Tales of the Zodiac - The Goat's Tale (14 page)

The sun is on the verge of setting when we catch our first glimpse of Brightstone. Cast in the glorious gold of the sun setting behind it, it appears to us as some sort of utopia as we rise over the crest of this huge fortified hill. From our vantage point, we can see a peninsula attached by a bridge to a series of islands spread out in front of us, all stacked with evidence of civilisation, each reaching further and further out into the boat-speckled sea. The smallest of these islands contains only one building – a building with glittering golden domes that is so large and resplendent that it can only be a palace. If it is a palace then it makes the one at Tallakarn seem like my father’s tool shed.

The hill we are standing upon clearly now lies at the bulwark of some ongoing battle between this civilisation and whoever it is that lies out there in the snow. The distinction between the huge forested islands behind, pockmarked with scorched villages, and the small, heavily populated islands ahead could not be any clearer. The huge wrought iron gate, encased in stone, that we have passed through to reach this panorama, could provide no greater testament to that fact.

It is only the peninsula and the largest of the islands that appear to have any space at all on them. The other three all appear at this distance to be nothing more than clusters of houses. They are nothing like the houses of home either. There is no dark slate or Kernowek granite here. Although the sun flooding in from behind them makes them appear gold, they are in fact more of a mixture of tan and white.

Silently, I attempt to memorise this image in the vain hope that it will last forever. As the light dies, my eyes do their best to scan every piece of it. What lies before me is more incredible than anything I could ever have dreamed of. Nothing from home, not the palace at Tallakarn, not the great gate at Arberth, can compare to what I am seeing here. The scale of achievement, of advancement, hidden away on the other side of this frozen waste, is incredible. The island palace, with its gargantuan golden domes, looks like something that could only exist in the future. But it is not the architecture alone that creates this awestruck emotion, it is the disbelief.

It is the disbelief that this could be an entirely separate civilisation. Before me stands a kingdom that, months ago, I would have said didn’t exist. Even weeks ago, it only existed as a forlorn hope in my desperate mind. The idea that two civilisations could have not only survived but evolved on this frozen island, so isolated, so far apart, seems fantastical to me. I have no idea what awaits – the similarities, the differences – no preconceptions about what to expect. All I possess is the knowledge that, somehow, I have made it. That, somehow, I have reached this place, this utopia, hidden away on the other side of the world. I cast a glance at Morrigan who is wearing as big a smirk as I have ever seen. For once, I am able to return his smile.

Not long after passing through the gate, we are led into the hilltop keep that sits behind it. The entrance hall, made from red stone, is a cavernous room with not many differences to the few squalid guards’ quarters I have seen back home. There is not much here other than doors into other rooms. Piles of armour languish in the far corners whilst the two rows of long wooden tables are probably where the soldiers sit to eat when the castle is fully occupied. We are quickly moved on though, and escorted into a much smaller room.

This room could quite easily be a cell. It also contains nothing but a table and four chairs. Once inside, we are invited to sit and then provided with some much-needed food and drink. The drink is a dark, bitter alcohol with a rich red colour and the meal is strange and rather unpleasant: a stodgy, grainy stew with an almost perfumed taste to it. We wolf it down nevertheless. Our two escorts leave us at this point.

“Who’d have thought it, hey sprat?” slurps Morrigan, face down in his meal. “We actually made it.”

“We’re not there yet,” I grimace, not forgetting the fact that we are effectively being held captive.

“Ha ha. That’s the best thing about you. You always know how to look on the bright side,” he smirks. “I don’t know how I’d have got through without your cheery optimism to keep me warm.”

I don’t reply.

“Looks like some place, though, this. I could picture myself staying here. As exotic as it may seem, sprat, it’s actually us who are the exotic ones here. Being exotic opens up a lot of doors, I’d imagine. Look at the way the Bwlch are treated back home…”

“We’re here to do a job, remember. That’s if we even get there.”

“Job? You know as well as I do we were sent on a fool’s errand. No one expected us to get here and no one will expect us to go back. It’s an opportunity. We’ll be famous here. Think about the money, the ladies...”

“When someone asks me to do a job, I get it done.”

“It’s amazing really. You’re one of the few people alive who has seen both Tallakarn and Brightstone –  not only that but you’ve seen everything in between –and yet, somehow, you are still one of the most boring people alive. It’s actually rather impressive when you think about it.” Morrigan chuckles to himself as he says this. I turn and look him in the eye without even a touch of humour.

“You do what you want and what you think is right, but let me tell you, I am going to find this so-called ‘Son of God’ and take him home. Ever since the day I left, I’ve been dreaming of the look on the face of the king when I walk back in. Sometimes that feeling is the only thing that’s kept me going at night. You’re a fool if you think a bit of fame and fortune is going to compensate for that satisfaction.”

