Hero's Manual: Chapter 23
A/N: Thank Lovecraft and his 1931 story The Whisperer in the Darkness for the title term as well as "Lord of the Woods". The chapter title is a reference, of course, to For Whom the Bell Tolls.
Chapter 23: For Whom the Goat Bleats
Drifting in from the darkness came another bleat then, in the terrified silence that had fallen on the fish-revering villagers, the sharp clinks of four small hooves on cobblestones. The crowd began to turn in on itself as back was turned against back, all faces turned towards the dark beyond the torchlight. The hooves clicked closer, reverberating all around them so that each villager stared straight ahead, sure that the Goat was walking directly towards them alone, singled out from the rest of the crowd.
Gwen and the three men, even surrounded as they were by the villagers, felt horribly exposed.
The Goat moved beyond in the darkness beyond the flickering torch light, which just a few moments before, at the opening of the Feast of the Bright Night had seemed so far-reaching and now felt faint and horribly limited.
Suddenly, a strong wind blew in and battered the torches, nearly extinguishing them. The villagers huddled close together as their circle of light grew smaller. Then, just as quickly, the wind died.
The creature bleated once more with finality, as if to say, "I have come."
Every villager turned their heads at the same time in the true direction of the bleat as if a mist had cleared from their ears. The Goat's presence, previously so universal and personal, seemed all the more real now.
Abruptly, the young boy who'd brought the infamous casserole and had been pushed far to the outside of the crowd, gave a soft cry: "There." Taking a step forwards, he lifted a shaking hand and pointed with his spoon.
Every eye darted in the direction he was pointing and scrutinized the ground just beyond the torch light. Slowly, as if the night itself were coiling and swirling together, a dark shape became apparent and stepped into the light.
A collective gasp rose from the crowd. Gwen, who'd been pressed up against Quasi by the constricting crowd, heard the butler groan in despair. She saw his arm twitch convulsively as he tried to extricate his candlestick-bearing hand, but they were all packed too close to move.
One of the villagers cried out from somewhere within the huddled mass. "The Black King of the Ancients Who Comes in the Night!"
"And You Shall Not Know Him!" concluded another, almost certainly the man who had repeatedly corrected the speaker during the feast.
With that, the silent cloak of fear gave way to cries of terror and despair as the villagers began reciting the many names of the dreaded creature that had suddenly appeared before them.
"He Who Has No Mouth and Yet Must Scream!" cried the buxom woman who'd been tending Freckles.
An old man waded to the front of the crowd and spread his arms wide. "The Solid Night Which Walks Amongst Us!"
"The Dark Lord of the Woods!" said another with a very limited send of the dramatic.
From somewhere far in the back came the shrill cry of, "The All-Consuming Whisperer in the Darkness!"
"The Goat! Of Doom!" This last was said by a slightly drunk and blissfully unaware man in a dirty loincloth who seemed vaguely familiar to Hero and Gwen.
Frank the goat eyed the crowd steadily, still but for the constant flicker of his tail. The crowd huddled closer together. Abruptly, the goat lowered his head, his sides heaving. The torchlight illuminated his small horns, which, despite their poor illumination, still looked dreadfully sharp. The villagers churned about themselves, each fighting to be at the centre of the circle. Those unlucky enough to find themselves forced to the edge quietly made the sign of the fish - be it Carp or Cod - and waited.
The black goat burped then chewed thoughtfully on its cud. The villagers did not relax. With an almost perceptible goat-like shrug, Frank closed the distance between him and the crowd. Trapped as they were by paralytic fear, the Astrophelians could only stare as the goat drew close. One unlucky man at the edge of the bundle found himself knee to nose with the creature. Frank lifted his head. The man's eyes rooted themselves to the goat's rotating jaws. A muscle in Frank's neck twitched and the man found that he could move - and very fast at that - as he squeezed himself between his neighbours, away from the goat.
