The Goat



  The Goat

  Robert Taylor

  Copyright 2011 Robert Taylor

  Preface

  The first light of sun pierced the window. The warmth radiated deep inside his wrinkled skin and sparked his awakening dance. His arms slapped against his sides and then sprang above his head. His withered toes curled down reluctantly, then retracted. The man’s eyelids fluttered. The sandman’s dust flew away into his loose mountain of sheets.

  Oliver Simms accepted the morning, but with no great pleasure.

  The ancient man stood and strained his arms to the ceiling, abruptly canceling the motion as a giant popping sound echoed in his ear. The pain crept up soon after. His good hand traveled to his wounded left shoulder, offering its sympathy. Oliver’s arms fell back to his side. A sigh crawled through his narrow throat, emerging free from his lungs. He muttered choice words under his breath before he set off for the kitchen.

  Oliver’s old age had stolen much. Naturally, his tolerance for malarkey had gone first. Not long after his ears had taken a turn south. The old man was as comfortable with the idea of a hearing aide as he would be the idea of a girdle. When his eyes decided to go, he left that issue untreated as well. Surgery was too risky. Those damn glasses, conspiracy. No two ways about it.

  Even with a full battery of senses to wield, he could not have digested the scene in his kitchen all at once. Like the other pieces of him, Oliver’s mind had slowed over the years. Large pictures were like large meals, they took a long time to digest and if not properly chewed came out as gook in the end.

  There at his feet lay a cereal box, next to it the box of bran, further over, his jar of wheat germ. The duck statuette his mother had given him was on the floor. Its head was a few inches from its body. Scattered porcelain bits made a trail between. The trash was toppled, the counters in complete disarray. Oliver’s toothless mouth dangled over the linoleum floor. He had been robbed.

  Another object came in to focus. Vandals! Oliver treaded the mounds of debris. He bent down, his body creaking as he retrieved the tattered dark brown box. Graham crackers. It was too much.

  Oliver stumbled toward the phone. A distant audible crunch rose to his ears as he crossed the sea of crumbs and waste. A tear came to his eye.

  A flushness rushed through his face that reminisced of his days in the war, not that he was involved mind you, but all that horrible fighting really ticked him off. He jettisoned the cracker box into the trash, and took a deep breath.

  Feverishly, his finger raced through the numbers. In the middle of the second ring, a young man answered the line, his voice foggy with exhaustion.

  “Mist-, Mister Simms?”

  “Well, damn it boy are you still sleeping? I’m going to need you to get up to the store and get me some more groceries, cereals, and what not. Seems some punks, likely stoner Americans, broke into my house to satisfy their animal cravings for sweets, and well I can’t never seen a mess like this.”

  Oliver paused and surveyed the room again, straining his eyes.

  “And don’t be slow getting over here! I’m likely to starve if you waste one God-damned minute.”

  The old man slammed the phone down on the cradle. Before he could repair the damage or even assess it in total, he would have to eat.

  No villain would spoil a perfectly good meal like breakfast.

  Chapter 1

  Sparky’s beard had become so unkempt. Now that he thought about it, he never tended it. Now that he thought? Staring at his reflection, he took a step closer, examining more thoroughly his lower lip. It looked so swollen. The sight was both strange and funny. A smile crept over his face. Shreds of grass were nestled in the cracks of his teeth.

  Smiling was harder than he expected. His muscles were slow to respond, never having been used in such a way. The crinkle in his cheeks was funny.

  He dropped to the ground, scared.

  What was that sound? Did I laugh?

  Sparky shook his head. Climbing back to his feet, he stretched his neck high. He pressed another smile out of his stale face. His tiny beard curled upward.

  In the reflection, he caught sight of the man. Oliver.

  “God-damn narcissistic bastard.”

  Oliver’s words were clear. A response formed in Sparky’s mind, but he kept it tightly sealed behind his lips. He quickly realized things were different for him.

