Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
The wind whispered through Yhip Valley, every muscle in Braiden’s body stiff and still as he watched the Mothergoat in stunned silence.
How did she know? And how could she tell what weavers were when she claimed to have barely met humans at all?
Augustin waved his hand gently in front of Braiden’s eyes. “Braiden,” he whispered, “are you quite all right? She knows what you are. Isn’t that remarkable?”
Braiden finally snapped out of his stupor, clamping his jaw shut and rubbing at his hair in disbelief. “Is it because of what I’m wearing?” he asked, feeling like a fool.
How could an othergoat possibly know about knitwear and weaving and looms?
“Is it because of this?” he continued awkwardly, thumbing the scarf he’d imbued with warming magic.
Something resembling a smile twinkled in the Mothergoat’s eyes — all three of them.
“Partly, yes,” the Mothergoat said. “I may have cheated a little. What you wear on your body — is it not made of othergoat wool? I’d recognize it anywhere. It would take someone of specific talents to know how to handle our fleece.”
But that didn’t explain why the Mothergoat would know what a weaver even was. Braiden bit his tongue, knowing there had to be more to her story.
“I met another of your kind, once. Most upright organisms who venture into the valley have unkinder motives and harsher methods of attempting to secure our fleece. It begs the question: why don’t they simply ask?”
Braiden didn’t argue the fact that most people also didn’t know that othergoats — or at least their matriarchs — could speak. But he decided not to interrupt. She had mentioned something curious, after all.
“Was it a woman?” Braiden asked. “The other of my kind that you met, I mean.”
“A woman, you say?” The Mothergoat’s eyes flitted upward, an oddly human expression, as though searching her memories.
“Many, many seasons ago, it was. Instead of attempting to capture us with nets and other implements, she simply strolled in and asked, perhaps with no expectation that any of us would answer.”
An ethical harvest, Braiden thought. A kinder touch, a softer hand, things he’d learned from his family early on. Ours is the way of warmth.
“I was younger, then. My own mothergoat still lived. The woman was a weaver like yourself, someone who makes fleece out of nothing, spinning it into great waves and clouds, the way that you did when you fought off the windwalker.” The Mothergoat narrowed her eyes, squinting at Braiden’s face.
“If I recall, you have very similar eyes. The color of the sky.”
Braiden held his breath, mouth gone dry.
How could that be possible? Did othergoats truly live that long?
He’d been taught early on that it was impolite to ask a woman her age.
He decided it was only fair to extend the same courtesy to the Mothergoat.
He moistened his lips, nearly afraid to voice the question burning on the tip of his tongue.
“Do you remember her name?” he asked.
“I have told you,” the Mothergoat replied. “It is not our way to give and take names. But I do recall finding it funny, the sound she gave us when referring to herself. How the two words began — baa and baa again — much like the sounds my children make. Most amusing.”
Braiden pressed both hands to his chest, heart nearly bursting.
“My name is Braiden Beadle — baa and baa again. Do you think — does the name Bethilda Beadle sound familiar at all?”
“I believe that to be correct. Was she someone most important to you?” The Mothergoat tilted her head. “Little weaver, why are your eyes watering?”
The weaver woman had been kind to the herd, the Mothergoat said, trying to hand-feed them clumps of grass instead of chasing and frightening them like all the others. She’d woven a great fleece to help keep a newborn otherkid warm.
Braiden rubbed his eyes and blubbered into his sweater’s sleeves, shocked and slightly mortified by his sudden need to pour it all out, struggling not to sob too hard so he could keep listening.
Augustin kneaded his back in congenial silence, nodding as the Mothergoat summoned up the precious fragments of her memories. Braiden would have to count on Augustin to remember. He couldn’t stop his mind from running in every direction.
Why hadn’t Granny Bethilda mentioned meeting the othergoats, of all things, to Braiden? She knew how much he adored these elusive creatures, how he’d always dreamed of meeting one, of reaching out to touch their supernaturally warm wool.
Something bumped against his hip. He wiped away his tears, staring and smiling bleary-eyed at the othergoat from before, the first cannonball. He recognized the odd asymmetric curve of its left horn, the tiniest smear of white fur on its forehead.
It pressed up against him, almost, though not quite like a cat displaying affection for its preferred owner. Braiden glanced at the Mothergoat, as if asking for permission. She nodded.
He patted the top of the othergoat’s head, chuckling when it raised its neck and shut its eyes, as if asking for more. So warm, warmer than any living creature had any right to be.
He ran his fingers through fleece that warmed his skin like kindling at a slow smolder, radiating heat, but never actually burning. Braiden almost broke down crying again.
That night, they slept peacefully under the stars — or more accurately, under the much more sensible moss-green tent that Augustin had acquired from the Noose.
The Mothergoat had insisted that they stay, partly out of amusement at the coincidence of that one weaver woman’s progeny coming to see her, but perhaps also out of an abundance of caution, in case more windwalkers materialized in the night.
