Pieces
1. From A Dump
2. Of A Mansion
3. To A Family
Now, it's not up to me to say that Lars Dale was no 'count. No Christian should make such a judgment. But folks that knew him, Christian or no, they said he was no 'count, and who am I to argue? Lars Dale lived by himself in what could be called a shack (if you wanted to be charitable) that sat near a played out coal mine. He grew a little weed-choked garden, and hovered always on the edge of starvation. `His' land still belonged to the coal mine, but no one ever came there except to dump trash.
Lars Dale worked that trash like it was a mine, though he didn't work it very hard. He was forever turning up some piece of junk he thought would bring a silver piece in town - and then getting mad when he got only a copper for a wagon load. He was top-heavy with ideas on how to get rich quick and how he would live when he finally did. But that head full of ideas still translated into a shack near an abandoned mine.
One summer day, Lars' trash excavations paid off with a miniature bonanza. An over-hasty housekeeper had thrown a silver piece into the dust bin, and this was many years ago when a silver piece bought a lot. A silver piece would buy a huge steak dinner, or sacks of common groceries, and either would leave Lars enough money for a beer or two. Leaving his wagon sitting in the trash, Lars Dale slapped his hands against his pants legs to knock the worst of the dirt off both, and headed for town, silver in his pocket.
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There was nothing new for Lars to see in town, and the only townspeople who noticed him were old women who never missed an opportunity to claim you couldn't tell Lars from the rest of the dump. Lars shuffled slowly down the town's main street, hands in his pocket, clutching the silver piece. He was torn between the best (that is, only) restaurant, and the general store. He would love a huge medium rare steak, baked potato, cold beer, and he would more than love to order it in a diner where he was not welcome - but his money would be. At the same time, that silver would buy several days of simple groceries at the general store.
As he stood in the middle of the street, hungry and indecisive, he was nearly run over by a herd of goats.
"Watch out, sir," called the dusty goatherd who trotted along behind the flock, hustling them along with a stick. "And please, can you tell me where is the market in this town? I've driven these goats as far as I care to drive them. I'd like to sell these fat, beautiful creatures and be done."
`Sell a goat,' Lars thought. `A goat. A goat can live off garbage and scraps and weeds, he thought. And when it's big enough, it can turn into mutton barbecue. Lots of mutton.'
No, he told the goatherd, there was no farmer's market in town, not during the week. He would have to wait for Saturday. In the meantime, however, what price did he ask for these poor starved animals?
And so began the haggling. It was a masterful display - Lars used to getting something for nothing since nothing was all he ever had, and the goatherd who haggled over goats for a living. On and on it went until the two of them, and the goats, became a traffic hazard. Finally they settled - Lars surrendered his newly won silver piece, and the goatherd turned over the skinniest goat Lars had ever seen.
`Oh, well,' Lars thought. `There's no end of trash and table scraps to fatten him up.' Grabbing the goat by an ear to point him in the right direction, Lars headed for the dump.
"Look," cackled one of the old gossips from the general store's porch, "Lars Dale came to town to fetch his brother!"
Rough laughter echoing behind him, Lars Dale and his new prize shuffled down the street and out of town.
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His silver gone, Lars returned to trash mining. He drove a castoff railroad spike into the ground beside his shack and tied the scrawny goat to it. Whenever he had extra on his table, he dumped the scraps in front of the goat, and he hourly found wagon loads of goat-edibles in the trash heaps. He trundled these from the heaps to the goat, but the animal gained no weight. Lars knew little of goats, (or anything else, come to that) but he was surprised that the creature stayed as thin as the day they'd come home.
One morning, when the goat had been there about ten days and looked the same as the first day, while Lars wondered how much wood was needed to roast the animal, the goat called out to him.
"Master?"
Lars froze, a wagon of trash heap scraps beside him. "Who said that?" he called.
"It was I, Master," said the goat. "I would have a word with you, if you will take time from your back breaking labors."
Lars gave the goat the fish-eye. "Who told you how to do that?"
"What, my Master?"
"Talk. Never seen no talkin' goat before."
"It is unimportant, my Master. As I can speak, please let me do so. I wish to ask your permission. I have an idea that may improve our lives, especially yours, my beloved Master."
Lars shifted his weight from foot to foot. He nodded for the goat to continue.
"I do not now what I have done to deserve such princely treatment, but my life with you has been grand. You took me in from that dreadful goatherd, you saved me from the market and the slaughterhouse, and you spent your last copper to do it. You feed me like the king of goats. You bring me wagons of delicious victuals, yet I rarely see eat anything yourself. And when you do, you bring me some of that!
"Now, my Master, I ask that you untether me that I may seek my own food. I promise, I swear I will return. But if I am free to seek my own food, I will not take food from your mouth. Oh, free me to find my own food, Master, so you shall not be forced to wait upon me. I shall return each night."
Now, this presented several problems, not the least of which was Lars Dale's lack of experience making decisions. When it came to his stomach, the only decision he ever made was to fill his plate as high as it would go. He had never seen a talking goat, never trusted anyone, and was never in a position to help anyone before. The whole business was scary. The quickest and simplest way to handle the problem was to roast the goat. But Lars had never cooked anything that could talk, and it the idea made him uneasy. The only other decision that would shut up the goat was to trust it, so that's what he did. Without a word, he stumbled forward, still pulling the wagon of trash, and took the rope off the goat's neck.
The animal shivered in delight. "Thank you, my Master. You shall never regret this." With a jump and a kick, the creature bounced into the ragged forest near Lars' shack.
Lars suddenly feared he was letting his supper run into the woods, but he knew there was nothing to be done. Leaving the wagon of scraps beside the railroad spike, Lars shuffled into his shack. Maybe there was something to eat.
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The goat was as good as his word, and at sundown he frisked into the clearing where Lars' shack stood. The goat looked the better for his day out, much better in fact than Lars did from his day at home. The animal stepped demurely back to the railroad spike tether and waited for Lars to slip the rope around his neck. With a last adoring look at Lars, he said "Sleep well, my Master," and settled into the dust for the night.
"G'night," mumbled Lars. He went into the shack to his wood and rope cot.
