FICTION
How to Milk a Mountain Goat
Tea and tips for the mind-weary writer
I was lost. There was no denying it.
If there was a positive to finding myself alone in the forest, it had to be the tranquillity; something not found in the usual hustle and bustle of everyday life. A bird sang a melodious welcome as if my presence was valued. A gentle breeze caressed the tree tops and flip-flopped the tall grasses that decorated the edges of the animal track along which I strode. Sunlight filtered through, dancing ahead of me as I walked.
I was concerned though, because there was a quiet disruption in all of this nature play; a gentle, warning panic that was playing across my mind, reminding me that night was not far away and would come much sooner than expected, shielded as I was by a leafy tree canopy.
I reached for my water bottle — dismayed to find barely an inch of liquid in the bottom. I stopped; ears pricked for the sound of a flowing stream. The forest sighed as if to remind me that streams were not placed in position merely for the benefit of weary travellers. Stream placing was designated by nature — the fall of the land and other geographical features.
As I stood, my head on its side, straining for the sound of rippling water, I became aware of a soft noise that had underpinned my hiking for some time. A hum, almost like the sound of electricity through wires; a sound I listened to as a child lying in my silent room, wondering if wires were supposed to make that noise in the walls; wondering if all was well although I never thought to ask an adult. Later in life, a song was released, The Wichita Lineman, in which the singer mused about hearing “you in the wires” and I knew I possibly wasn’t the only one who heard the voice of electricity.
Why, I wondered, would electricity be humming its eerie tune deep in a forest? Perhaps I was closer to civilization than I thought.
My spirits buoyed and I pushed on, striding along the track that I now imagined was possibly more than an animal trail. Soon enough, my suspicions were confirmed as the track appeared more cultivated, until it finally became a slightly uneven cobblestoned path, inviting the weary hiker to trip on its irregular surface.
With some relief, I thanked the powers that watched over errant trampers and strode out, watching for tricky pieces of stone that peeked out, ready to snag the sneakers of the unwary or twist an ankle of the aged, already unsteady on their feet. I fell into the latter category and was more than ready to question the wisdom of straying so far away from my normal walking trail.
The cobblestones appeared to go on forever. Perspiration dotted my brow and my steps were becoming less enthusiastic as I moved along, fearful that the trail was some sort of trick, placed to fool the unwitting. I shook my head at the ludicrous idea that someone would maliciously engage in the backbreaking work of cobblestone laying, just to be a pain in the arse to an unsuspecting hiker.
And then the cobblestones ended in a wall of forest and my worst fears appeared to have been founded.
There wasn’t a cobblestone to be seen, nor even a vague track where there had once been one. What kind of nasty illusion was this?
I turned to look back from whence I had come and my heart began pounding loudly, filling my chest with an uncomfortable rhythm. My mind was wavering in disbelief.
There were no cobblestones, nor paths, behind me!
Had I been travelling along in a fugue? I staggered and was in the process of sinking to the forest floor when, suddenly, the cobblestones reappeared. I rubbed my eyes and regained my balance. When my eyes were once again fully focused, I was greeted with an astonishing apparition.
A bookshop! A strange and quaint bookshop! In the middle of nowhere, in the middle of a forest! I had to be suffering delusions, or at the very least, dreaming. Perhaps I’d fainted, after all.
“No, no. You are wide awake!” called a friendly voice. “Do come in, rest awhile and drink some tea.”
I blinked again and saw what appeared to be a wizard, dressed in a magnificent star-covered robe. A golden tassel fastened the robe around his waist; a tall cone hat, adorned in moon motifs, sat atop his long, silver locks. The images on his clothes reminded me that night was closing in and that I was in something of a predicament.
“Where am I?” I muttered staggering forward. “I appear to be hopelessly lost and, I fear, a little delusional.
“Lost, yes, delusional, no,” placated the wizard kindly. “Do take a seat, dear, while I pour a beverage. You take milk and sugar, I believe.”
