A Goats Story
by Aodhán C. E. Ridenour
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
Part 2: Capra
The question of his missing heart perturbed him like a crooked neck. For several weeks, Benjamin woke from sleep in pain, so terribly lost, night after night, day after day, until one night, shivering in his bunk, took a sip of his mother’s medication. Desiring to rid himself of questions, young Benjamin drank a cup of that Monongahela Rye.
He drank until his mind blurred, and his soul did the same.
A habit of trading a goat or two for the equivalent in whiskey soon became a way of life for Benjamin Otis Bills. By the time the war ended, his substantial herd had dwindled to less than half its size. He traveled from farm to farm, collecting jugs, and soon his neighbors knew him as the county drunk. The way Benjamin saw it for a good many years, the lessening of the goats and an accrual of jugs made it possilbe for him to carry on.
As the men returned from the war, whiskey production increased by manifolds of four, ten, twenty-four until the Washington, Pennsylvania region alone was producing a barrel’s worth for every family in the United States. Monongahela Rye became famous across the world for its unique, earthy flavor, and its consumption spread like a national song.
“You know this, boy Bills,” said Mister Miller over a cup outside his house one afternoon with Ben. Deep into harvest season, citizens drank whiskey freely and with revelry. “Should you buy a still of your own,” continued Mister Miller, “there’d be a lot less walking in it, acquiring your drink. You’ll run out of goats before the end of your days. What’ll you do then? Be smart. I’m telling you, if you don’t like goats, you need to learn another skill.”
Benjamin wished he didn’t have to put up with this man’s old tripe. He knew his livelihood would one day bring him ruin, but that day was not today. Had his father lived, and Miller died, the dynamic would be different: Missus Miller would be selling her wealth to him.
Miller’s nephew, Oliver, four years Benjamin’s minor — and nearly half his height — nicked into view from around the cabin. He steered a harnessed donkey cart brimming with bushels of still-green rye. Oliver’s father had also been killed in the war, and he now lived with his uncle, aiding in the season’s harvest.
“That’ll be the eleventh half there, Uncle,” said Oliver, smoothing back his long brown hair, rubbing the donkey’s dusty neck. “The stocks are stronger to the south, I noticed.”
“Indeed, they get more sun, and luckily for us in the gully, more water. Ehem. Oliver, you remember Benjamin Bills, Leonard’s son. He’s our neighbor to the east, come down and say us a good hello.”
“Ben! Of course, remember the boy I do. There were those days we pretended to be Indians, pillaging your poor mum. You used to make me steal her leg and run!” Oliver extended his short, thick fist, and Benjamin shook it with a quivering smile. Somehow the gesture felt like an assertion to him. “How is the old lady? Still sitting on the porch?”
“She’s dead,” said Ben.
“By God, that is a pity,” said Oliver, sincerely. “Lord Almighty have mercy. The war, the Indians, it’s a blessing we are still here to help you!”
“Oliver plans to take over the farm now, as I am reaching fifty, Ben,” added Mister Miller. “I’m sure he will be looking for aid as the industry grows in Pittsburgh.”
“’Tis the truth, neighbor. The price of rye is on the up. Sweat and blood I do not have enough to stay in season. Would you like to help?”
“Oh, no,” said Ben, setting down the jug. “At the moment I have other plans.” He picked up the jug again. “I must attend to the goats.”
Oliver smiled. “Very good, very good. Should the goats no longer satisfy you, neighbor, I shall be here.” Oliver took a cup of warm whiskey from his uncle, said thanks, and drank. “Oh, Ben! Wait here...” He jogged back to his cart and retrieved a dead raccoon. “I shot this earlier today. Please make use of it, will you? I am not skilled in the gutting and skinning of animals as you must be.”
Benjamin received the dead raccoon. He then turned and walked away, the animal and the jug swinging at his knees.
* * *
That night, Benjamin drank more than usual. He took to sipping directly from the jug. Even as dusk collapsed upon the forest, he sat rocking in his mother’s chair: creeeeek dook, creeeek dook. He allowed the jug to knock against the table leg, remembering his mother and her irksome boot.
“What have I done, oh Lord, to bring me such misery? Does the neighbor boy young Oliver deserve his passion, and I my love of rye? Do not both drink of the cup? Why am I cursed, and he is blessed?”
Benjamin stared into the darkness. Locusts trilled and crickets ticked. Like floating orbs of glass, the scintillating eyes of goats stared back at him. He could have sworn he saw the yellow eyes of Lorali.
Copyright © 2024 by Aodhán C. E. Ridenour