The next morning, the goat again asked to be turned loose so he would not burden his beloved master. Lars loosened the rope and watched his goat bounce into the forest. Lars Dale spent the hot summer day searching recently dumped trash, weeding what passed for his garden, and trying to convince himself that the dried bread (all he had in the shack) would be tasty, or at least filling.
Toward sundown, the goat stepped lightly back into the clearing and walked up to Lars. "Good evening, my master," said the goat, bowing to the man. "I hope your day has gone well. I found a new grazing patch in the forest. It grows thick with sweet grass and pungent mushrooms, there is a small, clear creek, lots of shade, a cool breeze. Between my days there and my evenings with you, my Master, I wonder if heaven itself will be much better!"
"Unh-huh," Lars mumbled. His stomach rumbled and he thought of the dried bread. He also thought of the mounds of mutton he had planned on, but he was still squeamish about barbecuing a talking goat.
Day followed day, and each much the same for a week. The goat left at daybreak for its grazing patch, Lars scratched around for something to eat or sell. But there came a day when the grass at the goat's grazing patch was dry and bitter, with no mushrooms, no tender leaves. The goat scratched at the grass, turning over the thatch in search of better grazing. However, instead of tender green shoots, the goat turned up something hard, shiny and bright yellow. The goat did not know the thing was a gold pocket watch, an expensive device covered in tiny, intricate engraving. But he knew it was something men would value.
The creature gave a little jump of joy. `Perhaps I can, in some small fashion, repay my master for using his last cent to save from the goatherd. But,' thought the goat, `I must be careful. Many men in town think badly of my master. If I just give it to him, some may say he stole it. I must use it some other way.'
Taking the watch in his teeth, the goat bounced back to Lars' clearing. He hid the watch under some brush in the trees, and then frisked up to the shack. Lars was surprised to see his pet back so soon.
"I could not bear to stay away any longer today, my beloved Master," the goat told him. "I wished to be with you."
Lars mumbled something. His life had become very confusing since he had bought this mutton, er, goat, and he didn't feel comfortable talking to it.
"My Master, you have been so kind to me, letting me run free to search for my own food. Might I ask another favor of you?"
"What?"
"Might I be allowed to see in your home? Oh," the goat said hastily, "I would not dream of entering, but I would like a peek at where you live."
Lars shrugged and waved a hand at the open door of the shack.
This was a ruse, a way for the goat to open a conversation about buildings, but he was also curious. He peeked in at the cluttered table, broken chair and filthy bed that served as Lars furnishings.
"Exquisite!" squealed the goat, and in truth he thought the shack quite lovely. (But then he was a goat and this was the first human dwelling he had ever seen inside.) "It is more glorious than I would have imagined!
"But tell me, my Master, before you rescued me from the goatherd, I saw the outside of many other buildings, and some of them were larger than your splendid home. Not that it would match your home, but where, my Master, would you find the largest building?"
Lars thought for a moment, and then decided a moment was enough thinking for a goat's question. "Guess that would be Parker Manor, Judge Parker's place over in Ruff County." Lars waived a hand in an indefinite direction, but generally to the north. "That's the biggest house I ever seen."
That ended the conversation on houses. The goat settled to his tether pole, Lars looped the rope around the animal's neck, and each went about his own business for the rest of the day.
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The next morning started like so many others. Lars untied the tether from his goat and turned the animal loose to search the forest for food. The goat nonchalantly stepped into the forest until out of sight of the shack. Then it sneaked to the pile of leaves where it had hidden the watch, dug the treasure out of the forest litter, clutched it tightly in its teeth, and charged off to the north.
The goat had no idea how far away Ruff County or Judge Parker's home might be, but on through the forest he ran. Near noon he grew thirsty, and after noon he grew hungry, and late in the day he grew tired, but on he ran. The sun was starting to pick up speed on the downhill slide when the goat passed a pen of goats on a small farm. The tired creature dropped the watch to the turf.
"My brothers," called the goat in the language of goats, "my sisters, can you speak?"
"We ca-a-a-a-an," bleated one in reply.
"I am looking for a place called Ruff County and a man called Judge Parker and a place called Parker Manor. Do you know any of these?"
"We know no man things. But the man's town is over the-er-er-ere." The nanny nodded to the northeast.
"I thank you, my sister," said the goat. Scooping up the watch in his teeth, away he ran to the northeast. More and more trees and turf flew by the steadfast creature, and within minutes he reached a small group of houses with a cobblestone street running through them. Weaving his way along that street came a man as filthy as the goat's master Lars. The goat felt at home talking to him.
The goat carefully dropped the watch to the stone street. "Excuse me, sir," panted the goat. "Can you tell me, is this Ruff County?"
The drunken man, for that is why he staggered, was as confused by a talking goat as Lars had been, but being drunk helped him deal with it. He nodded.
The goat leaped with joy. "And do you know Judge Parker?"
The drunk nodded vigorously. The goat leaped again. "And can you point out his house?"
The drunk motioned for the goat to follow him. Picking up the watch from the cobblestones, the animal fell in behind the staggering local. The man stumbled to the open end where the street intersected with another cobblestone road. Turning to his left, he pointed through the gathering shadows at a large brick building a few hundred yards away.
Joyfully, the goat leaped as high as the drunk's shoulder. "Thank you," the animal mumbled, unwilling to drop the watch to speak more plainly, and he ran. The drunk yelled after him, but the goat paid no attention. When he reached the house, the exhausted goat dropped the watch to the grass beside the front steps and tapped the front door with a tiny hoof.
The door opened and the doorway filled with a large man with a great head of white hair, a jutting white beard and the look of a man used to being in charge. The goat picked up the watch, and leaning across the sill, dropped it at the man's feet.
Judge Parker, for that's who the large man was, looked first at the watch and then at the goat and then into the street to see who may have been the cause of this oddity. "What's this all about?" he asked into the evening air.
"Please, sir Judge Parker," answered the goat, panting for breath. "I bring you a gift from my Master." And the exhausted creature collapsed.