“Oh, next you’ll be telling me that humble old Ser Gruff is going to return to the goat field when he gets back.”

“You couldn’t be more wrong. When I get back, I’ll have every single bit of the fame and fortune that’s coming to me. That would actually be deserved… We deserve better than to be fawned over as exotic novelties.”

“That, my friend, is where we differ. I think that sounds fan-farking-tastic myself.”

“Well then, I suppose we’ll be parting ways when we get there.”

“Ha ha. You farking would as well, wouldn’t you?”

“I would what?”

“Just leave me here, after all we’ve been through! You wouldn’t even say goodbye, would you? I’d just wake up one morning and you’d be gone.”

“I didn’t realise that I was important to you,” I sigh, surprised.

“Do you not think we’re friends now? After all we’ve been through? Who in the world knows more about you than I do? We’re partners. We’ve come through it together, haven’t we?”

“I suppose. I’d not really thought about it like that before. But you’re right… I would most definitely leave without you. It would be your choice to disobey orders, not mine.”

“Ha ha! You wouldn’t even think twice, would you?”

“No. But I would probably say farewell if that makes you feel any better?” I reply, “it wouldn’t be personal. I’ve got a job to do.”

Our conversation continues in this manner for a little while. I find myself more than a little touched by Morrigan’s feeling that an actual genuine bond has grown between us. I realise that this is not something particularly unusual for a man like him – such ordeals probably do bind people together – but it is, however, unusual for me. I am not used to such camaraderie. Indeed, the idea of growing so close to another person that I am faced with
actually
having to consider their feelings still seems an awfully long way off. Nevertheless, I could have had worse companions.

We have some time to ourselves before we are interrupted. The gold-plated men who enter the room are different men to the ones who escorted us here. There are seven of them this time and they enter through both doors, ensuring that we have no avenue for escape. One of them, clearly possessing rank, seems particularly angry with us and whatever it is that he says to us is said with such contempt that it’s quite clear to me that we’re going to have a problem.

There is no point in resisting; there are too many of them and they are too well armed. I let them do as they wish, submitting my hands to their bindings and closing my eyes as the blindfold is attached. The last thing I hear as I am carted roughly away is Morrigan.

“Some farking welcome party this is!”

I have been in this gaol for twenty-seven days. I know this because I’ve kept count. I have not seen or spoken to anyone in during this time. Despite this, my confinement, in itself, has not been that bad. My bed is reasonably comfortable, I am provided with new blankets on a weekly basis, the toilet is connected to a sewer system and, most importantly, the food is regular and plentiful. Furthermore, the dark red alcohol that accompanies every meal has a curious numbing quality to it and this helps to pass the time well enough.

For some reason, I have also been provided with several Brightstone books. The remarkable thing about these books is that they do not look handwritten but instead have a quality where it looks as though a template has been dipped in ink and pressed on to the page. Despite the fact that I don’t understand a word, they have provided me with an endless fascination. Indeed, I have learned that if one has a lot of time to kill, it is probably even more enlightening to have a book written in a language that one does not know than it is to have one written in one’s native tongue.

This is because the stimulation that comes from trying to unravel the hidden rules of the language, the syntax and the structure of it, is much more enduring than simply reading a book. Indeed, as time has passed, I have become more and more certain of the meaning of a handful of the words. Despite not recognising the symbols, less still understanding the sounds that they represent, I still manage to find a degree of enjoyment in working out which symbol combinations occur so much that they must be the common words.

Until today, the guards have come and gone without saying a single word. I am unable to see their approach and they simply deposit whatever they are delivering through the metal flap at the door and walk away. They have not spoken a single word to me and have ignored my every shout.

Using only the pattern of their footsteps, I have learned to identify that there are four different guards who visit me, working twelve hour duties. The fact that a person can be identified by their footsteps alone is another revelation to me, another testament to the way in which a bored mind will seek out stimulation even in the most bleak of situations.

Today, I am expecting to hear the footsteps of a man with a slight limp and this is why, upon hearing what would best be described as a shuffling approach, my ears immediately prick up. A potential change in duties is perhaps the most exciting thing that has happened to me for weeks. I have barely began to think of a possible reason before the clank of metal in the lock increases my excitement. Slowly, the door opens and a hooded man, dressed from head to toe in white, enters. Ominously, he pulls down his hood.

The first thing I notice about him is that he is what I assume must be called an albino. I have never seen an albino person before, although I’m aware that they exist. My father has several albino goats in his flock and that’s why the pinkness of his quick and lively eyes do not shock me particularly. His face is a sharp and angular one, dominated by a strong jawline and beaming smile.

“Welcome to Brightstone. I am sorry you are being kept waiting for so long,” he beams enthusiastically, speaking in a manner that suggests he does not have full control of my language.