The wizard indicated two soft lounge chairs beside a low table that was nestled beneath a staggering wall of beautifully bound books.
I flopped into one of the chairs gratefully and watched as the Wizard poured refreshments. Every movement was precise and purposeful as he filtered steaming brown liquid through a dainty sieve into delicate China cups. He passed one to me, then set about placing macaroons on a matching side plate. He offered the plate and I took one gratefully. A caramel delight; my favourite!
“My name is, Wonder,” he introduced himself.
“Wanda?” I queried, concerned about the appropriateness of his parents’ name choice.
He laughed. “No, no! Wonder, as in wonderful.” I still had reservations about the ability of his parents to suitably name a child.
“What is your name, dear?” he enquired.
‘Loren,” I muttered. “You know how I take my tea, but not my name?” I queried, feeling a little out of sorts.
Wonder ignored my rudeness. “Ah, Loren.” He slurped his English Breakfast, noisily. “I know, right? Breakfast tea at dusk. How deliciously avant-garde!”
“Are you a writer?” he continued, a tiny dribble of clear brown fluid traced through his beard.
“Well, yes,” I admitted.
“I thought as much. Loren contains the word, lore, you know.”
“I am aware,” I replied, raising my eyebrows, and quirking my mouth.
“Lore means, knowledge and traditions, usually passed by word of mouth,” he educated.
“I am aware,” I replied. “I prefer the page.”
“But yet, you are wandering in the wilderness instead of writing with your muse.”
I blushed, partly because I had indeed been blithely blundering about in the wild and partly because I had a confession. “I was out and about because I don’t seem to be having any ideas. I guess you’d call it writer’s block. There just doesn’t seem to be anything at all left to write about.”
Waving an arm to indicate the heavily laden bookshelves, Wonder smiled condescendingly. “Why don’t you select a book to take with you when you continue your journey?”
It didn’t seem such a bad idea so I stood and began to browse along the shelves.
Puzzled, I turned just in time to see Wonder down the last of his high tea.
“All the books have the same title!” I was aghast.
“And?” he enquired, apparently surprised by my indignation.
“Well, what’s the point? You’ve read one, you’ve read them all.” I shook my head pityingly at his apparent lack of understanding.
“But they are by different authors, right?” he pointed out.
I nodded, hesitating to be agreeable.
“Well, then, what difference does it make if the title is the same?”
“It just seems, sort of silly. Bad management, or something.”
“Even if the content is different?” the wizard queried.
“How to Milk a Mountain Goat” can only be addressed in a handful of ways!” I rebuked.
“And yet…” Wonder shrugged and once again indicated the shelves. “If you cared to look before commenting, you would see that the subject can be approached in an infinite number of ways.”
I scoffed. “Infinite? I very much doubt that!”
“Perhaps,” he suggested, “that opinion is what lies at the root of your writer’s block.”
I looked at him, my exasperation clearly expressed for him to read.
“It’s, How to Milk a Bleedin’ Mountain Goat, for Pete’s sake!”
Wonder was appalled. “The goat is bleeding? Well, I never. I believe you have a whole new approach to the story!”
“It’s a figure of speech,” I muttered.
“Of course, it is. You are a writer; you should be well-practised in such things!”
“What things?” I asked impatiently.
“Finding a completely different angle to explore. I told you, there are infinite options.” Wonder looked at me pityingly. A look that suggested I hadn’t been paying attention.
The wizard’s expression suddenly changed to one of enquiry. Holding his hand in front of his face he began to stare at his palm intently, probing and prodding with his left index finger.
“What on earth ….?” I queried.
“Sshh.” Wonder held up a silencing finger, then turned his palm toward me. To my amazement, I saw a digital screen embedded in his skin.
“What on earth…? I stuttered again.
“It’s a palm reader. Right now, I am studying the contents of my bookshop to see if there are any bleeding goats.”
I looked at him. He glanced at the books cluttering his charming shop. I looked at him again. The penny dropped!