Judges are not men who like surprises, and Judge Parker liked them less than most. He certainly did not like the sight or sound of a talking goat on his front door step, not even one bearing an expensive gold watch. But before he could kick goat and watch away from his door, the judge's daughter Rowan peeked around his imposing figure.
Now, as happens in so many of these stories, the judge's daughter was as gentle and tender as the Judge was stern and imposing. She would not stand for harsh treatment of one of God's creatures, not even a talking goat. She and the maid, who was pressed into service by the daughter, took the exhausted animal to the barn, laid it on fresh straw, covered it with a blanket against the approaching night air, and fed it rice and milk.
When the goat had recovered, it rose shakily to its cloven feet and bowed to the judge's gentle daughter. "My lady," it said in a quiet, tired voice, "I and my master thank you for the excellent treatment you have given me. But now, I must speak to Judge Parker. I have a message to accompany the gift from my master."
If the judge did not like surprises, he liked even less being summoned by a talking goat. But his daughter insisted, and like most publicly hard-hearted men, he was soft and loving when it came to his daughter. And so he found himself standing in his barn, gold watch in his hand, waiting for the goat to speak.
"I am come from and for my master, the Judge Lars Dale." The goat had no idea what a `judge' was, but if it was a noble title, well, his master deserved it as much as anyone. "I bring you this small gift." The goat motioned toward the watch. "It is a small thing. but my master is a man of quiet and humble ways."
The judge turned the watch over and over in his hand. It was a beautiful piece of work, solid gold inlaid with silver, heavy of workmanship, delicate of case with a leaded crystal. Even the numbers were elegantly hard-carved to catch the light. Beautiful, singular, handmade, one of a kind - and expensive. The judge, who would never let it show, was impressed.
But impressed or no, Judge Parker was no simple or trusting man. He'd never heard of this `Judge Lars Dale,' knew nothing of the man's intentions. However, any man who sent a talking goat as messenger, and who could bestow casual gifts such as this watch on total strangers was certainly a man to be reckoned with.
"And why," the judge asked, still turning the watch over in his hand, "does your master send me this, this token of his respect?"
"It is for the sake and the reputation of yourself," said the goat, "and of your lovely daughter. Your formidable reputation spreads far beyond the borders of Ruff County, my Judge, and my Master has heard of your daughter, of her beauty, of her gentleness, her wit, her spirituality. Being but a humble servant, I am not privy to the sources of these tales, but they have so favorably impressed my master the judge that he wishes to meet your honored self and this young lady, my gentle nurse.
"He does not," hastened the garrulous goat, "send the watch as a bribe, my judge, but merely as a token of his respect and proffered friendship."
Judge Parker turned the watch over in his hands another time or two, then slipped into his waistcoat pocket, as if to test its size. It must have fit since there it stayed. "Rest," he told the goat. "Rest here tonight. Regain your strength from your journey. When you recover, return to Judge Dale and tell him I desire to meet him, as well. And you tell him - " Judge Parker pointed a thick forefinger at the goat. "You tell him that neither I nor my daughter nor the goodwill of our family are for sale. Those he must win on his own merits. If he can do that, he can show up diseased, empty-handed and impoverished for all I care."
Again the goat rose to its shaky feet and made a low bow before the judge. "I thank, in my master's name, for your kind words, for your offer of shelter, and for allowing your own lovely daughter to tend to me so well. With her help, I shall be recovered by morning, ready to return to my master. If all goes well, and it is acceptable to your honor, you may expect a visit from Judge Dale three days from the morrow."
"Sounds fine," pronounced Judge Parker. Leaving his daughter and her maid to attend to the gentle, well-spoken creature, the judge returned to the house.
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The goat spent that night and the next day recuperating at the tender hands of the judge's daughter Rowan. The girl stayed in the barn with the animal, talking, listening, laughing with him, insisting he lay on his blanket on the straw and let her fetch for him.
The goat felt he had woke up in heaven. To be saved by such a generous master as he had, then to find a way to serve him, then to be led by that service into the company of this ministering angel - it was more than a simple barnyard animal could grasp!
The following morning, however, the goat announced he must return to his master. And since he had run all the day to get from there to here, well he must run all day again to get from here to there. And so he did.
It didn't take as long on the way back as on the way there since he knew the way and had spent a day being fed rice instead of grass. But it was late in the afternoon when he stepped out of the edge of the forest into the clearing beside Lars Dale's shack.
Lars had missed his new pet, but thought that the animal had escaped. He never thought to see the animal again, much less guessed that it was doing him a good turn by making his introduction to Judge Parker and his family. Thus, Lars was greatly surprised to see the goat step lightly from the trees. Joyfully Lars grabbed the tether rope and started toward the goat. He was not about to let his potential mutton get away again.
"My master," said the goat as he bowed his neck so Lars could better tie the knot, "I have returned with great news."
Lars grunted and pulled the rope tight.
"We must make ready. We must leave in the morning. We must make a long trip, and while I could run the distance in a single day, I would never dream of you running so far. But then, my Master, you are wise. You may know a quicker route."
"To where?" asked Lars, not really interested.
"Ruff County."
"It don't take no day to get to Ruff County. You just follow the pike road and you're there by noon. Why we need to go to Ruff County?
"Oh, please, Master, let it be a surprise! I will ask you as needed to make the trip shorter, but please let it be a surprise! You will be the better for it if you will trust me."
Now, trust wasn't Lars Dale's long suit either, but never before had a talking goat made travel plans for him. He was certainly not doing anything that couldn't be interrupted; the dump would be there when he returned, so he thought he'd risk it. There was always a chance there'd be a silver piece in it for him. He might even turn a profit on a talking goat.
"All, right," he said at last.
The goat jumped from side to side. "Thank you, master. Let us make an early night of it. We want to be ready for tomorrow."
Lars grunted. Checking the tether to insure it was tight, he went into his twilight lit shack and lit a small fire to warm some beans.
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Lars Dale was not by nature an early riser, but the first rays of dawn found the goat tapping a tiny hoof against the shack's front door. Full sun up found them walking to the north, and the late morning saw them near the Ruff County line on a macadam road that was hours quicker than the goat's run through the forest.
