It was dusk and everything was settling down for the night. The children were asleep and I was tidying up in the kitchen wondering what time his majesty would get home. We were living in a little farm hamlet about two miles from the nearest village, in the middle of nowhere. It was one of those places where you felt that time stood still. In the winter fog would rise from the pastures where the little crayfish streams meandered and sit like a blanket on you for days on end, trapped in the grey gloom.
It was a lonely life now I think about it. Two babies and not much else. The little old man who used to share the hamlet had been taken ill and was forcibly removed from his quarters to finish his days in a spotless but sterile old people's home. When I had taken the children and his dog to see him, he looked out of place and afraid. All he wanted was to go home to be with Frisette and his three bantam hens. But it was not to be. Pepe Marcel as he was known, died shortly after.
My little girl loved him very much and would trot over to his door and bang on it even when he was gone. She had brightened up his last years and he indulged her as any doting grand father would. I would find him sitting on an old straw seated chair with his feet in the oven of his wood burning cooker, where he liked to toast his toes. She would be bouncing on his funny old bed and he would laugh at her antics. The bed was one of those old roller beds made out of cherry wood that came straight out of the nineteenth century. He spoke in patois, the language of the country and at times it was hard to follow. He had been living in the same place all his life and knew many strange and wonderful tales. If you gave him a glass of something strong to sip, he would come out with his stories and keep me amused for hours. He had been a carter all his life and had never married. But he had been a ladies' man according to the farmer's wife who lived further up the road and provided us with milk and eggs.
In return he told me the tale of how her father was a witch and how he used to frighten his horses. Every time he met him when he was with his horse and cart the horses would rear up in fear and bolt. According to Pepe Marchel, when he died the family chucked all his magic books out of the window and burnt them in the farm yard. Apparently he had the Great Albert, one of the most famous books of spells around. The farmer's wife would not discuss her dad with me, I think it was too painful.
Anyrate that evening I was clearing up in the kitchen when a I heard a funny noise coming from the drive. Looking out of the window, to my surprise I saw a very large billy goat of the alpine variety wandering down the drive dragging a long chain behind him. Thinking it had come from a near by farm where there were plenty of goats I hurried out to catch it.
Curious, he strolled over to me and I was hit by the stench of billy goat. I had never had the pleasure of smelling one before and it almost knocked me off my feet. What is more, the goat had a full set of curved horns, a beard and very intellegent, or should I say cunning, eyes. with slit like pupils. There was no getting away from it, he reminded me of the devils one finds carved in wood in some old churches. Not particularly reassured at that thought, I refused to give way to fear and banished it from my mind. Then spoke to the beast. .
'What are you doing wandering around at this time of night.,' or something to that effect. The animal strode up to me put his face right in mine, looked me straight in the eyes and, as if that was not enough, he thought of nothing better than to put his front legs on my shoulders and tower above me like a pagan god. I was not going to be intimidated by a goat and forcefully removed the offending hooves and pushed him away.
Taking charge of the situation, I grabbed his chain and led him to one of the small cow byres which was unoccupied.. I made him comfortable with some hay and locked him in for the night. I rang the farm and asked them if they had lost a billy goat but they assured me that they did not have one and there were none in the area as they had to go over fifty miles to take their goats to mate. I couldn't be bothered to do anything more that evening and as my husband had still not come home so I went to bed.
The next morning I mentioned the goat over breakfast and we trooped out to the barn to see him. I unbolted the door, expecting to see him, but there was nothing there at all. All the doors were shut and the only window was high up with bars across it. The place was empty but the smell of billy goat was as strong as if he had been there. Having no explanation as to how he had got out, the mystery remained.
About fifteen years later I was reading a book called the the Red Handkerchiefs of Cholet. Now Cholet is a little town in that part of France and the book was about local customs and folklore which I found very interesting until I came across one passage.
In that area of France, the story went, there is a billy goat who drags a chain behind him. If you hear the chain or see the goat lock yourself inside your house and don't go out for any reason. This goat is supernatural and was naturally considered to be of a diabolic nature. Well that expalins my mystery I thought. I had come face to face with the Devil himself and had fearlessly locked him up. Not so scary after all Mr Devil. There is nothing to fear except fear!
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