Tales of the Zodiac - The Goat's Tale (18 page)

I am not in the gaol long before I am attended by Brother Gemin. My cell is a different one this time. There are no luxuries here; the toilet is a clay pot, there is no bed and blankets and there is just a tiny window at the top of the room for light. It is cold and damp. The albino enters the room dressed, as always, in his white ceremonial robes.

“Gruff. I am sorry that it has to be thus,” he says sympathetically. In all the time that I have spent with him, he has never been cruel. Instead, he has a charming and easy manner, always probing, always interested.

“Then is there nothing you can do?” I grunt.

“I am a student of people, Gruff, and I understand that you are no more evil than I. But you have a problem.”

“Which is?”

“That part of you that cannot change. You will never settle here. As you have told me, you have a job to do, a point to prove. I understand now that until you have achieved this goal, you will never rest, you will never change.”

“And neither will you. You will never let me.”

“I carry out God’s will.”

“If that is so, then I suppose I shall die.”

He smiles gently and remains silent for a moment, as though he is too kind to say yes.

“Tell me, Gruff. I do not understand. You have seen Our Saviour in the flesh. You have seen his miracles. Why will you not bend to His will? What is so difficult for you to believe?”

“I see no miracles. I never have and I never will. I see nothing here but the cunning of man. I see a charlatan devising devilry. That is all.”

“What makes you so certain?”

“If that man was the saviour of the people then he would be helping them. He would be out amongst them. Instead, he sits in his palace setting them on fire, poisoning them with wine. Meanwhile, orphans outside his palace fight for scraps of bread. Pah!”

“Poisoning them with wine? But how? You have seen first-hand the healing power of the wine. One of the Mother’s Maidens fed it to you as you died. Did you not feel its power?”

“What is a Mother’s Maiden?”

“They are the sacred order that serve The Mother,” he replies, presumably referring to Mother Maryam.

“Well, I don’t deny it healed me. I don’t deny that I felt something. But that doesn’t mean the healing was divine. I haven’t understood it yet. But you mark my words, I will.”

“I will pray for you. There must be nothing lonelier than to only feel doubt. You still have time. Whenever you are ready, Our Saviour will accept you. He loves us all.”

“So I am not to die?”

“By His grace, he has granted you a month to reflect. Then you will be tried. I will pray for you during this time.”

Even as time passes, the words do not sink in. I begin to think that there is a barrenness in me where other people’s souls must be. I cannot believe. I cannot accept. Even if it means my life. I could pretend, but a pretence is all that it will ever be; I will never be able to leave, to talk freely, to be myself again. And if that sorry existence is the best that I can hope for, then death is scarcely less preferable.

Even with this dark cloud hanging over me, I force myself to prepare. Even for the tiniest chance, I must be ready. Golden opportunities, after all, come more often to those who expect them. Fitness is crucial. Within the confines of this cramped cell, I must keep myself as sharp and ready as I was in the wilds.

As autumn heads towards winter, the days grow shorter and shorter. Without any form of bedclothes, keeping warm is virtually impossible. As uncomfortable as this is, I am glad for it; if I am ever to get home, it will be through the snow once more.

As if things could be any more miserable, the room, with its tiny window, is cast into an almost perpetual dusk. To combat boredom, I spend hours a day teaching myself how to move without noise, honing my reactions until I am quick enough to pluck roaches from the floor. I grow to realise that there is
always
something to learn.

These habits are, however, only peripheral. There is only one task that obsesses me; I must learn to understand the mystery of the wine. Even in this prison cell, I still receive bread and wine daily. This gives me the opportunity to experiment. For two days, I abstain from both the bread and the wine. Once again, as in the street on the fateful day of my recapture, I am almost dead by the second morning. I greedily swig down the accumulated wine from the side of my bed and the feeling passes.

I then abstain from only the bread for two days, just to ensure that it is the wine and nothing else. The wine I am served is weak, much weaker than the kind Morrigan would drink for pleasure, but without the bread, I find that I very quickly become quite unwell. However, the symptoms are more akin to drunkenness than death.