At noon, the pair took their rest in the trees a few yards from the side of the road in a small, cool clearing beside a stream. When Lars was comfortably munching a biscuit, the goat told him to wait by the creek and for him to return. Without waiting for questions, the goat bolted for Judge Parker's house.
An hour's hard run down the broken stone roadway brought the goat to the Judge's front door. Rowan and the maid were setting up a picnic table beneath the enormous elms beside the house, but when she saw her new friend racing down the cobblestones, Rowan dropped her linen napkins and ran into the street to meet him.
"My friend," she cried, embracing the little creature. "I'm so happy you've returned. We were just about to sit to lunch." She peered down the road behind the goat. "But, where is Judge Dale? Was he not to come with you?"
"My master!" squeaked the goat, and collapsed to the road.
With a gasp of panic, Rowan scooped the little goat into her arms and ran for the house, shouting for her father. By the time she reached the picnic tables, her father had come out. His look was thunderous.
"What is all this?" he demanded. "Where is Judge Dale."
"My Master," panted the goat, short of breath and weak of knee from the running. "Tragedy befell my beloved Master! On the road, we were attacked by robbers. They roughed up my master, stole all he had. One bandit even stole his fine clothes! He was left with nothing but the filthy, ill-fitting rags the thief cast aside. They would have taken me, as well, but my Master ordered me to run into the woods, and I lost them."
"No man nor woman is safe on these roads," pronounced the judge. "not a lady, not a man of the cloth or the robe! Too many soft judges, not enough thieves in jail. Judy!" he called to the maid, "Fetch some of my clothes. I'll get a horse and ride out to meet Judge Dale."
"No!" yelped the goat. "No, my judge, you must not."
"What?!"
"Consider, my judge. My master is lying in the woods, nursing his wounds, wearing filthy rags, all that were left him by a man who took the gifts he brought, his money, his clothes. Were he a lesser man, they might even have taken his dignity. I'm not sure he could stand you, a brother judge (the goat hoped that was a good term) seeing him in such a situation."
"Perhaps you're right," grumbled Judge Parker. "I know how I'd feel to be found by a brother of the bench. (`Brother of the bench,' thought the goat. `Have to remember that.') But, how will we get him here?"
"I am enough, my judge," answered the goat. "I will take clothes and horse to my Master. Tie the clothes to the back of the horse, then tie the horse's tether to my neck. Then go about your lives. I will return with my Master by sundown."
The judge did not like it, but he agreed it was best. The maid sacked up some clothes, the judge secured them to the horse, Rowan tied the halter to the goat. Then Rowan kissed the goat on the head, and the loyal creature started down the cobblestone road to Lars Dale.
"I've never seen such a thing, Rowan. And I don't just mean a talking animal. That's odd enough, but for anyone to be that solicitous, that caring about some one else - and a master? That creature must come from gentle hands. I want to meet this Judge Dale."
Rowan said nothing, but she began planning a wonderful supper for the goat and the `judge.'
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The goat led the horse as fast as the larger creature would travel. By late afternoon they reached the stream where Lars napped in the shade.
"Up, master," called the goat. "I've brought you clothes and a mount. You need not walk. You can ride into Ruff County in style."
Never had Lars questioned a gift, no matter the source, no matter the gift, and he wasn't about to start with this. He jumped to his feet to take the clothes off the horse before some one snatched them away.
"Hold on, master," cried the goat. "Not yet. We have been on the road. You have a layer of road dust you should get rid of first. Jump into the stream and rinse yourself."
Well, the clothes were finer than anything Lars had ever worn, and the goat had given good advice so far, so Lars jumped into the creek, clothes and all. He peeled off the old clothes, and in a few minutes the running water had stripped weeks of road grime and sweat from his skin. He let the sun dry him, then slipped into the judge's clothes. They were big and loose but they were the finest threads to ever touch his body. Well dressed, if a little baggy, Lars mounted the horse.
"Let's go," he called to the goat.
The little goat frisked to the roadway and stood in front of the horse.
"Master," said the goat, "when we get there, you need to greet everyone and ask for local news, but beyond that, you should keep silence for now. Leave the talking to me. I have been around these people. I have provided you with an introduction and good report. You needn't bother yourself with lengthy speeches."
"My friend, I've done all right since I met you. I don't know what kind of introduction you made that would make a judge want to meet me outside a courtroom, but I'll take your word for it. I'll stay quiet."
So the little party went their way, drawing a few looks from passing travellers. A man on horseback was a common sight, but a man on horseback being led by a goat was different. And the goat set the hardest pace the horse would follow.
It was nearly sundown when the roadway changed from the chipped country macadam to town cobblestones, and the sun was plainly setting when the goat spoke again.
"Master, that red brick home at the end of the street is our destination. That is the home of Judge Parker and his daughter Rowan and their friend Judy and perhaps other people as well. Those are the only three I've met. I have made your introductions, and the family is anxious to meet you, but you must know you are a different person to them. Even your name is new."
"Who's am I?" drawled Lars.
"You are a rich and powerful judge, Master. You are Judge Lars Dale. This is another reason it would be good to stick to general conversation."
Lars nodded. "And not much of that," he added.
When they were a block away, the household turned out to meet them. Rowan ran ahead to hug the goat about the furry neck while the judge and Judy waited at the edge of the property. When they reached the house, the goat formally introduced `Judge' Lars Dale to the family, the family to Lars. Showing a jurist's reserve, Judge Parker greeted Lars; Lars, afraid to look stupid, showed reserve as well. This pleased Judge Parker, and he led Lars away into the gathering evening gloom to share drinks and cigars and talk. Rowan, meanwhile, led the goat to the barn and insured there was fresh straw, fresh milk, fresh rice for the gentle, talkative creature.
Judge and `judge,' daughter and goat talked into the night, the judges talking about anything but the law, the goat working the conversation around to talk about his master. By bed time that night, each was impressed with the phony judge, each ready for the daughter to meet him.
The next morning, the goat rose first. Quietly he moved from window to window, peeping in just enough to determine if his master was sleeping in the room. When he spotted the top of Lars Dale's tousled head poking from under a blanket, he tapped lightly against the window. Lars stuck his groggy head out the window and sniffed the gray dawn air.