  Memories flowed through him. There were visions of bouncing across the rolling green hills as a kid; running in the fields with his mother. When he was older he rode in the little red wagon. Oliver pulled him everywhere. Older still, Oliver chased the goat around the yard. The spry old coot tackled him in the field and they wrestled for what seemed like hours, Sparky’s children watching from the shade of the tall pine tree on the hilltop.

  I’ve got kids.

  Oliver busied himself with a barrel of sweet grain. Sparky returned to his reflection. The goat’s racing mind felt like an empty flask being filled to the brim. For the first time in his life, he could reason.

  Sparky took a step back from the wash basin. The goat watched from a distance as Oliver lumbered about. The ancient human’s fingers had grown spindly and etched with wear over his many years. The man had a light covering of white hair and a gentle growth across his cheeks that by tomorrow would be a proper five o’clock shadow.

  For the second time, Sparky resisted the urge to speak to him. With his awakening thoughts, a new concept settled over him. Fear.

  Sparky strolled out of the barn. A small gust of wind flowed over the green grass of the pasture. The aroma of the blossoming wildflowers climbed through his nostrils and rested in the pit of his stomach. It was late summer, and the salad of the season was tempting.

  His lips went to the ground and wrapped around a sweet dandelion. The herd was scattered across the field. Sparky trotted up the hillside. His eyes shot to the brown spotted goat lying in the grass next to his daughter. Samantha is too young to be lying that close to a boy.

  Sparky charged. He thwacked the young buck in the side precisely in the sweet spot. Darren whined as he cantered away. Sparky strained his face forming a harsh glare at the young goat.

  “Watch yourself!”

  Holy shit.

  Sparky covered his mouth. He collapsed on his rear. As Sparky pulled his foreleg away from his mouth, he flexed his hoof into a pincer grasp.

  What has happened to me?

  Sparky turned, feeling a nudge in his back side. The soft white face of his lady goat eased his worry. It comforted him. Princess. Sparky hopped up onto his feet. He brushed his head gently into the nanny-goat’s side. She would make things okay, she would support him no matter how he had changed.

  “Be easy on the boy, Sparky,” she said.

  What has happened to…us?

  Chapter 2

  A dozen yellow trucks lined the roadside. They had arrived from the city two weeks ago and had established a ritual of parking their terrible, noisy caravan along the roadway in front of Oliver’s house. Oliver had spent the first few days questioning members of the work crew, establishing their objective and credentials.

  “Scheduled maintenance,” one said. “Road conditioning,” responded another.

  All the noise from the machines had thrown off his nap schedule.

  Oliver’s skepticism peaked at the end of the first week. The elderly man contacted the local constable, only to be advised his concerns were unfounded and all was in order. Oliver did what he could to ignore them, but they stayed, day after day. After two weeks he was forced to protect his domain.

  Exploding through the front door, Oliver hollered and swore at the top of his rugged voice. He extended his finger slowly in the direction of one large individual in a bright orange jumpsuit. Oliver’s
wanton rant continued as the man faced him.

  His smooth face told Oliver all he wanted to know - city boy. Oliver marched forward. He demanded the complete and total removal of their damned racket. And he ordered it now. Without so much as a word, the wide framed man approached within striking distance. Oliver cocked his right arm back, raring to go.

  The man’s left hand dove into the pocket on the front of his suit. A single white sheet of folded paper was drawn out. He held it out for Oliver as he explained the Saskatchewan Provincial Government had hired them for road maintenance.