I then decide to abstain from the wine and just eat the bread. As predicted, I find myself almost dead by the second morning. The thirst that accompanies the sense of death is most definitely the thing that intrigues me. I begin to think that it must be somewhere within that thirst that the secret to the poison lies.

The human relationship with water is something about which I know only a little. Even in Tallakarn, it is a rare thing for a human to drink water. This is because of all the ill fortune that can come from doing so. It is known that many disgusting ailments linger in water. Every drop that is taken of it can be viewed as a gamble. That is why only the poorest people, those who cannot afford beer, drink water and, therefore, why the poorest people always die quickest.

Yet it is also known that the water within beer is the element that makes beer so vital to life. A person who doesn’t drink for four days or so will always die, whether in Brightstone or Tallakarn. Is what is happening here simply an acceleration of that process? What if I were to find water to drink from somewhere?

With this in mind, I spend the next two days not drinking the wine. Instead, I hang my cloth jerkin out of the window to collect moisture or rainfall. I then suck the moisture from my clothes. It doesn’t taste nearly so good as wine and I still suffer the same fate as previously. The plan is an all-round failure.

My next experiment is that of slowly limiting my exposure to the substance, each time only drinking so much as I need to not die. This self-imposed ordeal is one of the worst I have ever had the misfortune to experience, and I do have quite a few to choose from. I lose track of hours and days, doing nothing but lying in the discomfort of my bed, bleeding with sweat, drums inside my head, forcing bread inside myself, trying to ride the fine line between life and death. I begin to hallucinate; dreaming of my execution, the feeling of having one’s head removed from one’s body. I imagine marrying a Mother’s maiden and settling down to work as a goatherd. I imagine how it must feel to believe you are the Son of God. At one point, I hear a voice.

“It’s the bread! It’s the bread!”

No one will ever know how much time I lose to this activity but the only thing I discover is that it doesn’t work. Gradually, I find myself needing to drink more and more to stay conscious; weaning myself off it has proved impossible. I listened to the voice though. What if it is the bread? What if the wine is merely an antidote?

This forms the basis of my next experiment. I abstain from the bread and drink only the wine. For food, I eat the roaches that I have stockpiled from the floor. This experiment, in itself, does not teach me much more than that eating nothing but roaches and wine is a disgusting and depressing way to spend one’s time. Despite feeling vaguely unpleasant and dirty, I suffer no particular ill effects from this endeavour. I must keep up this habit for at least ten days.

The test of success, though, will surely be what happens when I stop drinking the wine. I am loathe to do this as being drunk was the only factor that made eating the roaches in any way bearable. I do it nonetheless, weaning myself off in the same manner as before. Once again, I lose track of time and become rather ill.

The difference this time is that I
do
get better. As the days pass, my strength grows. I have outsmarted them; the bread is a poison to which wine is the cure. Even with my death surely soon to arrive, this knowledge satisfies me. At least I can die knowing that I was right all along. So long as I don’t eat any of the food provided to me, I am free of their shackles.

More time passes, weeks even, and I carry on with my developed routines. Perhaps going half mad, I add an extra line on to my knightly title: ‘Ser Gruffydd of the green, scourge of the cockroach’.

The unusual thing is that no one ever comes to collect me. The only people that ever approach are the guards delivering my daily bread and wine. Every day I shout to them, “Where is Brother Gemin?!”

By my estimation, five months pass before the food stops coming. This doesn’t immediately affect me because I have become virtually self-sufficient, living off cockroaches and the daily moisture accumulated on my rags. However, after a few days I begin to wonder what has happened. Have I simply been abandoned? Left to die here?

Even this abandonment doesn’t stop me. Every morning, I assure myself that the lock will wither to rust before I am dead. To maintain sanity, or at least some sense of it, I do the exact same thing each day. I rise at dawn and mark the position of the sun on my wall with a scratch. This is done to measure the length of the days. I then remove my rag from the window and suck the top of it before placing it back outside. I then eat two cockroaches. Next, I practice moving silently. Then I work on my damaged knee before having two more roaches and another suck on the rag. I then try to remember everything that happened on a particular day of my life before exercising again. After this, I eat and drink once more. The evening is spent catching roaches in the failing light. At sunset, I mark the wall and, after visualising my return to Tallakarn, I go to sleep. I never once touch all the wine I’ve stockpiled.