"What you want, little fellow?"
"Master, I am leaving on a short journey. You are in good hands with Judge Parker and his family. The judge is a good man, and I believe Rowan is wishes to know you better. I shall return in a few days. Please stay here."
Lars scratched his hair. "Ain't no way I'm leaving. This is the best set up I've ever had. I owe you big, little friend."
The goat shivered with delight to hear Lars use the word friend. "If the family asks about me," the goat continued, "tell them you wish the judge and his family to visit you, and I've gone to get your house in order."
"Lord, I don't want them to visit my place!"
"Trust me, Master."
"All right. But you be back soon, you hear?"
A quick nod, and the goat was gone.
Through field and forest, meadow and town and wilderness the goat ran. He ran through and past small villages and single houses, saw stately manors and large brick houses sitting solitary and self-contained on hills. But none of them suited the goat's needs until he found "Seven Oaks."
The Oaks was a plantation mansion with columns along the front, railed terraces at every window, stained glass in the parlor. To see the exterior was to know that inside were marble mantles, hand shaved oak panelling, thick home-made rugs and quilts and tapestries in every room. And surrounding it, shading it in the summer, shielding it from winds and storms, watching and brooding over the mansion were seven monstrous oaks, trees that were old before men came to build the mansion, trees strong enough to be there when the mansion was gone and forgotten. Surrounding the stately home were lush fields, thick with grasses - and a swamp, a mire that seemed much out of place in this land of tall trees and grasses heavy with seed.
`That,' thought the goat, `is the house for my master. I must win it for him.' Boldly, but watching in every direction, the goat stepped to the front door. "Open!" he cried, and knocked twice at the door - not tapped, but knocked so that all inside might hear. "Open!"
"Who are you? Who's yelling?" An old woman's voice came from behind the door.
"It is I, great mistress," answered the goat. "Your grandchild is here."
"Grandchild! If you was my grandchild, I'd chase you away with a stick. Don't you stay 'round here. You'll die here. And you'll be the death of me, too!"
"Open, please grandmother. If lives are lost, it will not be yours or mine. Open!"
The heavy oaken door slipped open, and tiny wrinkled face peeked around it. "Well, my grandchild, what have you to say?"
"Grandmother." The goat made a bow. "Where I am from, all is well. And with you?"
"Ah, grandchild, it's not well at all here. If you're looking for a way to die, today's the day you might find it."
"That's not my quest, but we will see what I gain. Who is the owner and lord of this beautiful home? You, grandmother?"
"Me? Lord, child, whatever is wrong with you? No, this ain't mine. There's much wealth here, treasures and land and horses and more, and it all belongs to the Serpent."
"A good and gentle serpent? A serpent who is a credit to serpents, beloved by his neighbors?"
"Lord, child, where are you from? This ain't no simple snake. This here's a swamp serpent, an old and giant wurm. You might think its a dragon when you see it. Only it has too many heads for a dragon, and it come from the swamp, and it's a sorcerer besides. It's the Serpent, and there's nothing good or gentle or loved about it."
"Yet, you enjoy staying with this magical wurm?"
"Enjoy? Grandchild, you've seen too little of the world if you think anyone would want to be a prisoner and a slave."
"Then," said the goat, "you must help me kill it."
"Shhhhh!" The old woman hissed at the goat and looked around the columned front porch, dirty white hair swishing about her face. "Don't say things like that," she whispered. "You risk both our lives. The Serpent would kill me just for hearing the idea. Listen, Grandchild, one of the Serpent's necks is larger that your whole you. It has seven heads, and each one eats a whole bull every other day. When it twitches its tail, winds rush through the trees, when it talks, clouds of poison roll off its lips. Do you think you can match such a monster, Child?"
"Does this horror own a sword, Mother?"
"He has one. It's in bad shape. He keeps it in a closet in the root cellar."
"I'll use it," said the goat, and the old woman led him to the closet in the cellar. Under a pile of rags and junk he found the sword. It was old and rusted, crusted with the blood of its last use. It had no scabbard, and the hilt rattled. But a green light glinted off the pitted edge of the blade, and the goat announced it would do.
"Now," said the old woman, "you get where you're going. It's a feeding day around here. I have to make sure the seven bulls are laid out as the Serpent likes them, and that the water tanks are full. It would be an awful thing for me if the Serpent's supper was not as he liked. By the way, the people here call me Mother Maybelle." With that, she shuffled in a slow, arthritic way to the back yard where other aged servants were wrestling bull carcasses into position.
The goat, knowing a goat's limitations, picked a simple hiding place behind the open kitchen door. From there, the courageous little animal could see the backyard feeding area.
After the carcass arranging, the other servants, ancient, arthritic old men and women all, had shuffled off to hide. The old woman tied the rusty old sword onto the goat's foreleg, then the two settled in to wait for the Serpent.
They didn't wait long. A chill, foul smelling breeze whipped around the dust in the yard, the towering oaks surrounding the mansion began to gossip to each other, a large and tangled shadow passed over the yard several times as the Serpent inspected the place before landing. The old woman had to wait on the Serpent, so she was the only one in the yard when the monster dropped from the sky for his supper.
Without a word, the creature slithered and waddled into the middle of the carcasses. The bulls were arranged in a circle so each of the seven Serpent heads faced a different direction and had its own carcass. None of the heads could see the others, so the Serpent didn't have itself for dinner conversation, but neither did it have a back to sneak up on.
"Woman!" called the head closest to the kitchen door. "Woman, come here!" The head dived back to chewing a chunk out of the carcass.
Taking a deep breath, the old woman shuffled out the kitchen door across the dusty back yard to the feeding area. She stopped a few feet from the bull carcass. "Yes, master," she mumbled.
"What is that stink? I smell something new. It got stronger when you came out here. What is it?"
Before she could answer, the source of the odor, the brave little goat, leapt out from behind the old woman. He had followed her into the yard, hopping on three legs because the fourth had the sword strapped to it. One bounce moved him next to the bull just as the Serpent head bent to take another bite. Another bounce landed the little animal on the long, green, greasy neck of the monster. Precariously balanced on three legs, the goat swung the rusty sword. Green light flashed from the ancient and pitted blade as it sliced through the Serpent's neck like a hot knife sliding through warm butter. A chunk of half-chewed bull in it's fangs, the head dropped to the ground in front of the old woman.
