Lost leandro and the talking goat

Lost Leandro and the talking goat.

By John D Foot

(Another Majorcan Tale)

Looking at the trunks of certain old olive trees it is common to see faces.

For Leandro it had been a mistake to bring wine to the cheese and bread picnic. Afterwards, he had slept and, on waking, discovered the head of a horse, one eye scrutinising him and, shifting his view to the left, he was confronted by an apparently disapproving ram while, to the right, a third face, belonging more to mythology than to this world, glared at him.

He blinked and passed a palm from the bridge of his nose to the back of his bald patch, a distance which always disappointed.

The day had grown darker since first settling down for a rest.

Searching a quiet place to eat and be alone, he had wandered off the path, confident he would be able to find his way back.

Find his way back.

Yes, back.

Back, yes, but to what? To the dead weight that had settled its load on his back.

Perhaps better to stay here, away from all that.

It was what the holiday had been about – getting away from it all.

A week on Majorca.

Time to himself.

Time to think.

As he clarified his vision, the olive trunk rearranged itself into non- animalistic shapes and, gathering possessions into his rucksack, he cajoled his body into a standing position only to discover a problem with direction. Where had he come from? It was not so clear now and it occurred to him that he might soon become, or actually be, lost.

Still… two hours of light remaining… enough time to retrace the path back to Valdemossa. Down must be the rule, gravity the guide. So, judging the gradient descending to his left, Leandro began walking that way.

But only five steps, where he was brought to a halt by a noise behind him - a snort or a grunt.

Instinctively turning, he caught sight of a creature moving slowly, though not threateningly, through the trees fifty or so metres away. After a brief moment of confusion, he identified it as a goat – one of the tough creatures that forage an uncertain living on the wild slopes of the Tanmontaña. He had seen them before, these survivors. Sure-footed with rich umber coats forged, seemingly, in the dark soils of the island.

And the black on the back, belly and legs - surely stained by the charcoal shade of mountain oaks; they had, indisputably, earned their tenure.

For no discernible reason the animal stopped its ramblings and turned its head towards the man. At this distance, Leandro saw only a shape but, inexplicably, he felt the horizontal goat pupils targeting him. Thus, for sixty seconds or more, two inhabitants of the forest were locked in mutual curiosity until the fourlegged creature abandoned interest and ambled away through the twilight architecture of the trees.

And, for reasons that Leandro has never since been able to understand, let alone explain, he followed.

At first the going was not too bad. With almost no undergrowth to worry about, rocks and fallen branches were the only obstacles. The goat moved without hast and the way rose quite gently except for one place where it cut horizontally across a sparsely vegetated slope of earth and loose stones. Leandro began to enjoy the movement, began to take pleasure in the use and control of his body, the articulation of his joints, the command of his muscles, the subtle shifting and adjustment of balance. It felt good to be out on the mountain, exposed to nature, far away from his home on the mainland which, if he were honest, could no longer be considered home. It was only trouble.

The trail began to steepen but, so absorbed was he with the physical sensations of motion, the man gave it little thought and, if anything, began to move even faster, just for the hell of it. Ahead, he could sometimes hear the goat’s hooves clattering over rocks, some of which would be dislodged and sent rattling down the hillside. Indeed, one such projectile narrowly missed his knee as he clambered up a restricted limestone gully in pursuit of his cloven-hoofed seducer.

Above the chimney, though, the way flattened out. The shape of the animal could be spotted, intermittently now, considerably further away. And, as the sun plunged down towards the Mediterranean on the other side of the mountain, its trailing daylight followed obsequiously, seemingly without cognisance of those it left behind.

Consequently, without knowing how he had arrived there, Leandro discovered himself surrounded on three sides by grey cliffs with just enough visibility to assess his predicament. His guide had disappeared and the way forward was unclear. Dismissing the idea of retracing steps, as his memory of how he had come here was vague, he decide it would be better to stay put until morning. He did not, however, relish the thought of a night out in the open with nothing but a thin coat for protection.

This might be Majorca, but it was also October.

So, in the fading light, he began to scuffle around the reduced space in the hope of nestling into some sheltered nook where he could sit miserably until dawn. It was during this search that an odd thing happened – a final intense ray from the retiring sun pierced a channel through the woods, brightly illuminating what Leandro perceived immediately to be the first in a chain of little stone men. No more than half a metre high, carefully constructed with a broad base, a pointed nose and a workman’s cap it was what, the English would call a cairn. Leandro, however, despite being Spanish, knew them only by the name used by the many German tourists: Steinmenchen – little stone men.