Braiden was only too happy to accept, especially after being shown a nearby stream where they were free to wash up and draw fresh water for drinking. The othergoats lived simple, satisfied lives here in Yhip Valley.
Once or twice through the evening, a thought occurred to Braiden, the possibility of offering the Mothergoat and her herd a safer life away from the ravages of the air elementals.
But there was a reason that no one had ever successfully tamed these unusual creatures. Some things in the world aren’t meant to be kept or contained. Despite the inherent, if occasional dangers, the othergoats, like the burrowfolk, were happy to stay exactly where they always lived.
The night did turn out to be very chilly after all, especially at this time of year, and most especially at night. For once, Braiden wished that Augustin was a fire mage instead.
But not long into the night, the pair of them tucked shivering and wide awake in their sleeping rolls, something warm and soft wandered into the tent, settling into what little space remained between them.
It was too dark to see, but Braiden knew it was the othergoat from before yet again, sensing their need for heat.
It smelled like sweet, fresh grass and blazed hotter than any fireplace.
Braiden fell asleep with his hand twined with Augustin’s hand, their fingers threaded through the toasty, warm heat of their new friend’s fleece.
That night, Braiden dreamt of two women: one who lay in the sky, using a cloud as a pillow, her hair twinkling with stars. Far below her, in a valley she’d once carved out with her own finger, was a smiling woman with Braiden’s eyes and a handful of grass.
The next morning they broke fast with simpler rations, mainly nuts, berries, and salted meat.
Their othergoat companion turned its nose up and left for its more familiar fare of sweet grass.
He left, rather, as Braiden and Augustin learned, getting an unexpected eyeful of the othergoat’s unmentionables as he walked away.
“Leaving so soon?” the Mothergoat asked, watching as they dismantled their tent and packed their things. “You still haven’t harvested the bit of my personal wool that I promised you.”
Braiden’s hand trembled as he fixed the clasp of his rucksack, thinking of the shears wrapped safely in a bundle of cloth deep inside.
“Are you absolutely sure you can spare some?” he asked. “I’m incredibly grateful that you offered at all, but the nights are so cold, and — ”
The Mothergoat burst into peals of bleating laughter, and this time out loud. The othergoat herd followed suit, an oddly melodic chorus of baas and bleating.
“You won’t leave me wanting for warmth, that I can promise you. And you do not intend to shear me bald, do you? Perhaps enough wool to make yourself a fine new garment?”
The shaking in Braiden’s hand reverberated throughout the rest of his body. That was so much more wool than he’d ever expected — and from the herd matriarch, too! Othergoat wool was already so magical on its own. What more the wool of a Mothergoat?
Braiden fought to keep his hands steady as he sheared a generous quantity of wool from the Mothergoat.
“More, weaver,” the Mothergoat commanded. “Don’t be shy.”
Ybura preserve me, he thought, a bead of sweat rolling down his brow. He gathered blazing piles of wool into his rucksack, careful to protect his hands with his enchanted mitts. A dream achieved, and a dream surpassed.
“And take this as well,” the Mothergoat said.
She bleated once, decisive and loud, and one of the othergoats — their friend with the white patch — stepped forward, something black and shiny clenched between his teeth.
He dropped it in the grass at Augustin’s feet, pausing long enough for a head pat and a back rub. Augustin smilingly obliged before retrieving the second present.
“It’s an old horn,” he said, showing it to Braiden.
An othergoat horn, in fact, polished and carefully crafted to serve as an actual horn, a reed affixed to the narrow end.
“To you I gift a fragment of one of our oldest mothers,” the Mothergoat said, “though how fitting that an othergoat gift for humans should come with a transactional price.”
Braiden pursed his lips and nodded. Fair was fair.
“Keep this someplace you can see it, hear it. Should a windwalker arrive out of season, this is a way for my herd to quickly reach you. The horn will sound as if blown by the wind itself. But it works both ways. Should you need our assistance, for some reason or another, blow into its tip.”
This new knowledge gave Augustin a sudden reverence for the horn. He stared at it wide-eyed, holding it in the palms of both extended hands as a knight might hold a sacred blade.
“We don’t mean to inconvenience you,” Augustin said. “But how would you know where to find us?”
Braiden completed the line of unspoken questioning in his mind. More to the point, how would the othergoats even reach them?
“We have our ways,” the Mothergoat said, a smile threaded through the cryptic tone of her answer.
They said their goodbyes, Braiden and Augustin being mindful to bestow their friend with several more pats and rubs, handing out even more to the other othergoats who lined up for a rare spot of human affection.
The Mothergoat stood at the back of the herd, watching wordlessly as they departed. Braiden took one last longing look back at the othergoats. He waved. The Mothergoat said nothing, but nodded back. Braiden blinked and, her golden eye was shut.