"I don't knew what odor, master," she mumbled. None of the other heads had noticed the commotion and she did not want them to look around because she wasn't answering. "Perhaps it was what I used to wash my frock today."
The goat had but a few seconds. Praying the magic in the sword would last, he leaped to the next slimy green serpent neck. Another swing, another flash of green and another serpent head rolled into the dust of the yard.
While the old woman droned on and on about the stuff she used to wash the servants clothes, the goat leaped nimbly from neck to neck. The sword flashed green and cut clean, and with each swing the blade grew bright and new and felt like the sword was swinging and guiding itself. In what was only a few seconds, but felt like a forever to the goat, the last of the seven heads was sliced from the last of the seven necks. When the final head dropped, the body of the Serpent collapsed. A stinging, stinking silent wind roared of from the swamp near the house, though the giant oaks stayed strangely silent. The wind whipped through the yard, carrying a monstrous cloud of dust, coating the bulls in grime, blinding the goat. He lost his footing and tumbled to the ground. The rope holding the sword broke, the blade bounced free, the wind blew goat and sword to a rolling halt against a bull carcass. The goat curled into a tight ball to await what came next.
Silence came next. The wind died away, the cloud of dust collapsed or disappeared. The goat felt blinded by the grit blown into his eyes, but the only sound was a soft sighing of the gossipy leaves in the giant oaks.
"Grandchild?" asked a warm woman's voice. "Are you all right?"
Squinting and blinking around the dust on his face, the goat opened his eyes a crack. Bending over him, concern obvious in her chestnut eyes, was a woman. Not an old woman, but a grown woman, long dark red hair falling around her face as she bent over the fallen animal.
"I'll be fine," whispered the goat. "I could use a drink. Can you show me the well? And can you tell me if the old woman is all right? That was quite a wind."
"You lie there," said the woman. "The old woman will bring you something to drink." She jumped to her feet and ran across the yard to the kitchen, emerging a few seconds later with a bowl of cold milk. She placed it beside the goat and helped him up to drink from it.
"So," said the goat, when he had his voice back, "you are what I thought was an old woman. How is that?"
Mother Maybelle ran a gentle, long-fingered hand over the goat's brow. "The Serpent, for reasons that happened a couple of centuries ago, enslaved me. He wanted me to serve him, so I had to be able to get around, but he wanted me a prisoner, too, so he made me a crippled old woman. He enchanted and aged us all." She waved a hand around her. There were other people coming out of the kitchen door, young, strong men and women, staring in wonder at the goat lying in the circle of half-eaten bull carcasses.
"We were the Serpent's slaves," Mother Maybelle mused. "You delivered us. I suppose we are now your slaves."
"No." The goat shook its head. "No. No one here is a slave. You may all stay, and my Master will have a place for you in this house, but no one shall be a slave." The goat finished the last of the milk. "Now, can you show me this house?"
Maybelle rose to her feet, and trailing the rest of the formerly ancient slaves, woman and goat toured the mansion and grounds. The giant oaks still stood, but the swamp was gone, replaced by a grazing-green meadow. Though the bulls still lay in the dirt, there was no trace of the Serpent; heads, body and all had vanished in the dust/wind storm. Only the sword remained, now frighteningly hard and bright, a thin crust of serpent slime along the edge, sunlight glinting green off its etching.
The mansion inside was the same but different. Aged furniture, carpeting, tapestries, all were there and all were new, the padding thick, the colours vibrant, the construction sound. The root cellar, that had been full of canned tomatoes and turnips, now was treasure room lined with jars and casks of gold and jewels. The junk and rags that had hidden the sword had become fine silks and piles of golden coins.
"It was the Serpent's," said the woman, "and now it is yours."
"Then you must keep it for my Master. He shall come in a few days. Listen to me." He spoke louder so that all the newly young servants could hear. "You are all welcome to stay, to live here and work for my Master, a gentle man who would treat you well. But you are also all free to go. I will soon leave to bring my master. Till then, you can decide to leave or no. If you go, you may take anything from this treasure room you can carry in your hands or on your backs. It should give your something to start your new life."
They all bowed and thanked the goat, and each wanted to pet him or caress him or thank him in some way for winning them their freedom.
For a day the goat lay and rested in the house, learning something of the stories of the servants. All wanted to talk to the little creature. All but Mother Maybelle. She stayed at the goat's side, bringing cold milk and cooked rice, speaking and laughing and making the goat laugh. But never did she mention how she had come to be the Serpent's old woman, and never did the goat ask.
After he had rested a day, the goat repeated his offer of treasure to any who wished to leave. Then he hid the sword in the cellar/treasure room closet, took his leave and returned to his master.
When Lars heard the goat was at the door, he nearly got religion - he had certainly prayed hard enough for the goat to return before he showed what a judge he wasn't. He wasn't sure how things would end with Judge Parker, but he knew how much he liked Rowan Parker and living in the Parker house. And since she did not wish to talk about law or the life of a judge (she already knew too much about both), Rowan thought the visitor quite different and interesting, as well.
Both young people ran into the yard to greet the goat. For different reasons, both hugged him and exclaimed how much they had missed him, how happy they were that he had returned. The goat was flattered by the attention, especially that of Lars Dale.
"I am well," the little creature finally said. "And it is also well at your country home, my Master."
Lars well knew he had no country home, unless his shack deserved such an exalted title. But he also knew how well he had done by listening to the goat, so he nodded once as if he were content, and said nothing.
"The servants are preparing for a visit. You have spoken to Miss Rowan about visiting, have you not, my Master?"
Well, of course he hadn't. The goat covered the `omission' by claiming his master spent so much thought on weighty legal matters that he sometimes forgot simple day to day affairs. Rowan was thrilled with the idea of a trip to the country, and together the three of them approached Judge Parker, the goat as their spokesman. The Judge wasn't sure how to react to Lars, but his daughter was his daughter, and he trusted the goat, and after all, he thought, Judge Dale is a fellow judge. At last he gave his approval.
