands almost on the southern tip of the Frozen Sea, the so-called ‘heart’ of the Mother Island. By my estimation, it would have taken Morrigan and me, walking at full speed, about a month to reach this point from the fringes of Tallakarn. Given my current impediments, I anticipate that it will take at least double that.

And the difficulties that I experience every second of this walk cannot be understated. On the outward journey, our struggle against the elements was  so great as to seem almost overwhelming. Indeed, it had been such an ordeal that it would have been hard to believe that anything could have made it more difficult. Yet here I am struggling to put one foot in front of the other, scarcely able to change pace, harbouring no greater ambition than to reach the next point on the horizon. Concerns regarding previously vital objectives – food, shelter, snow savages – are now as inconsequential to me as thoughts of warmth, comfort and dryness had been on the outward journey. Instead, I simply have the onerous task of keeping my head down, my teeth gritted and my momentum forward. My pain is such that I have little time for anything else.

One could argue that this lack of concern is a luxury that few people in my position could afford. For it is certain that the above concerns do not become any less important simply because a man is missing half of his foot. My fortune is that I have Shara to carry these considerations for me; food remains surprisingly plentiful and her skill for evading conflict borders on supernatural. Indeed, not a moment goes by where I don’t consider the lifeline that she provides.

Her presence alongside me perfectly illustrates the wild caprice of life; desperation forced us to slaughter her tribe, yet my last remnant of chivalry forced me to spare, of all those present, her. Only her. That single act, the one last drop of civilisation that remained within me, has saved me from death several times over. Without her, I would be a frozen corpse or, if I were not that, I would be an empty skeleton in the cell at Brightstone or, if I were not that, I would have become a lion’s evening meal.

Despite all this, I cannot agree that I am lucky. As I stagger through each frozen day, the resentment that builds in my heart is unavoidable; there are no heroics in my actions, no solace to be found in the strokes of destiny that have saved my life. Instead, I am ashamed at my reliance upon her. After all, a person who cannot help himself is scarcely a person at all. Being viewed as a victim, as a cripple, is beginning to feel almost as painful as the injuries themselves.

And it is clear that these injuries will leave a long, dark shadow over whatever is left of my life; I will never have toes, I will always hobble, my face will always bear the lion’s scar. Being damaged so many times by so many things will always be a burden that I must carry. Above all, it is clear that I will always be the recipient of pity. For a man like me, there could be little worse.

Of all things, the worst contrivance that my fate has brought me is the sensation that my toes are still there. They still tingle madly in much the same way they did before the frost took them. Whenever my mind begins to wander too far from conscious effort, my foolish brain takes the bait once more and trusts them to hold my weight. This decision has the same result every time: an undignified tumble to the ground, the women rushing to my assistance, and a further flush of shame and embarrassment.

As if this were not bad enough, they assist each time with such understated humility, so little fuss, that I am unable to even criticise them for it. They make such an effort not to patronise that it would almost seem mean-spirited of me to be angry. But I am angry; the whole experience is so thoroughly humiliating that I am left with nothing but impotent rage that I cannot express.

This frustration, like water boiling in a pan, has a need to escape. It is fortunate for me, then, that the boy is with me. There can surely have never been a target more deserving of scorn than this warbling egotist. It would be unfair of me to suggest that he has not changed during the process of our journey but, as with Morrigan before him, I cannot help but feel that this is partly situational. For instance, a turd placed in the snow will become hard and significantly less odorous than its warm weather counterpart. This doesn’t mean that it has ceased to be a turd.

Such is the case with Leo. He is becoming much quieter, although still not quiet enough, and is certainly much less likely to make the mistake of expecting to find satisfaction from conversations with me. He is growing less demanding also but, once again, this is surely only because there is less to demand and fewer people to pander to him. Selene, with her gentle compassion, is the only person willing to indulge him even slightly and even this has reduced from her earlier devotion. Now, her submission to him is no greater than her natural submission to everyone – a reflection more of her caring nature than of any special bond between them. Nevertheless, however much change I perceive in him, I doubt any of it will last far beyond our journey to Tallakarn. It seems inevitable that a boy who has spent his whole childhood receiving and enjoying literal worship is beyond salvation as far as his ego is concerned. I imagine it won’t take more than a few enquiries into his foreign novelty to see him revert to the unbearable creature he once was, for the thawing of the turd.

The only lasting changes will surely be his development as a hunter and warrior. Despite not quite living up to the spectacular ridiculousness of his own boasts, he has quickly, with the assistance of Shara, developed an aptitude with the sword and bow that would probably earn him a knighthood in the kingdom of Tallakarn. I fully expect this to be the minimum that he achieves upon his arrival.

The reasons for this expectation are twofold. Firstly, I know that the king will be looking to rekindle the ‘Son of God’ angle for his own uses and, secondly, I have seen first-hand the effortlessness with which a male with a good education, a strong chin and an unhealthy dose of charisma can achieve social rank in a new kingdom; Morrigan certainly set the precedent for that.

I find myself thinking of Morrigan more and more as I stagger closer to home. My heart fills with a curious combination of pining and guilt every time he crosses my mind. He will usually enter my thoughts when Shara delivers some masterstroke of wilderness living, for instance, four plump, tasty ptarmigans for dinner or a shelter so well made that it is even slightly too warm. Such relative luxury brings my mind naturally to the daily struggle of his and my journey: living for days off the charred remains of a single baby rabbit, the taste of tree bark, him dancing through the snow with all the subtlety of a thousand-strong army, shivering to death each night in snow holes that may just as well have been graves.