Slowly, with the merest lowering of his horns, The Black King of the Ancients, also more commonly known as "The Dark Lord of the Woods" or, more succinctly, "The Goat of Doom" and known as "Frank" only amongst the village’s goats, made his way through the crowd as it parted and reformed in his wake like a giant amoeba, one unwillingly taking its grape-flavored cough medicine, churning in protest but not daring to spit it out.
At the heart of the crowd stood the four travelers, Quasi at the forefront with his candlestick raised. The villagers formed a tight circle about them - tight, but at a respectful distance. Frank neither paused nor slowed his approach, his eyes focused on Quasi - somewhere about his bellybutton - save for the briefest flicker to the candlestick, until he stopped to stand before the butler.
Quasi fought to kept his candlestick-arm steady, no easy feat with three pairs of hands grappling his clothes in fear. Yeah, that was it. He wasn’t at all intimidated by some runty black goat.
Frank bleated. Shockwaves of terror rippled over the crowd, but Quasi’s arm stayed steady. Not at all.
All internal monologue and evil-butler-posturing ceased when the goat bit Quasi's pants. Their difference in heights meant Frank's teeth were at a particularly sensitive height. Quasi slowly lowered his arm. The goat tugged slightly, then let go, leaving a wet stain of green spittle on Quasi's pants. Keeping his eye firmly on the butler, Frank walked to past him, past Vicky clinging to Quasi's back, past Gwen and Hero standing with their hands entwined, and waited. The goat’s neck was twisted sharply backward now, straining as he maintained eye-contact. Quasi stared at it, one hand brushing the spit-stain on his pants, the other squeezing the candlestick. He saw the goat draw a deep breath, felt the crowd around him freeze in the anticipation of terror, and took a step toward it.
"Yeah, okay," he muttered. "No need to bleat." He followed Frank through the crowd, dragging Vicky behind him, with Hero and Gwen trailing behind. The Astrophelians watched them go in terror. Quasi knew it was only a matter of seconds before they came back to their senses and started chasing them again. The Goat of Doom can only buy you so much time.
He began to run.
Chapter 23: For Whom the Goat Bleats
Drifting in from the darkness came another bleat then, in the terrified silence that had fallen on the fish-revering villagers, the sharp clinks of four small hooves on cobblestones. The crowd began to turn in on itself as back was turned against back, all faces turned towards the dark beyond the torchlight. The hooves clicked closer, reverberating all around them so that each villager stared straight ahead, sure that the Goat was walking directly towards them alone, singled out from the rest of the crowd.
Gwen and the three men, even surrounded as they were by the villagers, felt horribly exposed.
The Goat moved beyond in the darkness beyond the flickering torch light, which just a few moments before, at the opening of the Feast of the Bright Night had seemed so far-reaching and now felt faint and horribly limited.
Suddenly, a strong wind blew in and battered the torches, nearly extinguishing them. The villagers huddled close together as their circle of light grew smaller. Then, just as quickly, the wind died.
The creature bleated once more with finality, as if to say, "I have come."
Every villager turned their heads at the same time in the true direction of the bleat as if a mist had cleared from their ears. The Goat's presence, previously so universal and personal, seemed all the more real now.
Abruptly, the young boy who'd brought the infamous casserole and had been pushed far to the outside of the crowd, gave a soft cry: "There." Taking a step forwards, he lifted a shaking hand and pointed with his spoon.
Every eye darted in the direction he was pointing and scrutinized the ground just beyond the torch light. Slowly, as if the night itself were coiling and swirling together, a dark shape became apparent and stepped into the light.
A collective gasp rose from the crowd. Gwen, who'd been pressed up against Quasi by the constricting crowd, heard the butler groan in despair. She saw his arm twitch convulsively as he tried to extricate his candlestick-bearing hand, but they were all packed too close to move.
One of the villagers cried out from somewhere within the huddled mass. "The Black King of the Ancients Who Comes in the Night!"
