sighted when the mists hung over the mountains. The one goat he must not shoot.
Nobody had ever seen two roamy goats together. Logic said there must be more than one – there had been roamy sightings for centuries. Or perhaps they were a genetic anomaly, like a white
hart, born to a normal buck and its nanny. Or ... or perhaps, as Daniel’s grandfather vehemently maintained, it was one of a kind, an ancient beast still alive and unthreatened by
cullers.
It was twice as large as a normal goat, almost the size of a bullock. Its features were nobler, its tread delicate as a deer’s. Its horns were a marvel, patched grey, white and iridescent
like flint. Its fleece was threaded with indigo and steel-coloured hairs, so that the shadows of its coat were a moody purple and the outline bright like a cloud’s silver lining.
It would mean, his grandfather used to insist with rare vitriol, a curse on your family to shoot that goat.
Daniel’s father had always taught him to obey his elders. So, after his father died, Daniel did all he could to adapt to the lifestyle his grandfather pressed upon him. Yet the character
of his father had also been strong. Daniel feared God, even if he did not always believe in him. He was at times, he could admit, terrorized by God. As a teenager he would sneak off to the Church
of Saint Erasmus when he knew his grandfather would not notice, to sit in its vaulted silence staring ever upwards at the black shadows of the ceiling. There he would feel a terrible despair,
barren and biblical like this land of the Merrow Wold. He would repent of all the things his grandfather had encouraged him to do, the drinking and the brawling and the savage talk.
Likewise, when he was nineteen, Daniel had wept heavingly at his grandfather’s funeral, even though every other tear was one of relief that at last he was free to pick up the pieces of the
previous two generations and try to understand how to be the descendent of both men at once. That was a puzzle that would prove difficult to solve.
On the night before the funeral he had wolfed a steak so rare and bloody it was near raw, then, after the burial, resumed the vegetarianism of his childhood. He had consumed the meat both in
homage to his grandfather and in fear for the dead man’s soul. Looking back, he could never comprehend how his grandfather had shrugged off talk of his impending torment. ‘You only
think that’ll be,’ he had once said with a wink, ‘because you think you yourself are so special. But look at the goats. They think they’re special too, and we cullers know
that ain’t true. Living by instinct only. No control over what they do and don’t do. And if you think we ain’t the damned same as them, well ... then you’re more of a fool
than anyone for thinking there’s a bed made up in hell for the likes of me.’
Daniel was approaching the homestead now. It was a long building constructed from sturdy beams, more like a feasting hall of old than a home to be at peace in. A sturdy fence
marked out the territory of its yard, on the far side of which were an outhouse, a workshop and a disused barn. Although Daniel had lived here since his father’s death, his childhood years
spent at the vicarage meant that the homestead, in which so many of his ancestors had dwelt and died, had never felt his own. In fact, for a few blissful years he had left it to rot. That was when
he lived with Betty in her house in Candle Street.
He had met her on the Devil’s Diadem one day, while he crouched with his hunting rifle. Stalking like that, in no hurry to make the kill, was an experience as calming as the long hours of
prayer his father had encouraged. The Devil’s Diadem, that far up and that far wide of the path, was a deserted place. He had never encountered another human being among its barbed trees and
narrow boulders. So, when the woman stepped into the clearing he had been aiming his rifle at, he very nearly placed a bullet
Nobody had ever seen two roamy goats together. Logic said there must be more than one – there had been roamy sightings for centuries. Or perhaps they were a genetic anomaly, like a white
hart, born to a normal buck and its nanny. Or ... or perhaps, as Daniel’s grandfather vehemently maintained, it was one of a kind, an ancient beast still alive and unthreatened by
cullers.
It was twice as large as a normal goat, almost the size of a bullock. Its features were nobler, its tread delicate as a deer’s. Its horns were a marvel, patched grey, white and iridescent
like flint. Its fleece was threaded with indigo and steel-coloured hairs, so that the shadows of its coat were a moody purple and the outline bright like a cloud’s silver lining.
It would mean, his grandfather used to insist with rare vitriol, a curse on your family to shoot that goat.
Daniel’s father had always taught him to obey his elders. So, after his father died, Daniel did all he could to adapt to the lifestyle his grandfather pressed upon him. Yet the character
of his father had also been strong. Daniel feared God, even if he did not always believe in him. He was at times, he could admit, terrorized by God. As a teenager he would sneak off to the Church
of Saint Erasmus when he knew his grandfather would not notice, to sit in its vaulted silence staring ever upwards at the black shadows of the ceiling. There he would feel a terrible despair,
barren and biblical like this land of the Merrow Wold. He would repent of all the things his grandfather had encouraged him to do, the drinking and the brawling and the savage talk.
Likewise, when he was nineteen, Daniel had wept heavingly at his grandfather’s funeral, even though every other tear was one of relief that at last he was free to pick up the pieces of the
previous two generations and try to understand how to be the descendent of both men at once. That was a puzzle that would prove difficult to solve.
On the night before the funeral he had wolfed a steak so rare and bloody it was near raw, then, after the burial, resumed the vegetarianism of his childhood. He had consumed the meat both in
homage to his grandfather and in fear for the dead man’s soul. Looking back, he could never comprehend how his grandfather had shrugged off talk of his impending torment. ‘You only
think that’ll be,’ he had once said with a wink, ‘because you think you yourself are so special. But look at the goats. They think they’re special too, and we cullers know
that ain’t true. Living by instinct only. No control over what they do and don’t do. And if you think we ain’t the damned same as them, well ... then you’re more of a fool
than anyone for thinking there’s a bed made up in hell for the likes of me.’
Daniel was approaching the homestead now. It was a long building constructed from sturdy beams, more like a feasting hall of old than a home to be at peace in. A sturdy fence
marked out the territory of its yard, on the far side of which were an outhouse, a workshop and a disused barn. Although Daniel had lived here since his father’s death, his childhood years
spent at the vicarage meant that the homestead, in which so many of his ancestors had dwelt and died, had never felt his own. In fact, for a few blissful years he had left it to rot. That was when
he lived with Betty in her house in Candle Street.
He had met her on the Devil’s Diadem one day, while he crouched with his hunting rifle. Stalking like that, in no hurry to make the kill, was an experience as calming as the long hours of
prayer his father had encouraged. The Devil’s Diadem, that far up and that far wide of the path, was a deserted place. He had never encountered another human being among its barbed trees and
narrow boulders. So, when the woman stepped into the clearing he had been aiming his rifle at, he very nearly placed a bullet
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