“Err… Do you think this is a good welcome?” I reply, gesturing to the cell that surrounds me, slightly taken aback by his friendliness.

“Ha ha. I think it is probably not the best for you in here. But we are in a time of difficulty and there are much problems upon us. We have much need to be highly careful,” is his rather awkward yet nevertheless cheerful response. He speaks to me as though, rather than his prisoner, I am a long lost friend. His eyes have an intense quality to them, peering deep into my own.

“Who are you? How is it that you understand my language?” I ask through narrowed eyes. Around his neck is a white crucifix. This symbol sends a shudder of excitement through me. It is a Christian symbol, exactly the same as it is at home in Tallakarn..

“Ha ha ha… much apologies, my friend. My name is Brother Gemin and I am the right hand of Our Saviour. I speak your language gladly because I had learned it from another of your countrymen.”

“Morrigan?”

“I do not understand ‘Morrigan’. What does this mean?” he asks, squinting at me through pink eyes.

“My countryman. The man I arrived here with. His name is Morrigan. Did he teach you the language?”

“Much apologies. No, it was another.”

“Vesta?”

“Vesta? This is another name, I think? No, the man was not called Vesta.”

“Then who was it?” I snap, confused.

“Another. He was called Owain. He had arrived by boat, much days before yourself.”

“Recently?” I ask. I immediately consider how this could be. Have another pair been successful in reaching the empire?

“Within three turns of the moon certainly?” he replies.

“Three months?”

“Ha ha ha. Yes. Three months, it is clear.”

“Well, you speak it quite well.”

“Much thanks. I am Our Saviour’s savant. I think this is how you say it. It is the will of Our Saviour that I had been able to learn your tongue so quick.”

“Where are my countrymen now?”

“Ha ha ha. You are much keen to see your countrymen again. I very much understand that they are certain to be good friends of yours. They have chosen to remain amongst the people at Brightstone. I much hope that you are able to join them?”

“I plan to return home,” I reply bluntly.

“I understand that you plan to return home? If so, this can be arranged also. Gladly. Our Saviour would like to meet with you first though.”

“Who?”

“Our Saviour.”

“What is his name?”

“Ha ha ha. I’m afraid that you must know that it is not certain that it would be much right for you to hear the full name of Our Saviour.”

“Why?”

“Only the worthy will live to hear the full name of Our Saviour,”

“Is it Leo?” I ask pointedly. This name, told to me by Vesta, is the name of the person I am looking for.

“Ha ha ha. Leo is no longer his name. It is clear that it is all right for you to hear that name. This is his human name,” he answers, smiling.

“His human name? Can you please explain?”

“Our Saviour is a god amongst men. It is clear that he is the Son of our God above. He has returned to rescue mankind in its time of need,” he replies.

My eyes are once more drawn to the white crucifix hanging above his white robes. It is made of a dull opaque substance that looks almost weightless.

“Is he the Christian God?” I ask calmly, trying to hide my curiosity.

“Ha ha ha! I notice that you have seen my cross. I was much surprised to learn that your countrymen also understood this. Your land is much certain to be a holy one if the Cross is there. Christian is not a word that we use but it is certain I have heard it said much by your countrymen,” he beams. He touches the crucifix solemnly.

“What is that made of? I have never seen anything like it,” I ask. The airiness of it in his hand mesmerises me.

“It is a substance not much found. We call it ‘canteva’. It is from the old world. It is clear you have much interest. You have the devil’s curiosity! Ha ha ha,” he laughs. His eyes flash down to the goat insignia on my breast.

“There is so much to learn. I look forward to exploring your land,” I reply, trying my best to adopt the bland courtesy of a diplomat.

“I am glad to hear this. But tell me… Why do you wear the devil upon you?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand,” I answer, looking down at myself in the same manner I might if someone told me I had spilt water down my front.

“The beast on your shield and your armour. It is the devil is it not?” he continues, a hint of seriousness entering his kind face.

“Oh… This beast is called a goat. In my kingdom, it is highly respected,” I lie, “we use it for milk, for meat, for skin…”

“Before you will meet Our Saviour, you will have much need to remove it. In Brightstone, ‘the goat’ is the sign of the devil,” he snaps. All of a sudden, he appears a little shaken, a bit more formal. Before I can respond, he continues in this vein.

“There are also other items that you will find need to understand before you are ready. The first item is that you must certainly know him only as God. The second item is that you must not look Our Saviour in the eye. The third item is that you must not talk unless he commands you to. It is very seriously important that you are able to understand what I had told you about this. Our Saviour is not a man who is happy to be kind to those who do not pay him ultimate respects.”

“So he is not a loving God?” I ask mischievously.

“Ha ha ha. Our Saviour
is
Love, it is clear.”

“All right. I understand,” I lie.