"And You Shall Not Know Him!" concluded another, almost certainly the man who had repeatedly corrected the speaker during the feast.
With that, the silent cloak of fear gave way to cries of terror and despair as the villagers began reciting the many names of the dreaded creature that had suddenly appeared before them.
"He Who Has No Mouth and Yet Must Scream!" cried the buxom woman who'd been tending Freckles.
An old man waded to the front of the crowd and spread his arms wide. "The Solid Night Which Walks Amongst Us!"
"The Dark Lord of the Woods!" said another with a very limited send of the dramatic.
From somewhere far in the back came the shrill cry of, "The All-Consuming Whisperer in the Darkness!"
"The Goat! Of Doom!" This last was said by a slightly drunk and blissfully unaware man in a dirty loincloth who seemed vaguely familiar to Hero and Gwen.
Frank the goat eyed the crowd steadily, still but for the constant flicker of his tail. The crowd huddled closer together. Abruptly, the goat lowered his head, his sides heaving. The torchlight illuminated his small horns, which, despite their poor illumination, still looked dreadfully sharp. The villagers churned about themselves, each fighting to be at the centre of the circle. Those unlucky enough to find themselves forced to the edge quietly made the sign of the fish - be it Carp or Cod - and waited.
The black goat burped then chewed thoughtfully on its cud. The villagers did not relax. With an almost perceptible goat-like shrug, Frank closed the distance between him and the crowd. Trapped as they were by paralytic fear, the Astrophelians could only stare as the goat drew close. One unlucky man at the edge of the bundle found himself knee to nose with the creature. Frank lifted his head. The man's eyes rooted themselves to the goat's rotating jaws. A muscle in Frank's neck twitched and the man found that he could move - and very fast at that - as he squeezed himself between his neighbours, away from the goat.
Slowly, with the merest lowering of his horns, The Black King of the Ancients, also more commonly known as "The Dark Lord of the Woods" or, more succinctly, "The Goat of Doom" and known as "Frank" only amongst the village’s goats, made his way through the crowd as it parted and reformed in his wake like a giant amoeba, one unwillingly taking its grape-flavored cough medicine, churning in protest but not daring to spit it out.
At the heart of the crowd stood the four travelers, Quasi at the forefront with his candlestick raised. The villagers formed a tight circle about them - tight, but at a respectful distance. Frank neither paused nor slowed his approach, his eyes focused on Quasi - somewhere about his bellybutton - save for the briefest flicker to the candlestick, until he stopped to stand before the butler.
Quasi fought to kept his candlestick-arm steady, no easy feat with three pairs of hands grappling his clothes in fear. Yeah, that was it. He wasn’t at all intimidated by some runty black goat.
Frank bleated. Shockwaves of terror rippled over the crowd, but Quasi’s arm stayed steady. Not at all.
All internal monologue and evil-butler-posturing ceased when the goat bit Quasi's pants. Their difference in heights meant Frank's teeth were at a particularly sensitive height. Quasi slowly lowered his arm. The goat tugged slightly, then let go, leaving a wet stain of green spittle on Quasi's pants. Keeping his eye firmly on the butler, Frank walked to past him, past Vicky clinging to Quasi's back, past Gwen and Hero standing with their hands entwined, and waited. The goat’s neck was twisted sharply backward now, straining as he maintained eye-contact. Quasi stared at it, one hand brushing the spit-stain on his pants, the other squeezing the candlestick. He saw the goat draw a deep breath, felt the crowd around him freeze in the anticipation of terror, and took a step toward it.
"Yeah, okay," he muttered. "No need to bleat." He followed Frank through the crowd, dragging Vicky behind him, with Hero and Gwen trailing behind. The Astrophelians watched them go in terror. Quasi knew it was only a matter of seconds before they came back to their senses and started chasing them again. The Goat of Doom can only buy you so much time.
He began to run.