The Goatherd - short story

The Israelis continue their genocidal war. Now they have moved on Lebanon. What's next? That's right world - DO NOTHING!


To call it a road would be generous in the extreme. The Landcruiser, even in low four wheel drive, barely managed to crawl up the steep slope, over boulders and tree roots exposed by rainwater that had washed down the old logging road for years. Just as we finally reached the crest we saw her. A most unlikely sight for such a remote place. An attractive young woman with unkempt blond hair, five feet tall, well-worn shorts and faded t-shirt, ankle length boots, solidly built but not fat, standing alone in a large meadow, obviously surprised to see us. Behind her in the distance was a herd of goats. Even more remarkable was the holstered revolver that hung from her belt; a heavy old-fashioned, long-barrelled colt .45. It was so long, and she was so short, it hung to just below her knee.
“Hello,” I said. “We certainly didn’t expect to find anyone way out here. What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, in a firm but feminine voice. She clearly felt she belonged and we were intruders.
“We came to look at some land,” I explained. “We were told there was a forty acre parcel for sale up here. Do you know where it is?”
She studied us suspiciously for a few moments and then said, “I’m not sure, but my uncle told me the property line was over there, just on the other side of that gully.” She pointed to the east where a nearby ravine dropped off sharply.
“Your uncle owns this land?” I queried.
“Yes, he lets me stay here and tend the goats.”
“He lets you?” I wondered to myself, as I walked closer to the ravine. It was deep and wide enough at the bottom to accommodate a good-sized spring. There were large cedars and some scrub alder growing on the slopes and along the bottom. A small stream fed by the spring gurgled quietly southwards over moss and smooth stones. I suspected that uncle had most probably decided on a property line favorable more to his desires than reality. It would obviously have to be surveyed. Returning to the girl, who had not moved, I asked, “you stay up here all by yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Where do you live?” My wife asked. “Is there a house or a cabin?”
“Over there,” the girl replied. She pointed across part of the meadow where a crude three-sided shack stood. It was partially filled with bales of hay.
“You live there?” my wife said, with disbelief. “You sleep there? In the hay? Where do you cook and go to the bathroom?”
The girl, perhaps embarrassed , did not answer.
“You always carry that pistol?” I asked. “Why do you need a big pistol like that?”
“Cougars,” she answered matter-of-factly. “And coyotes and bears. There are lots of them here. They come for the goats and sometimes I shoot at them. I think there may be wolves now, too, ‘cause lately the coyotes don’t come around much anymore. That must be because of wolves. Wolves hate coyotes, you know. Where there are wolves you don’t find coyotes. I haven’t seen any wolves yet, but I hear them howling sometimes.” She spoke with authority.
“You ever shoot a cougar or a bear?”
“No, only coyotes a couple of times. I’m a good shot” she said proudly, “but usually they run away before I can kill them.”

It was a lovely spot and an absolutely gorgeous day. A few wispy clouds drifted leisurely across a sky so softly blue you wanted to pull it down and wrap it around you like a gigantic comforter. From the mountainside you looked far down across a wide river valley. On both sides of the shimmering jade green river were fields of alfalfa, wheat, barley, oats, corn, canola and mustard, creating a pleasant pattern of order, success and well-being. The farms were well established and had obviously existed on the fertile soil for decades, providing generations of landowners with comfort and security. Surrounding the valley in all directions were high, heavily timbered mountains where populations of elk and deer flourished. Away from the valley floor it was a wild, rough landscape of high snow covered peaks and steep hillsides, hidden meadows, fast flowing streams, waterfalls, and beautiful alpine lakes. Myriad creatures of the forest still lived there in relative peace and harmony, as they had for centuries.