  The old man couldn’t see a single word clearly on the page before him. The city boy’s even tone and the shimmer of the official gold seal on the paper would have to suffice. Like every inconvenience Oliver currently suffered, the work had been decreed by the government. There was no use in fighting. He returned inside, defeated and tired.

  ~~~~~~

  Three little kids' heads stuck out through the farm fence. Each with their forelegs propped on the middle rung of round wooden rails. Their little mouths ground grass as they watched the flashing yellow lights, large trucks, and the men in silly suits with all manner of picks, poles, scanners and detectors.

  “Hey, you three!”

  The startled young goats spun about and were met with Sparky’s glinting yellow glare. “What are you doing?”

  “We, were, we—”

  “Down the hill, now.”

  Montana, reluctant to accept his father’s authoritative tone, rolled up his lip. “But, Dad!”

  Sparky waived his head, motioning toward the roadside crew, the little goats watched as directed.

  Standing close by were two men. They both stood in yellow hazmat suits watching the three youngsters. The man in the larger suit extended a finger out directly at the kids leaning on the fence.

  “Joe, something doesn’t look right about those goats, they’ve been sitting like that for a while.”

  “Don’t be so paranoid.” Joe put a hand on Brett’s shoulder. The yellow plastic suit crinkled under it. Brett redirected his gaze from the goats to Joe. It was then Joe realized he was letting his hand linger too long. He retracted it. The two men stood in awkward silence.

  “Doesn’t seem right to me.” Brett narrowed his eyes at the animals focusing in on the kid’s blank, chewing faces from where he stood. As he leaned in closer he swore one extended its tongue at him, taunting him. “Did you see that?”

  Joe hadn’t been watching. “Look, we’re here to make sure all this gunk gets cleaned up, and quick. We’re lucky that no news teams have showed up, especially this close to those damned Americans. They’ll likely blame us for all the toxic dumping they do, too.”

  “Well, don’t expect me to turn my back on them.” Brett said. He caught sight of the larger goat and stared at him. The goat didn’t make any eye contact with the man.

  “Let’s go,” Sparky whispered as he set off.

  Montana and the other kids followed. The four goats trotted away from the fence. They crested the hill and the rest of the herd came into view. Older kids reclined on the hillside, sunning their coats. Summer was coming to a close. There would be little chance to shine up their coats once the fall rains set in.

  Sparky tilted his head, getting a good eye on his oldest daughter, Sam. She was next to Darren. They were always together. He sighed, relieved some that she was keeping a respectable amount of personal space. That boy was a troublemaker.

  The younger kids practiced soccer at the bottom of the hill. The little ones hadn’t put any rules into their sport. They were just having a little carefree fun. They still lacked the rear hoof coordination keeping them from standing like adults during their play.

  Over his shoulder, Sparky noticed the three kids continued to tail him. “Run off now, and stay away from the front fence or you’ll spend the rest of the day in the barn.”

  Montana and the other two bounded away to join the ball game. Sparky’s eyes trailed to the old barn, the homestead of his herd. Red cracked panels were worn from many cold winters. The rusted tin roof sagged down on the southern side. During the fair weather, the goats would rest against the sun baked sidewall. There, Groucho was dealing a game of poker.

  “Sparky!” Groucho waived his foreleg calling over to him. “Come, sit in on a hand.”

  Over his shoulder, he watched as Sam inched closer to Darren. Sparky would leave it for her mother to handle. He watched while Montana debated whether putting the ball between his front hoofs was fair on his older sister, Mythias. Sparky, Jr., his oldest, was sitting under a tree near the back fence, book in hoof. Sparky sharpened his gaze but could just barely make out the red cover. Animal Farm. He had heard that a copy circulated around the herd. Sparky had yet to read it, but rumor had it that it was a total riot. Pigs in charge, ha!

  Sparky let loose a sigh as he traipsed over to the game by the barn. Groucho, Mudbubble, and Oreo gathered around the dealt cards.

  “I see the Mrs. is not pulling the reigns in so tightly today,” Mudbubble said. The goat was aptly named by Oliver for the single dark round spot on his coat.

  “Easy now, Muddy, don’t knock it until you try it,” Sparky settled in to the circle of stags.