The party spent a day packing (well, Rowan packed), and the following day started to Lars' new country home. The young couple rode a smart wagon pulled by two roan horses. Judge Parker, who insisted on seeing this country home, rode alongside. The goat, standing his ground against the wishes of the Parkers (and knowing that Lars Dale had no idea where they were going), trotted along in front, refusing to ride.
They rode for a day, and stayed a night in an inn, and then rode some more. Around noon the little party turned a corner, and they could see the top floor of Lars Dale's house, surrounded by the massive oaks and columns, rising above the treeline.
"Mistress, Rowan," called the goat. "My master is so used to it that he wouldn't think of pointing it out, but there is a peek at his house."
Rowan and the Judge were impressed (as was Lars Dale, though he tried not to show it). Within the hour, the wagon rolled through the iron and marble gates that guarded the drive leading to the mansion.
When Mother Maybelle saw the group driving up to the front door, she ran across the yard, swept up the goat in her arms and kissed it on the forehead. The animal wriggled in her grasp.
"I'm very glad to see you, too, Mother Maybelle," the goat whispered to her. "But you must show attention and affection to my master. He's the younger man in the wagon, and he is the one you should be greeting!"
"Forgive me, Grandchild," the lady whispered back. "I didn't know this was the new master of the house." She set the goat back to its feet, kissing it atop its furry head. Then she bowed to Lars and Rowan. "My Master," she said, "the house is as you like it, the household in attendance. We are happy you have returned."
The next hour was a wonder to Rowan, the Judge and Lars. While the rest of the servants unpacked the wagon, Mother Maybelle led the group on a tour of Lars' mansion and grounds. Rowan was openly amazed at what she saw, the expensive grandeur of the mansion, the expansive beauty of the rolling lands that surrounded it, the incredible wealth at Lars' disposal. Lars was equally amazed, but did his best to cover it. The goat was silently proud of the Parker family's reaction to his master's home, and Mother Maybelle kept a watchful eye on the new master.
The Judge, just as amazed as the others (though he would never show it), decided his daughter was in good hands, well chaperoned and safe. He spent the night in a bedroom as big as the first floor of his house, and the next morning returned to his own home to attend to his court.
Lars and Rowan settled quickly onto the estate. Lars did his best to act like he knew what he was doing, and claimed to spend the mornings working on `his business.' Rowan was used to this from her father, and thought nothing of it. She became close friends with Mother Maybelle and some other female servants. She spent her mornings with them, and in writing letters to her father and friends. Afternoons were often spent riding, there being many horses at the manor. Suppers were grand, and each afternoon a servant went to town to find entertainers for the evening.
In this happy and easy way, several weeks slipped by. Rowan began to feel at home in this new place, and Lars knew he never wanted her to leave. The goat lived simply, watching the happy couple, becoming the close confidant of the servants (all of whom had stayed), and feeling he might have repaid his master for the great gift of freedom from the goatherd all those months ago.
One evening, while the `judge' and his fianc‚e (yes, Rowan had agreed to marry Lars) sat at dinner listening to a travelling singer read poetry, Mother Maybelle settled in the corner beside the little goat.
"Tell me," she whispered, "how long have you and your party lived here?"
"A few weeks," whispered the goat in reply.
Maybelle nodded. "And in those weeks, has your master ever asked how you got this house for him? Who used to own it? Where these servants came from? Who we are?"
The goat frowned. "no," he whispered. "He never has. Why should he? He is my master. He saved me. Why do you ask?"
Maybelle shook her thick red tresses. "No reason," she whispered. "Just wondered." She jumped nimbly to her feet and moved to the table to refill a glass that did not really need it. She left the goat in the corner, and the goat heard nothing else of the poetry that night. He was thinking.
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The next morning, the goat did not spring from its bed of straw as it had every other dawn since moving to the mansion. Maybelle rushed to the barn.
"What's wrong, my little friend," she asked, cradling the goat's head.
"I don't feel well."
"What's wrong?"
"My stomach is sick, my head feverish, my legs ache."
"When did this start?"
"During the night. I think it was that." He waved a tiny foreleg at the straw where it slept. "Be careful."
Maybelle reached a hand into the straw and felt something hard and metallic. Gripping it carefully, she pulled out the sword, the one the goat had used to vanquish the Serpent. The dark green crust of Serpent blood still lined the cutting edge of the weapon - except in one tiny spot. There the green was overlaid with a dark, dried brown. Maybelle noticed the tiny reddish spot, then lifted the goat's foreleg and squinted at the foot. Where the fur met hoof was a tiny nick, a tiny crust of dried blood.
"You nicked yourself on this blade," she said quietly. "And the alien blood of the Serpent is mixed with yours. It's no wonder you feel so bad." She tossed the blade to the back of barn where it clattered among some castoff tools. "What can I get for you, my Grandchild?"
"Nothing. Let me rest. Perhaps later I will be strong enough to rise and see my master."
"As you wish, Grandchild." Maybelle laid the little goat's head on its bed of straw and slipped quietly from the barn. Into the house she went, straight to the dining room where Lars and Rowan were being served breakfast.
"Mother Maybelle," called Lars. "What you want?"
Maybelle bowed slightly. "To tell the judge that the goat lies ill."
"What is the matter with him?" asked Rowan.
"He aches and is sick. He has been infected by a cut, and no part of his body is without pain."
"Well," said Lars, taking another bite of ham, "if there are any scraps from breakfast, you can take them to it. Are any of the servants animal doctors?"
Rowan stared at him in amazement. "Lars, don't tell her to give the goat scraps. Why in the world are you going to feed him garbage?"
"Rowan, he's a goat! Goats like garbage. He lived on scraps when I first got him. Real food's for people."
"Lars Dale, this is not a goat like other goats. How many other goats have you known that talked and ran errands for you? You shouldn't treat him like an animal."
"You got a little too much opinion this morning, Rowan." Lars returned to his breakfast.
Seeing she would get no better response, Mother Maybelle returned to the barn. She sat in the straw and watched the tiny goat, who looked asleep. A shining tear escaped from her eye to glisten along the side of her nose.