They were put there to help find the way and they were, at this time, indicating a path cut diagonally through the opposing cliff face. Strange he had not seen it before. The goat had obviously passed this way.

Overwhelmed with a compulsion to go continue, he brushed and shook the dry leaves from his clothes and set out on the path of little stone men.

Some were smaller than others, pebble babies, barely formed. Others were tall and assertive. One at least was half as high as he and, in near darkness, it seemed to the lost man, that there were those who nodded him on, or winked as he passed.

They led him to an exposed rock.

Here, he could no longer see the way forward, the way back or indeed sideways. It has become quite dark and, frightened to move into the unknown, Leandro folded up on himself, finishing with backside on a rock and his back against the rough bark of a pine, head sunk despairingly as close to his heart as physiologically possible. Several minutes were spent in this defeatist pose before he remembered his mobile phone.

Someone had told him, he recalled, that it a lamp function and so he busied himself in a session of largely random button pushing which, frustratingly, failed to locate the required utility. In the process, however, much to his relief, he discovered that the light from the face of the phone offered a limited orb of visibility.

Flashing it to the side he saw only darkness and a void too terrible to contemplate. Directing it behind, the little stone men appeared to abandon their chats, their fraternisations, hurrying back to sentinel positions.

Ahead, though, the Steinmenchen proposed an alternative – a route away from this terrible place.

Naturally, Leandro followed.

Up and up and up they led while he was thinking I should be heading down and down. But, regardless, he obeyed the dictates of the cairns understanding, of course, that the marked route works two ways - where you have come from and where you are going. Yet, in a strange, counter intuitive sense, he knew he was heading the right way.

Predictably, though, the little stone men went off to other duties leaving a much disoriented man abandoned in a dim pool of light with his hand on a wall.

“A wall!” mouthed Leandro, suddenly paying attention. “A wall means civilisation.” And, without reflection, he followed it, right hand moving over its ordered stone surface.

One metre of progress, two, three, four, five… and then a gasp as he toppled violently forward as though propelled by some malevolent force. Up became down; left became right; predictable, unpredictable; light, dark as the phone went clattering away over the rocks until, with the thud of his head against wood, it stopped.

Leandro remained still, just long enough to take stock of his injuries. Scrunched up in what appeared to be a stony hollow, he was vaguely away of something wet moving across his bare scalp and a sharp pain at his elbow. Nothing too serious, he consoled.

Freeing a hand to push against the wooden buffer, he immediately realised that it was not the wood of a tree. This was timber, smooth and flat. Planks. Probably a door.

Bent double, Leandro pushed again and the object gave way, creaking open on what he assumed to be unoiled hinges.

What lay beyond was impossible to determine. To the lost man he was looking into a well full of tar-black emptiness, more profound even than the darkness of the forest – darker, even, than the imaginings of his own future. But, when he stretched out a hand beyond the threshold, he was surprised to find, not treacly resistance but cool air and, groping around, he discovered a smooth slab of stone that he quickly identified as a step because below it, stretched flat, was an earthy floor with, as he probed further, some sort of covering – a rug, presumably.

He crawled in and tentatively began to raise himself to a standing position, all the while expecting to find some too-low ceiling. Anxieties, however, were unjustified. He was in some kind of cave, not that he could see even a hand in front of his face. His hands, in fact – and he was quick to acknowledge this – would be his only reliable tool for exploring the place. Hands and, surprisingly, his nose which was at this moment delivering a musty, maybe incense-laden interpretation of the environment.

Exploring the space in a methodical manner seemed, to Leandro, the best way to proceed. So, cautiously, he turned to his left and, with arms outstretched, moved half a step to the side. Immediately his fingers came in contact with a jumble of random objects many of which became dislodged from their perch, showering down to the floor, some shattering and breaking as they landed.

“So,” thought Leandro. “There are shelves.” And he proceeded more carefully, finger-tipping the numerous artefacts stored around the walls, until he came upon a small box that excited hope. He lifted the container and shook it. Immediately his expectations were confirmed. It was a box of matches.

