1. The Runaway Goat

It was the last Sunday of May. I awoke to the clamor of bells in the city's churches. The sun was already up, and my surroundings were well lit. I looked at the clock; it was just six. I slipped on a vest, and went out to see my goat. But all I found in her pen was a depression in the straw-- her short horns and white hair were not in sight.

"The weather's so good, she took command and decamped."

Caught between laughing and cursing her, I looked around the field where she liked to run, between the signal building and the service road. I glimpsed, between the poplars, the white church tower at the edge of town, but nowhere did I see her white head or back.

I wondered if remembered places they'd been before, or the road they had come by, and returned as dogs and horses did. Once the thought had entered my mind, I could not stand not knowing. But the race track, unlike my office, had no elderly clerks who would know such things, and no reference books where such facts would be written. And so all I could was start out along the service road, and head out to the meadowland along the path by which a villager had first brought the goat to me. Oats and rye were sprouting in the fields I passed, and some were plowed and still waiting to be planted.

Before long I found myself on the road leading from town to the villages to the southwest.

A number of farm women, dressed in black with white kerchiefs, were walking toward me. I realized it was time for me to return. I was dressed in my night clothes, wearing a vest but no cap, and with my face still unwashed, looking for the unknown spot in these broad fields to which my goat had flown. At that point, however, I did not feel right about going back. The approaching women were almost close enough to see their faces. Making up my mind, I walked resolutely toward them, bowed to them and asked their help.

"I wonder if a goat hasn't come wandering this way?"

The women all stopped. They were carrying bibles, apparently on their way to church.

"My goat may have come this way, but have you seen him?"

They all looked at each other. Then one of them answered.

"We've all come straight this way, so..."

Of course. The goat hadn't run off at a time when people were on the road. I bowed and thanked them. The women walked away. I wanted to go back, but that would have meant catching and passing the women. I could pass time just taking a stroll, but that would have been no help at all, I realized with a bitter smile. Just then a young man in his middle twenties and a boy of 17 carrying a shovel came along. It would be no use, but I bowed again and ask them, just for form's sake.

"My goat may have come this way; have you seen him?"

"A goat? No. Were you leading it this way when it escaped?"

"No, it escaped from its pen. Well, thank you."

I bowed and started off. Then the boy called out to me.

"Someone's coming over there-- is that one yours?"

I turned around and looked in the direction he was pointing.

"That's Fazelo, and doesn't he have a goat?"

"It's a goat, and it must be yours. There's no other reason Fazelo would be walking along with a goat these days."

It was a goat without question. But could it be a different goat he was taking to sell in town? He was headed that direction. I went toward him. He was a red-cheeked boy of 17, wearing a vest and no jacket, who approached me with an embarrassed smile. He was leading a nanny goat, one that certainly looked like mine, by a leather lead around the neck. Although she certainly looked like mine, I stopped, hesitant to say anything. The boy also stopped, and bowed to me.

"This goat must be yours."

"It looks like it."

"It was wandering alone when I came out."

"I wonder if goats remember roads they've walked, like dogs."

"Maybe so. Here, take it."

"I'm really grateful. I came looking without even washing my face."

"You came that far?"

"I live at the race track."

"Over there?" As he unfastened the lead from the goat's neck, he looked across the fields until he saw the greenish acacia swaying brightly through the haze.

"Have you come far?"

"Well, I came this far... Goodbye."

"Wait a minute. I'd like to give you something, but I don't have anything."

"No, I don't need anything. It was fun leading a goat."

"Just the same, I couldn't forgive myself. I know-- could you use a chain?" Figuring that I could get along without it, I removed the silver chain from my watch.

"No, thanks."

"There's a lodestone attached."

The boy flushed suddenly, but quickly returned to normal and surprised me with a vague reply. "No, thanks. A lodestone won't help find it."

"Won't help find what?"

The boy was a little flustered, as though there were something he was keeping inside.

"Won't help find what?"

The boy hesitated a bit longer, then made up his mind to speak. "Polano Square."

"Polano Square? I think that's what you said. What is Polano Square?"

"It's from a fairy tale, but it's showed up again recently."

"Oh, that's right. I think I heard about it as a child. It's a festival out in the middle of the plain. You get there by counting the serial numbers in pearlwort flowers."

"That's the fairy tale. But it seems to actually exist these days."

"Why do you say that?"

"When we go out on the plain at night, we can hear sounds coming from there."

"Can't you just go toward the sound?"

"We've done that several times, but we get confused."

"But if you can hear it, it can't be that far off."

"No, Iyhatovo plain is big. Even Milo gets lost on foggy days."

"I suppose so. There are maps, though."

"You have a map of the plain?"

"Yes, but it spreads over four sheets or so."

"Looking at the map, could we see the roads and forests and everything?"

"A few things may have changed, but you can tell pretty well. Suppose I thank you by buying a map and sending it to you?"

The boy flushed again, and assented.

"I take it you're called Fazelo. How should I address it?"

"I'll find some time and go to your place."

"If it's a matter of free time, how about today?"

"I have to work today."

"Isn't this Sunday?"

"There aren't any Sundays for me."

"How come?"

"I have to work."

"What sort of job is it?"

"At the boss's place. We're all headed to the fields now. We gather the wheat."

"So you work for an employer?"

"Yes."

"What about your parents."

"None."

"Older brothers?"

"I have an older sister."

"Where?"

"Same boss."

"I see."

"But my sister may go to Dr. Wildcat's."

"What? Did you say Dr. Wildcat."

"That's what we call him. His real name is Destupago."

"Destupago? Is that Borgant Destupago, the provincial councillor?"

"Yes."

"He's a bad one-- is his home in this area?"

"Yes, from my boss's place..."

"Hey, what're you goofing off here for?" We were interrupted by a loud voice behind us. We turned to see an old, tough looking farmer with a red cap and a leather whip.

"I thought you'd have gotten some work done by now, but here you are standing around jabbering. Get to work!"

"Okay. Goodbye, then."

"So long. I'm always back from the office by 5:30, you know."

"Okay."

Fazelo hurried toward the next road with a water jar and hoe.

"I don't know where you're from, but from now on you can just keep out of my affairs."

"I just came looking for my goat when it ran off. That boy brought it to me, and I was asking how I could show my appreciation."

"Enough of that. Goats have feet to walk. Fazelo is crazy to go running off after one." The farmer, his face flushed red, raised his hand and snapped the whip he was holding.

"Isn't it a little wild of you to snap your whip at people?"

The farmer poked it toward my face.

"This whip? Are you talking about this whip? This isn't a whip for people-- it's a horse whip. I drove four horses here. That's how it is, you see."

The farmer cracked the whip fiercely in my face. I could feel the blood rushing to my head. I decided, though, that this wasn't the time to fight, and looked at my goat. She was walking along, eating clumps of grass here and there. The farmer went off in the same direction as Fazelo, and I followed the goat. When I looked back. I could see the farmer's red cap bouncing along the dark horizon above the surface of the fields. Among the dimmer shadows in the same direction I could see flashing farm tools and the dark figures of a horse and Fazelo, or someone like him, slapping the horse to move it forward.