“All of these books have the same title but every single one is different!”
“I‘ve mentioned that already, but it appears none contain a bleeding goat.” Wonder shook his head, setting his beard on a crazy wiggle. “You are a genius!”
I pulled a beautifully bound book from the shelf, its soft doe cover begging for tactile engagement.
“May I have this one?” I asked, stroking the cover gently against the grain, admiring the finger streaks of lighter colour I was trailing through the leather.
“Of course,” agreed Wonder. “That is a wonderful tale of a mountain goat who tries to barter milk for sanctuary. You will laugh many times throughout the journey of its pages.”
“It sounds rather droll,” I muttered.
“The mountain goat turns out to be a boy,” added Wonder with a snigger. “Whoops, spoiler alert! Would you care to try another?”
“No, No. I love this one,” I hastily slipped the volume into my backpack. As I straightened, I noticed that the forest outside had grown still and quiet, the half-light of dusk had turned to night. Light from the bookshop created a golden circle, illuminating the shadows directly outside but little beyond.
“Oh dear,” I remarked. “It is quite dark outside — I’m rather afraid to set off now.”
“You will be fine, Loren,” assured Wonder kindly. “Remember, A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”
I scoffed. “Truly? Is that the best you can come up with?”
The wizard shrugged; his smile tinged with embarrassment. He quickly consulted his palm reader.
“How about, “Not all those who wander are lost?”
“Better”, I conceded. “J.R.R. Tolkien would be proud!”
Wonder grinned. “I am a wizard, after all. Now, you must be on your way.” With that, he placed his hand firmly on my back and ushered me forcefully through the door.
“Remember, writer’s block will leave you when you understand that there are a million ways to tell the same story. The possibilities inherent in one insignificant subject are endless!”
“Oh, no!” I exclaimed, “I really don’t want to …..!”
Something fell and hit the ground!
I jumped at the sound and sat upright. Rubbing at my sleep-heavy eyes, I realised I had been dozing on my garden bench; my favourite daydreaming spot where my backyard merged into the forest.
Night was drawing in — a fine, cool dew was collecting on the grass around me. Nearby, my backpack containing my notebook and pens lay on the damp ground. I bent to retrieve it, trying as I was to shake the remnants of a fanciful dream that was wisping on the edges of my mind. I mentally grabbed at an image of a quaint bookshop, tea in China cups and a wizard with ridiculous notions that any single subject could be broached from a zillion directions.
Reaching into my bag to retrieve a notepad, my hand closed around a surprisingly soft book cover. Stunned, I drew the book from my bag and held it to my face in the moonlight. There was something vaguely familiar about the feel of the book, and its ridiculous title, which was beautifully embossed into the doeskin.
“How to Milk a Mountain Goat” by Loren Laurel.
What?
Flipping open the volume, I was stunned to see the pages were pristine — there wasn’t a single word written on any of them.
The vision of a magnificent wizard invaded my mind’s eye. He was explaining that my goat idea had not previously been penned.
For sure, it was ridiculous, but something told me I was about to have fun exploring the newly learned notion that endless stories about absolutely everything are waiting to be told.
Suddenly, my mind was running away with ideas.
I could tell a story about a wizard named, Wonder, who consulted an embedded palm reader. Or, a tale of a rather frightening hike alone in a forest, stumbling on a strange cobblestone path in the middle of nowhere. What about, I thought, a quaint bookshop containing a zillion books with the same title?
An infinite number of choices were crowding my mind but first, I knew I had to tackle the story of a sore and bleeding mountain goat who was finding refuge in a battered barn with a herd of milking cows. The poor creature was planning to barter creamy goat’s milk for continued shelter. The trouble was, the young goat did not know he was a boy!
Resting in my hands was a beautifully bound volume that was covered in doeskin, with pristine white pages that were just begging to be filled! Somehow, the completed work would find its way back to Wonder’s Bookshop.
But that, of course, is another story!
