Souls We Rip

The Goat Man

Someone awakened me from my slumber.

My eyes squinted from the candlelight. It was too bright. My hooves clacked on the stone floor as I rose from the bed, draping the robe over my short dark fur.

Feeling the skull on my head, I readjusted it.

I went to see what lay behind the glass of my mirror.

The Souls’ Mirror.

Intricate craftsmanship decorated the golden frame. Centuries old, it was my only truth in this world.

My Mirror never failed me in showing my foes or the next soul to take. The more, the merrier. The darker, the better.

I have had hundreds of souls taken, each adding to my age. They were all a part of me. I felt all their sorrow and all their happiness, binding them to my eternity.

Each time a mortal thought of me, I walked the earth. And when my story was told, I returned twice more.

The real one.

I tapped with my left hoof on the thin glass once. A powerful light burst within, names written in blood circled in it, belonging to the souls I took.

Names that I didn’t remember. Why would I? They were long forgotten anyway.

Each year at the Girls’ Fair, I took one soul to serve me, and one to add to my age or better said, to satisfy my master. Last year, it was a peasant boy who called me, and he was still my servant.

The other one, I could not name.

That year, I decided to keep my servant, as he was doing a good job at keeping my lair in good condition. Sometimes, I would hear him chirping, seeing him happier in death than in life.

I never engaged with humans. I couldn’t care less, as long as they were healthy and most importantly, evil.

The mirror showed me an image of three women, standing in their kitchen, arranging different dishes. One looked flustered, older, a few strands of hair wet from sweat, falling from her green batik.

The other two, I assumed, were her daughters. One blonde, one dark-haired, milling away in the kitchen, bringing dishes to an iron cart. Their hair was braided, their clothes were dirty from food stains, and each had a smile on their lips. The blonde one asked about my story.

The older woman panicked.

And the dark-haired one wondered.

She awoke me.

Due to her not remembering my story, I could not fulfil my slumber that day.

I pressed my snout on the glass to take a closer look.

Her full lips were wet, her blue eyes glistening. Their colour reminded me of the sky in the spring, fresh air and crystalline rivers. Her nose wrinkled as she tried to recall my history.

She didn’t.

And then their father appeared.

I tilted my head, surprised at his reaction. I was a superstition, according to him.

He looked evil. With his dark eyebrows knitted and his large nostrils flaring, he was a better selection for my soul-ripping than the other one.

Somehow, the vile people live the longest.

I turned my head around to see my faithful servant staring at the girls.

“Does the sight please your weary eyes?” I asked, one of my hooves tapping on the floor. The sound of my voice filled the room, making the boy wince.

“No, sir,” he whimpered.

“Hmm, too bad you cannot reach them, since you’re dead and all…,” I let my words linger. If I was not mistaken, I could see yearning reaching his young face.

I walked towards the bed, leaving my robe on the floor for the boy to clean.

“Wake me up when the time comes, boy,” I said, turning away from him and closing my eyes.

I heard him mumbling about goats leaving me in silence and darkness.

Just as I liked it.

There was a time when emperors ruled the world, where swords were drowned in blood, and love was a scarce memory.

From the blood and memories, he was born.

A legend.

A myth.

An impossibility.

In a world where God was the only one who redeemed souls, a tale of him was a superstition, a story to frighten naughty children.

It had two forms. One of a goat, one of a man.

He was a man with white eyes like a cherub’s wings, dark hair like night and grey skin like dead bodies. But dead, he was not. As he could feel, touch and think. He was made to look but not join. The darkest feeling would fill his heart. Jealousy, retching and crushing crept into his chest.

The only night he wanted to get out was the night between 20th and 21st July.

That was when, for years, The Girls’ Fair was taking place on the hill of G?ina.

Hundreds of young boys and girls would gather to find each other’s soulmate, or, as it is in most cases, a partner for life.

Also, to eat, dance and drink in honour of the new pairs.

Because love was difficult to have, to feel, to be fated to.

After all, he was just a man.

And there he was, watching the humans dancing hora, cheering and laughing, whistling and singing for the new couples. Wine was pouring left to right, women losing their inhibitions, men indulging in the views.

But just as he took a step towards the food stalls, a small voice pierced the quiet from behind him.

“Hello.”

He turned around, his dark eyebrows touching his hairline. His head tilted once to the left side and once to the right side.

There was a small boy, his bright eyes roaming over the lean body, covered by a dark cloak.

“Who are you? Why are you not at the celebration?” the boy asked, his tone curious.

“I am not allowed,” he whispered, thoughts of food relinquished.

“Why is that?” the boy insisted.

“I did something bad to my family.”

The boy frowned. “You look like someone who gets in trouble a lot.”

That caught the man by surprise; his laughter was raspy.

But the sound, as rare as it was, frightened people.

Men and women looked his way, curious glances here and there. They did not know about him or what he could do. They only saw a shadow of a man. They only noticed the myth.

“Who’s that?” some whispered as steps moved forward.

As soon as they saw his face, women screamed, children cried, and men hit.

He did not want to go through this again.

He pulled off his cloak, it falling at his feet, revealing his long horns. He stepped over it, hooves replacing feet and hands. With his horns, he slashed their bodies, cutting them in half. Their blood soiled the earth, their cries dying into the night.

Only the children were left untouched. They watched mesmerised as their families’ souls travelled to him, prancing on his hands. He opened his mouth to ingest the souls, his round eyes closing.

With the skull in his hands, he turned towards the children, avoiding their faces. “Tell what happened here today! Let it be my story!”

And with that, he disappeared into thin air, leaving orphans and tears behind.