I am thrown into consciousness by the startling sound of great bells ringing overhead. They resonate so deeply that the whole building seems to tremble around me. The source of the sound is so close that I can only imagine they are the bells of the palace itself. I have never heard a sound so powerful. A glance towards the window tells me that it is not yet dawn. My heart fills with a puzzled excitement, wondering what the bells could signify.

At first, I try not to let it interfere with my routine, but these attempts do not last for long. The ringing is ceaseless, persisting for hours and hours, booming and trembling away at me until the sound itself feels like it is part of my being. Every muscle in my body feels tense, rigid against the discordant noise. I attempt to meditate – stretching, breathing, trying to shut out the agony. It must be approaching noon before the maddening noise is broken. I hear something. It is a voice I haven’t heard for months.

“Goat man likes Brightstone,” says the strangely familiar voice, rising over the sound of the bells. I don’t immediately know where the voice has come from and I almost jump out of my skin when I look up to find that, of all people, it is Shara who has entered my cell.

I cannot reply straight away. All sorts of emotions flow through me, threatening to overcome me, to send me to tears. Firstly, there is the shock; I haven’t spoken to or seen anyone in months. Moreover, the idea of being rescued has long since faded into fantasy.  Secondly, and unexpectedly, I am touched, profoundly touched, that I’ve meant enough for her for to come and find me. After longer than I would have liked, I manage to find my voice.

“What are you doing here? How did you… Why?” I stutter, just about managing to keep my composure. She is dressed entirely in black, only her white face shines out through the dullness of the room.

“Brightstone dies. Snow man come. Snow man kill everything,” she replies, unconcerned.

“But why?! Why have you come for me?!”

“Goat man want to come to Brightstone. Goat man want to find Son of God and take to his home,” is her answer. As she says this, she shrugs dismissively, as though her arrival is the most natural thing in the world.

“Yes but why are
you
here?”

“I have said this. Goat man talks too long. Trouble is everywhere. Take your weapons. I take you to Son of God,” she snaps. She passes me a sackcloth bundle containing the items I abandoned at Morrigan’s.

“But... where... how… Shara, I do not understand. How did you get here?” I stutter. I cannot help but stutter. I don’t even know what question to ask first. Of all the people I have ever met, this maniac must surely be the most difficult to understand. It all seems so improbable. How did she enter the city? How did she know where I was? How does she know where ‘Our Saviour’ is? Why would she even bother?

“The answer is long. Too long. I tell you one day. When you are home.”

“But, Shara…” The question dies on my tongue. Now is not the time to begin trying to unravel her enigma.

“Goat man
still
wants to die. Answers don’t keep Goat man alive. Only moving. We go. We go quick.”

“We need to take this wine. Morrigan will need it if we can find him,” I say, uttering a line that I have said many times when rehearsing this moment. Hurriedly, I strap on my armour and fill the sack with wine.

“Crow man guards Son of God. Crow man pretends to be loyal to Him,” she replies. “We must move.”

Gathering the wine, I follow obediently and somewhat in awe. As we ascend the ornate gold and marble staircase, I scarcely notice it. Instead I feel dazed, almost as though I am wandering through a dream. This moment, just a day ago, had seemed as abstract to me as the idea of flying through the clouds. Even as we reach the top of stairs and move along the marbled hallway, I still feel half mad from the time spent alone.

The great hall is deserted, empty except for statues of this so-called Saviour. Every statue I look at builds my rage. Every single one is a reminder of the things that I have been through at the whims of this man – month upon month living off roaches and rainwater, days spent digging through the salvage of a dying town, the poisoned bread. I will welcome the chance to see him again, to look him in the eye and find out how God looks before he dies.