“It’s so beautiful here,” my wife observed, addressing the goatherd. “I can see why you would like it.” The girl simply shrugged and looked away.
“As near as I can tell,” I said, “the property line must run roughly north and south along here. It probably encompasses part of the meadow and then the rest appears to be just timber. I don't know how you’d access it unless you could get an easement through here. Of course you’d have to do something about the road. I don’t know, I think it’s just too much of a job to take on. We’d better keep looking.” My wife gave a sigh of relief, realizing I was coming to my senses.
“Well, thank you, and goodbye,” I said to the girl. It was nice meeting you.”
She did not reply, just stood there watching as we entered the Landcruiser and drove away.
“She certainly was an unfriendly little thing,” I observed.
“Yes, very. I wonder what she does with all her time up here so all alone. I wonder what she eats. I don’t see how she could possibly really live up here like that.”
“I suppose her uncle must bring her food and stuff. I couldn’t live like that. But maybe she just likes being alone. Some people do, you know, but not me. I hate being alone. Anyway, I’m hungry. Let’s find something to eat. We continued carefully down through forests of larch and fir, interspersed here and there with birch and aspen in a delightful kaleidoscope of color and form. Near the bottom a flock of wild turkeys scattered in all directions.

A large sign on the roof simply said “EATS.” In smaller letters it said, “Restaurant Bar and Grocery.” A typical roadside café, it stood at a sharp bend in the highway where you had to slow down anyway, so we stopped and entered. The menu was the usual: hamburgers, pizza, sandwiches, chili, and such. Under Soup of the Day it said “Campbell’s.” The groceries consisted of a few shelves containing boxes of soap powder, toothpaste, toilet paper, mousetraps, sardines, feminine items, and a few cans of beans and soups. We ordered our standard meal in such places, club sandwiches and iced tea.
“Where you folks from,” the waitress asked pleasantly.
“California,” my wife replied. “We’re thinking of moving here someplace. We’ve been looking for property.”
“We just encountered a really strange girl,” I offered. “Way up in the mountains. She was tending goats. Said they belonged to her uncle. She wasn’t very friendly.”
“Oh, yeah,” the waitress replied, “that’d be Sally Mae. She spends her summers up there with them goats. She’s a sad case.”
“How’s that?” My wife couldn’t resist hearing about a sad case of anything.
“Not bein’ from around here I guess you wouldn’t have heard about it. It was a couple of years back. She shot her father.”
“Shot her father!” I exclaimed. “If she shot her father what’s she doing up there on the mountain? Why isn’t she in jail?”
“Well, it’s kind of complicated,” the waitress explained. “The father was a mean old bastard, an abuser. Abused his wife and kids something terrible. Everyone knew about it. Beat his wife regularly. She used to show up with black eyes and bruises all over. The boys was so scared of him they peed their pants when he started yelling at ‘em. Went on for years like that. So…one night when he was drunk and fell asleep on the couch, she shot him in the head. The mother took the blame, said she done it. But everyone around here knew it was really Sally Mae. The mother was a timid little thing, didn’t know one end of a gun from another. But she stuck to her story and saved Sally Mae from having to go to jail.”
“So, what happened?” my wife demanded. “Did she go to jail?”
“No. She was tried and acquitted. Said it was self-defense. No one around here ever woulda found her guilty. Everybody knew how terrible he was, just thought he deserved it. The prosecutor, who come in from another county, was kinda upset and couldn’t believe it. He wanted a new trial but the country couldn’t afford it and no one else wanted it anyway. It was just dropped. The mother and the boys, who were younger, moved away. I don’t think anyone here even knows where they are. But Sally Mae stayed here. Her uncle takes real good care of her, pays her way to college and all.”
“She goes to college?” I asked, incredulous.
“Yeah. Sure. She’ll be a junior this year. Stays up there with them goats in the summer and then comes down in the fall and goes off to school. I heard she does real good, too. I don’t think anybody there knows about her. People here are afraid of her and avoid her. Don’t seem to bother her much though. I don’t know if she ever hears from her mother.”
“Her brother must have a lot of money,” my wife said. “It costs an arm and a leg to send a kid to college nowadays.”
The waitress paused and looked at my wife for a moment as if not sure what to say. Then quietly she explained, “yeah, he’s got money. And he’s a really nice guy. He’s not like his brother at all. Ain’t it weird how two brothers from the same family can be so completely different?”