The goat was not as asleep as she had thought. It looked up at her with feverish eyes. "Grandmother Maybelle," it said softly, "why do you cry?"
Maybelle let the single tear slide untouched down her face, but she did not answer the goat's question.
"Please," said the goat, "I pray you tell me what troubles you."
"It's your master, the judge," she said bitterly. She gave him a description of the breakfast table conversation.
"It is well," said the goat, more light dimming from his eyes. "The master has weightier matters on his mind, and he is right - he is no animal doctor." The goat laid his head back to the straw.
Later in the morning, Mother Maybelle went back into the house. She found Lars and Rowan having coffee and talking about their wedding plans.
"What news of the goat?" asked Rowan.
"He grows weaker."
"Did you send him the table scraps like I told you?" Lars took another sip from his coffee cup.
Maybelle bowed to him. "I did. He is too sick to chew them."
"Lars," said Rowan, "you've got to do something. You need to send for a doctor."
"A doctor? And what will a doctor charge? More than the silver piece I paid for the goat, I bet. The silver piece is gone. There's no need to throw more after it."
Rowan looked stunned. "That creature may have the body of a goat, but he has the heart of a gentleman. And a better one than some I've met." Rowan stood. "Mother Maybelle, take me to the goat."
Now Lars looked shocked. "We were talkin' about our weddin'. You're gonna go check on a goat?"
"Lars, I feel more sorry for you than the goat. It must feel awful treating a good friend so badly. Come on, Mother Maybelle."
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When the goat woke from its nap, it was late afternoon, and he found both Rowan and Maybelle watching him. A pillow was under his head, and a bowl of cool milk was ready to hand.
"My lady, Rowan," the animal said with a weak smile, "how many times will you have to care for me? What news from my master?"
Tears welled in Rowan's eyes, and she could not speak. Maybelle, however, had no trouble.
"Your beloved master told me he had been troubled more than the value of the silver piece he used to buy you. Lady Rowan and the staff have been ordered not to mention you to him again." Her brown eyes flashed and her hair seemed redder than normal. "Your beloved master is too busy to be troubled with a silver piece of mutton such as yourself."
"The master has much on his mind," whispered the goat. "And the two of you have much more to do than worry about me. You, Lady Rowan, you should plan for your wedding, and Mother Maybelle, you should run my master's house. Perhaps I will see you later." And with that gentle whisper, the goat breathed his last.
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Rowan wept for the loss of her friend, but it was nothing to the sorrow felt by each of the servants. There was sobbing and mourning throughout the house., and the servants were inconsolable. All, that is, except Maybelle.
Lars Dale had a fit. "You people are crying over a goat! You're crying like it was me that died. It was a goat I bought for a silver piece. Look at the treasure in this house. I could buy a herd just like him every day of the week!"
"Lars," sobbed Rowan, "just think for a minute. It was the goat that introduced us, remember? If it wasn't for the goat, my father would never have let you in the door."
"And if not for the goat, you would never have had this mansion," Maybelle shouted at him. "These people weep not for the goat, but for themselves and their loss."
"Shut up, witch!" Lars yelled. Without another word, he stomped past the sobbing servants into the barn. He grabbed the goat by its back legs and drug it through the dirt to an abandoned well in the back. There he threw it in and threw some large rocks on top of it. Then he stomped back into the house.
"There," he announced, "that's the end of it. No more talk about the critter!"
"That `critter' did you much good," Maybelle said quietly. "If anyone says he could have done more, he lies! Some of the servants wonder, if you do this to such a one as the goat, what treatment will you give those of us who have done you no such good? I think the gentle creature died from sadness in its soul for helping the likes of you. Bah! Leave us alone that we may weep for our loss."
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The next morning, Rowan gave one of the servants a letter to deliver and the fastest horse in the stables to use. Judge Parker was greatly troubled by the letter. Ordering a burly bailiff to accompany him, the judge brought fresh horses, bid the servant lead the way, and started to Lars' mansion.
With the bailiff holding Lars at bay, the servants dug out the old well and retrieved the body of the little goat. More tears were shed, and the old judge was nearly moved to shed some of his own. The servants and the Parker family make an informal procession to the side of the house and buried what remained of their friend. The goat's final rest was beneath the thick, talkative leaves of the oaks that guarded the mansion, and never was a cooler or greener place found to await the final trumpet.
Still under the watchful eye of the bailiff, Lars was forced to watch his erstwhile fiancee pack her clothes into a wagon and leave with her father. Then the servants, remembering the goat's offer of all they could carry into a new life, raided the treasure room and left with the horses. Maybelle was the last to go. She had no parting words, but merely spat in the dust at Lars' feet, then turned her horse and rode off leaving Lars Dale standing on his porch.
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Thus ends the tale of the little talking goat. Nothing remains but became of the people his gifts touched.
Judge Parker returned to his bench. Lars gave him a darker view of humanity, but the goat left him with a brighter view of life. Only he knows how much either affected his rulings.
Rowan overcame her grief from the goat's death and her disgust from Lars' life. She wed and lived the life that should be lived by lovely, sweet and clever girls everywhere and everywhen.
The mansion servants went their separate ways to separate homes and lives, and who knows but that you may have heard of them - rich strangers passing through small villages with magical tales to tell. Except Mother Maybelle. Unless you have met her and she told you herself, no one knows her tale or true name or what became of her after the day she left the mansion.
And finally Lars. Lars was left in the house alone, and for a while life was fine. There was some food in the house, and he sold some things, and then more things and then finally everything to keep himself warm in the winter and fed all the time. After a few months, however, there came a day when there was nothing left to eat and nothing left to sell and nothing left to do but put on his best remaining clothes and walk down the road that led from the house - and back to his shack and his never ending mine of trash.
`At least,' he thought as he left the mansion behind, `at least there'll be plenty of new stuff dumped since I left. Maybe there'll be another silver piece or two!' And this thought carried him back to his shack.
grandchild, grandmother - it is traditional in many regions to call elderly people, even total strangers, 'father,' 'mother,' 'grandmother' or 'grandfather.' This does not indicate that the goat and the woman are related (though they could be). The goat is just being polite.