  “Four legged goat is the game,” the cards bounced between Groucho’s hooves. He like the rest of the heard had split hooves on their forelegs that had three jointed finger like segments. Cards, like many human devices could be a challenge to manage, but Groucho’s love of the games had pushed him to hone his talents with shuffling and dealing. Most of his fur was light, but he was marked with a dark line across his forehead reminding Oliver so much of the famous Marx brother that he couldn’t have found a better name.

  Groucho threw out four cards in a box formation to deal Sparky in. Sparky made the first play by flipping his top right card, a jack.

  “Oh, ho, ho!” Mudbubble laughed. “Not starting so well on that one ole boy.”

  Sparky didn’t look his direction. The others played, flipping one card each. It came back to Sparky. He looked down at his three unturned cards.

  “Getting nervous there, Sparkster?” Mudbubble asked.

  Sparky flashed his teeth at the comment. Mudbubble pretended not to notice. Sparky flipped his lower left card revealing the two of hearts.

  “Woohooohooo!”

  In Mudbubble’s outburst, he threw his arms up and lost his balance. The goat’s horns collided with the sheet metal walls of the old barn. Sound echoed across the pasture. All of goats sprang to their feet.

  “Damn fool!” Sparky turned to the hillside. The little ones had already dispersed. Sam frolicked on the hill; Montana and Mythias were lying in the grass, their ball out of sight. Where was Junior?

  The other stags gathered the cards and tossed them under a nearby hay bail. Sparky scurried toward the tree, it was completely abandoned. The book was there, peeking out from under loose straw.

  “MAAH!” Sparky cried. Where the hell is that boy?

  Sparky reminded each of his kids daily about the dangers of being discovered. Their neighbor, Mrs. Kettle, was reason enough to worry about it. The only neighbor for miles, and she was as bored and as nosey as they came. Time and again she found reason to drop in on the goats; a suspicious disturbance was more than enough. They had to be careful.

  Princess popped out of the barn followed by a stream of ladies. She counted her children. Her eyes locked on Sparky after counting all but one.

  “MAAH!” The lady called.

  “MAAH!” Sparky said.

  Sparky searched frantically. The goat strained his neck trying to see the main house. He scuttled up a nearby tree to the first branch, and then higher. Further and further he climbed, scanning the pasture for his son.

  “MAAH!” Princess now had two of her men to worry about.

  Sparky scaled to the top of the tree. Cresting the hill was Oliver, led by nosey Mrs. Kettle wearing her favorite yellow hat. She briskly guided Oliver al
ong, hurrying him to see what trouble his goats could be causing. Sparky froze in his perch.

  Balanced on the narrow limb, he finally caught sight of Junior trotting behind Oliver and Mrs. Kettle as carefree as the spring. The youth galloped past them and down the hill where he rejoined the rest of the flock.

  The tree waived in the wind. Sparky remained still. A small fly landed on the point of his nose. Sparky tried to shake it off but the fly held its ground. It pranced along his nostrils and threatened to trigger a sneeze. Sparky tried to sniff the devil away, but it was no use. The goat held his body straight. He watched Oliver and Mrs. Kettle as they inspected the herd.

  “Well damn it all to hell if I wasn’t right about them goats! I told you everything was fine.” The goats were a kaleidoscope of white, brown and grey to Oliver.

  “I think you’re half blindness is lending to your feeblemindedness. I swear not one week ago, I saw one of them goats running away from my house! Now I cannot find my copy of Animal Farm.” Mrs. Kettle bunched up her cheeks and stuck out her lips. Her left hand crept its way to her hips. She raised a finger over the herd.

  “Maah!” They erupted into a unanimous cry, busying themselves as goats do.

  “These little love-balls are as normal as normal gets. How dare you? Calling an old man feeble then accusing his goats of being book thieves! I’d reckon to wager that them damn hippies that raided my bran, raided your book self. They were probably desperate for some wholesome education. Poor godless souls.”

  “Oliver, I swear to you, there is something wrong with these monsters!”

  Oliver’s vision strayed. His checks went flush. Sparky could see the old man’s pupils affix directly on him. The goat couldn’t help but twitch as the fly climbed toward his left eye. His muscles began betraying his need for stealth, any moment they would fully rebel, and he would be at the bottom of the tree, at best breathless, at worst…

  “What is that?” Mrs. Kettle asked.

  She extended her aged finger, pointing at the subject in question.

  “Oliver, what the hell is it doing there?”

  “What?” He put a finger in his ear. It seemed he was always fighting with wax. “What now?” Oliver followed the line from her extended hand down the slope of the hill.