Fearful of losing this gift, he slid the container open a little and managed to extract one match without losing grip.

He struck it.

A flame burst from the end of the splinter introducing a startling light into the cave.

But what it revealed made Leandro step back in shock. The face of a long-haired, bearded man was staring directly at him. Alarmed, he dropped the match which guttered out on the rug.

Discovering a bravery that had, perhaps, been previously missing in his life, Leandro struck a second match and held it boldly in front of him, allowing scrutiny of large portrait of Jesus Christ propped, alongside a collection of other religious artefacts in a shrine carved out of the limestone wall.

A third match revealed something even more interesting – candles.

The final match was held to one of them which was, subsequently, used to roam the cave bringing to life some of the many other candles he found.

For the first time in a while he could see properly.

On shelves and ledges around this subterranean room was stored a collection of crucifixes, religious books, images and aids to prayer and meditation. In a roughly carved nook he discovered the brass image of Shiva while, on a broad shelf beside a makeshift bed and blanket, little figures gathered together to act out a scene from the nativity. A beaded curtain, pushed aside, provided access to a second room where a statue of the Buddha dominated and was surrounded by bundles in incense sticks and collections of curiouslyshaped stones. Further on, he came across a pile of firewood and a small stove but, with the flu disconnected, he quickly rejected any idea of getting it going.

He returned to the entry chamber and sat down on the primitive bed. If this were a dream it was a good one. He could find rest here. To his surprise, it struck him that life was becoming simpler. Shelter and rest.

Yes, rest and shelter.

He passed a minute or two surveying once again the contents of the room before drinking the last of his water and, pulling the bed cover over him, he rapidly sank into oblivion.

Of course, he dreamt. The night-time theatre of unresolved thoughts conjured up tiny figures scurrying around a stable where a stone man was fed by Jesus and an unruly gang of supporters with a dark-skinned man protesting and shouting…”No, no. Not like that!”

And then he woke up.

It was still dark, but candles were burning as he had left them.

They revealed that he was no longer alone. A short distance away on the rug, and relaxed on its haunches, sat the goat that earlier he had followed.

“Hello,” said the goat.

“Hello,” replied Leandro, propping himself up on an elbow. “You disappeared.”

“Sorry,” said the animal. “I did not know how else to do it.”

“Do what?”

“Help you. You were very lost.”

“I am very lost,” confirmed Leandro. “Do you know the way back to Valdemossa?”

“Of course,” said the goat.

“Can you show me?”

“Yes.” The man began to get up but his acquaintance intervened. “Not now,” he said. “It’s dark. We have time.

Perhaps we could talk a little.”

“Talk?”

The goat said nothing for a while but stared questioningly at Leandro as though looking well beyond the facade that men habitually present to the world.

“You carry a dark cloud,” said the goat. “You have brought this from..?”

“Barcelona,” replied the man without thinking.

“Barcelona? This must be a very bad place to create such sadness.”

“Yes,” admitted Leandro. And he fell silent as he contemplated the simple fact that for him at least it was a very bad place.

“This is a different place,” said the goat.

“That’s certainly true.”

“Do you find it sad here?”

“I don’t know.”

“I am sure you will know, quite soon,” mused the animal and it seemed to his companion that, as it uttered these words, the goat nodded knowingly.

“Do you have a name?” asked the man.

“What is a name?”

“A name is, well… It’s… My name is Leandro.”

“Leandro?” repeated the goat thoughtfully. “Leandro. It is something you have.”

“Yes. But it’s also something I am. It is me. I am Leandro like… like this is a candle or this a cave.”

“There are many caves,” commented the animal. “Are there are many Leandros?”

“Well, yes. I suppose there are,” replied the man sensing that these exchanges might easily become more confusing than useful. “But,” he hastily continued. “There is only one Leandro like me. I am unique just as, though there are many caves, there is none exactly like this one. And, when people I know see me, they say Hello Leandro and they mean me, this particular Leandro. That’s my name and it’s also me.”

“So tell me… What does it mean to be this particular one, Leandro?”

“OK…” said the man, thinking how he could explain who or what he was. At that moment he saw himself mainly as a loser. He couldn’t even go for a walk without getting lost. Crawling around in the dark, sleeping in a hole in the ground. Talking to animals.

“You are thirsty,” said the goat seemingly reading his companion’s mind. “Take that thing over there and bring it to me.”