There is no doubt that I miss him, too. With the exception of my father and, now, perhaps Shara and Selene, I had always doubted my ability to grow as attached to anyone as I seemingly had to Morrigan. He carried with him such a levity that it just made
everything
feel easier. His attitude, a refusal to take anything seriously, such a contrast to mine, had, I reluctantly admit, made our journey feel less overwhelming than it ever was. He could smirk at something and make it seem ridiculous, even if it wasn’t, and this simple act made everything less frightening. But above all, and there is no greater commendation that I can give, he was one of the very few people to ever make me laugh. It is one of my great regrets that he would never have known this; any amusement I gained from his clowning was always well hidden.

And it is regrets that eventually consume me when my mind lingers on his memory for too long. There are countless ways to dissect the events that led up to his death. Some were beyond my control – his initial exile, the invasion of Brightstone – but my guilty mind instead chooses to focus on the things that I could have changed. For instance, had Shara and I not been so fixed on escaping, he would not have found himself where he did. Or if I had simply complied as he did, we may have been able to settle down together and perhaps escape during the sack of the city.

Of all things though, it is the scene of his death that I cannot forget. Of all my memories, this scene is surely the most vivid: gold everywhere, splashed with crimson, the shouts of men, the crying boy, the hefty sword blows of my opponent, Shara’s curses, the confusion as an extra gold man joins in, Morrigan’s dying smirk, the sticky darkness of the blood leaking from him. I relive this scene countless times each day, scrutinising my actions over and over again, remonstrating with myself for each individual failing. Why did I not see that he was in trouble? Why did I let him leave my line of sight? Why did I allow him to die so easily? Surely I should have known that Shara didn’t need my help? Why was I fighting alongside her instead of him? All of these questions dog me, nibbling away at my mind as the long slog continues. The absence of answers debilitates me almost as much as the absence of my toes.

If it were not for Selene, I would very likely have disappeared into the blizzard of these thoughts and never returned. Alongside Leo’s egotism and Shara’s impenetrable enigma, she stands for me as a single beacon of sanity. In many ways, she is remarkable; she is the kind of person who will go without to ensure that everyone else has enough, the kind of person who finds conflict so unbearable that she will step into the middle of it to make it stop, the kind of person who will ask how I am and then actually listen to the answer.

It is this ability to listen, to absorb and then actually take the time to empathise that makes her so astonishingly rare. As the days pass, we spend evening upon evening engaged in the kind of conversation that, despite the ever-reducing language barrier, stands without comparison in the rest of my life. Conversation has always been, for me, nothing other than a means to pass on information. I have never met a person who seems to understand it in quite so opposite a fashion as Selene and, for this, in my time of need, I could not be more grateful. Conversation, for her, instead seems to be something quite vital, something at the very essence of existence. She will hear and see and
feel
everything that I have to say – whether it be about Morrigan, the shame of my injuries, my fears of returning home – and accept it; she will make me feel that it is all right to feel however I please. It is as though I have spent my entire life encased in ice and am only now beginning to thaw.

When I don’t wish to talk, which is often, she also proves adept at the art of distracting me from my glumness. She can talk for hours about the smallest detail, the most mundane topic – for instance the differences in ladies’ dress in our two kingdoms. Instead of finding myself bored as I might expect, I find her gentle chatter has a pleasing sedative nature. The content doesn’t have to be fascinating to distract me from my own thoughts and her own sweet enthusiasm is pleasure enough in itself.

This is not to say that everything she talks about is without value. As our bond continues to develop and our languages intertwine, she begins to share more and more of the life that she has been forced to leave behind. Her emotions on the topic rise and fall like the tide. On the one hand, she is devastated at the destruction of her home and its familiarity, but this devastation is countered by an equally devastating realisation – that almost everything she loved had been built upon a lie.

She was raised as an orphan in the nunnery of Brightstone Isle, the nunnery headed by Mother Maryam, Leo’s mother. Despite her austere and devout upbringing, she recalls her time there favourably. Things began to change when Leo was born. She was only seven years old when he was allegedly gifted by God to Mother Maryam. At the point of his birth, the nunnery changed its focus. All of a sudden, Mother Maryam herself became the subject of their worship. The nuns became known as Mother’s Maidens, they adopted the turtle insignia, the symbol of all mothers, and were sent out into the kingdom to perform acts of kindness on her behalf. Eventually, when she was twelve, she became trusted as one of Leo’s closest attendants, instructed to obey his every whim.

Once again, despite the fundamental rottenness of the entire scenario, a misty fondness develops in her eyes each time she talks of her days spent alongside the boy. She describes how he and his attendants were insulated, almost oblivious to the atrocities that were taking place in his name. His role, she reveals, was almost entirely ceremonial; Maryam told him what to say, how to act, when to appear. The role of his attendants was simply to keep him happy, distracted and cared for. The closeness between the four young women that attended him is something that she can scarcely talk about without being moved to tears. It is clear that they, including the boy, were essentially the closest thing she ever had to a family. As such, it is only her gentle pleas on his behalf that spare him from the worst of my scorn.

As the days develop into weeks, the knowledge that I will be able to sit down and talk to her each evening serves as one of the key impetuses allowing me to force my broken body onward. The other impetus is, of course, the desire to prove everyone else wrong. As deep snow turns to mountains, I shuffle forward, teeth gritted, encased in snow, without a thought of giving up.

As we reach the great mountains that divide us from Tallakarn, I begin to understand why the snow savages have never been, and will never be, able to raise forces against us in the way that they did at Brightstone. These mountains, these foreboding titans, do not seem to show even the slightest concern over the maintenance of life; fauna becomes sparse, breathing becomes difficult, snow becomes heavy and impassable gorges become frequent. At one point, we have to backtrack three days of walking in order to avoid such an impasse. This price reflects perhaps the only decision that Morrigan and I made that has proved more productive than Shara’s: if we had crossed the frozen sea then we would have avoided the mountains entirely. It is a sign of how little energy I have remaining that I don’t even point this out.