Shara, meanwhile, ghosts ahead of me like a shadow darting through the wonderful light of the Sun Palace. She weaves and winds through the complexity of its corridors as though it were her second home. Never for a second does she appear to doubt herself or her purpose. I can only be thankful that she is not
my
enemy. 

Eventually, we reach a part of the palace where the walls are entirely gold. We keep moving past doors and doors until we reach a dead end. It seems to me that this chamber is somewhere low down, deep in the bosom of the palace. No one would end up here by accident. Just as I begin to think that Shara has made a mistake, she whistles sharply.

“Shara… What…”

“Shh! They hide here. They think they are safe. They wait for Snow Man to go,” she hisses.

There is a slight delay before the wall panel moves aside to reveal a small hidden room. Six of The Golden Brigade sit before us. From the way they jump to their feet, it is clear they were expecting help rather than hindrance. All but one of them have removed their helmets and several have even removed other parts of their body armour. At the back of the room sit two Mother’s maidens and a handsome young boy, aged about twelve. All three of them have clearly been crying. My eyes instinctively sweep around the room, searching for the Son of God. 

“Are these people here to save me?” the boy asks innocently, giving Himself away. His voice, needless to say, is nothing like the trembling bass that I heard during my spells in the Sun Palace.

“No, God. These are a pair of snakes who have tricked their way in here. It is your will that they did so. It was good of you to allow it. Now, we can kill them in your honour,” says one of the gold men. His tone is paternalistic rather than deferential.

All six of them draw their muskets. The one wearing a helmet, Morrigan I presume, immediately blasts his musket into the unprotected face of his nearest neighbour. This happens so fast that he has time to pounce, animal-like, onto another Gold Man before anyone else can react. They begin to brawl on the floor. In the confusion, the other three swing their muskets towards him.

This distraction immediately turns the fight in our favour. Shara moves so fast that she has claimed her first victim before any of them even have a chance to draw their swords. The two just out of her reach blast their muskets in the direction of Morrigan before I can reach them. One of them screams.

“You snake! You heretic! You traitor!”

The battle is now at too close quarters for them to even consider reloading their muskets. Two of them lie dead whilst Morrigan and one other grapple on the floor. Shara and I engage the survivors in the back of the room. I quickly find myself being overpowered.

My opponent is nothing but brute strength and plate metal. He smashes me back and back with overwhelming power. I, wielding only my flimsy sword and shield, can do nothing except for parry. My eyes scour his armour for a weakness but I can see none.

The air is full of the clamour of swords. I can hear Shara screaming war cries over the top, men grunting and shouting down beneath. As I parry strike after strike, it seems wondrous that my shield hasn’t broken. The only thing I have to be thankful for is my condition. My routine in the cell, dedicated to fitness and flexibility, seems to have paid off and, even with a weak knee, I do not struggle to dance between his strikes.

I am so lost in the panic of battle that I lose all judgement of how long it is before Shara comes to my aid. The gold man is too slow, too focused on my death, to see her coming. Her first strike, delivered to his head with the convex edge of her scythe, knocks him to his knees. Her second strike, delivered in the returning motion by the concave edge, decapitates him.

Immediately, another gold man is upon us. Even with the blurred focus of battle upon my mind, I know that this is not right. As Shara engages the assailant, I turn my head towards the spot inside the concealed room where Morrigan should be. He’s on the floor, blood pouring from him. Rage floods through me and, in an instant, I feel so strong and so brave that I scarcely seem to be myself. Shara and I finish the last man easily.

As he falls, I go careering towards Morrigan faster than I’ve ever moved towards anything. He’s on his back, blood leaking from the left-hand side of his body. Behind me, I hear Shara shouting at the women and child in her own language. I lift Morrigan’s golden visor and look into his eyes. He is staring off into the middle distance, a haunted expression painted across his face. He doesn’t notice me immediately but when he does, he manages to retrieve his smirk.

“It’s a shame. I was looking forward to the walk back,” he croaks.