Leandro got up and took the empty metal incense holder towards which the goat had gestured. He carried it to the animal who leaned back indicating one of her teats.

“Take,” she commanded, and the man obeyed, maladroitly squeezing the goat’s udder until the poor creature cried out… “Is that the best they can do in Barcelona!?”

“Sorry,” responded the man.

“So… do you have something to drink?”

“A little.”

“Then drink.” And Leandro put the cup to his lips imbibing a liquid that smelt and tasted quite awful while, at the same time, proving quite refreshing. Thanking the goat for her generosity he put the cup to his lips a second time, draining it and feeling immediately calmer.

“I am Leandro,” he recommenced. “I am an architect. I design buildings. I turn ideas into real, solid things; places where people can live, work, play. I have a boat. I play golf. I like music.”

“You are very much,” commented the goat, approvingly.

“But there’s more. I am a son and I am also a father. I have a wife. I have a home.” Here, the man paused while his listener sat attentive, patient.

“A lot of this will not last, though. Some of it has already gone. “My father is dead and my mother is very ill.

My wife is still my wife but she’s leaving. She’s going away with another man. My children will go with her and I have to give her a lot, I mean a lot, of money. In fact, I will have to sell my home. You see, soon, I will have no wife, no children and no home! This is the cloud of sadness you see.”

“Yes, I understand. Leandro is many things.”

“Look…” began the man. “I need to get back to Valdemossa. Can you show me the way?”

“You have a very short memory. You have already asked me this and I have said yes. Since you are so impatient, go now,” said the goat apparently irritated. “The way is very clear.”

So Leandro hauled himself off the bed and made his way to the wooden door where he found that outside the night was coloured black with uncertainty, though pin-pricked by countless stars. The screech of a lone owl hunting tore across the mountain before echoing and fading and, stroked by an insistent breeze, oak and pine leaves hushed or sighed like waves on a distant gravel beach. And, somewhere, a handful of pebbles disturbed by a nocturnal forager trickled down the hillside as water from a fountain.

And, though he was heavy with the need to sleep, he remained in the doorway experiencing, for the first time that he could remember, the dark beauty of the night.

“It’s too early to leave,” he said at last. “I’ll wait till morning.”

“Good,” replied the goat as she lay down with her neck and head resting on the floor and snorted.

Leaving the cave door open, the man returned to sit on the bed.

“It must be interesting, living in the forest,” he said addressing the animal who snorted again as though that would suffice as a response. “Watching the seasons change; free to wander anywhere, even on the cliffs, creatures like you, I’ve seen you, you don’t have any fear. Do you like it?”

The goat lifted her head and stared hard the lost soul who had suddenly become talkative.

“Are you happy?” he inquired of the animal.

“I do not know,” she replied honestly. “I cannot stop to think about such things. The mountain will always be a mountain, the forest a forest and I, a goat. None of this can be changed. If I turn too much towards my

inward eye it will end badly. I will lose my kid; I will miss the food I need; my surefootedness will desert me and I will fall into the chasm. This I know to be true.”

“I suppose that’s the difference between us. We men are always examining, dissecting, assessing, analysing. We make careers out of it. We can’t stop. Always asking what if? Conjecturing, theorising, postulating. Could it be different? Could I be different?

Must be nice to be a goat.”

The goat snorted once more and then appeared to sleep.

Eventually, even Leandro succumbed to fatigue, and as he stretched out on the bed, pulled the blanket over him and began the rapid plunge into unconsciousness, his companion was snoring.

Leandro slept deeply and woke rejuvenated well after dawn when the sun had risen high enough for light to find its awkward passage between trees and cliffs, finally to insinuate itself into the cave. He experienced a vague sensation of having spent a night in active dreaming but, beyond that, there was nothing specific.

With a final look around the cave, where he rediscovered the Buddha, the Shiva, multifarious Catholic artefacts and, bizarrely, a metal cup of milk which, without thinking, he drank, he set about packing his rucksack for the journey back. On leaving the shelter he was struck by a pungent animal smell but thought no more of it as he struck out along the path which was suddenly quite obvious.

In fact, after only fifty metres of so, he came across a new wooden signpost pointing right to Deija and in the opposite direction, Valdemossa. He turned left and, with his hands in his pockets, whistled his way down the path.

13/11/2014