“You’ll be all right,” I reply, moving to try and remove the plate.

“Nope. I’m afraid not. This wound is farking killing me. Literally.” He manages half a laugh that quite quickly becomes a cough. “Don’t… take the plate off. It’s the only thing holding me together by the feel of it.”

“You’ll be all right,” I repeat, instantly ashamed of how stupid this sounds. The ashen colour of his face provides me with a glaring contradiction.

“Always got to be right… Not this time, Sprat. Not this time. Just get me some wine, will you?” he splutters.

The sack was dropped in the doorway. I rush to retrieve a wineskin from it. When I am back next to him, I open it and put it to his lips. He slurps it down greedily.

“The blood of life, hey?! Ha!” His last laugh turns into a cough that he can’t seem to stop. When he does stop, it is forever, a pale smirk etched across his lips.

There is no time for grieving now though. My eyes flash up to the back of the room. Here, the young boy sits huddled amongst his two Mother’s maidens. Not one of them can be older than sixteen. All three of them are sobbing tragically. Shara stands only a few steps away, scythe poised, ready to do whatever she is required to do. I rise to my feet and walk towards them.

“Please don’t kill me,” ‘God’ whimpers. “I’m your Saviour.” He looks like nothing other than a horrible, brattish child. With his jet black hair and strong jaw, here is a whiff of Tallakarn highborn about him

“You’re not my saviour. You are a young boy,” I reply angrily. Terror flashes across his eyes; I wonder how long it has been since anyone has dared to contradict him.

“If you were not a child, I would kill you. Do you have any idea of the evil that has been done in your name?” I continue, a bit unsure about my translation.

“I… I… I… never set out to hurt anyone. I am the Saviour. I wa… wa… wanted to help my people,” he replies, on the verge of hysteria. He has big soft brown eyes.

“Then who did all these things? Who set the slaves on fire? Who poisoned the bread? Was it Brother Gemin?” I ask, surprising even myself.

“N… N… No… Brother Gemin is the godliest of godly men. He… He… never wanted any of that.”

“So who was it?”

“It wa… It was… my mother. She… she…” He breaks into tears before he can finish the sentence.

At this moment, with tears in front of me and the corpse of my dead friend behind, I realise the most improbable thing; I actually believe him. Very rarely in life have I ever thought the best of someone. Usually, in fact, it is quite the opposite. People never fail to find a way to disappoint me and I never fail to find a way to distrust them. This ruthlessness of my usual judgement is all the proof I need; the boy is an innocent, a pawn in somebody else’s game. I believe him. I cannot execute him.

“I… I… I… have money. I have treasure. Anything you want. Just… please…” sobs one of the Mother’s maidens. Her moon face is flushed pink with emotion and her eyes, a pale blue, must be the saddest eyes I have ever seen.

“I’m not going to kill you,” I reply, trying to remove the harshness from my voice.

“You… are the stranger… aren’t you?” weeps the boy, recognition slowly drifting across his face. “I remember you. I remember… you asked me to visit your home… I wanted to… but she told me I couldn’t… Then we sent you to gaol.”

“Yes. You burned a man to death,” I remind him.

“That wasn’t… It wasn’t me… It was a trick… It… it… was… her.” The boy loses his composure again as his mind drifts back to his mother.

“Can you take us with you now?” asks the other maiden, earnestly. She has red hair and a freckled complexion. The question seems to lighten the faces of her two companions. The tears stand still on the boy’s face as he spots a glimmer of hope.

It is not a difficult decision for me to make. My mind flashes immediately to my fat old king, squirming in his throne like an ugly baby, licking his lips as he sent me off to die. It is a scene I have played over in my head, night after night, desperate to resolve. Compared to this vision, nothing else matters, not the dubious moral character of the young boy, not the fear of the sea ice, not the challenge of feeding five. I will prevail.

“You have no choice.”

“We… we… have a boat. We were told to escape to Stone Island should anything go wrong,” says the red-haired maiden. “It’s down through this trap door. This… this… sanctuary was our last hope. We were told they would never find us.”