Billy, oblivious to the events in court, unaware that the English Crown wanted his life, set out on the valley trail. ‘Set out’ is perhaps too praiseworthy a phrase for what was, initially, abject failure. The arrival of the coach caused commotion in the hamlet. The locals – all three of them – gathered outside their houses to watch this fancy courtier, rigged out in frilly clothes, leaping ungainly from the stagecoach. He must have been quite a sight. The young man, still wigless, was not dressed for the hardships of North Wales. His long coat, though considered out of fashion at court, was something entirely new to the villagers. It blew in the wind and billowed from Billy’s head to Billy’s ankles, airily threatening to trip him up. Over his shoulder was a heavy bag, containing a wig, a gun, some shears and a long strip of cloth – a combination rarely seen before or since, and one which clunked awkwardly against his back. In addition to this, Billy attempted to unfold his map which, although it rolled into a neat bundle, unrolled into an unmanageable mess. The scroll was far longer than Billy could actually reach, causing the map to roll back up again every time Billy tried to work out where he was. All together, as Billy stood scrutinizing the map, he made a singular appearance to the locals, who, noting the coat fluttering around his ankles and the map rolling and unrolling windily in his hands, were convinced that he was a spirit of the air, soon to be borne away completely by the breeze.
Billy walked past the locals. A husband and wife were stood at a garden gate, and stared stonily as he passed. Beyond them a young boy huddled to his father, scared, as the courtier glided past. In front of the final house an old woman leered at Billy and, as he strode by, made the sign of the cross with her fingers. Billy did not care. He had a job to do, and started to leave the village. However, as he turned the bend and started to make his way down the hillside, he realized that he’d gone the wrong way. It took him a while to realize, given that the map had, briefly, entirely unravelled, billowing in the wind, but eventually he discovered his mistake and walked back up the hill. The hamlet returned into view. He walked on, embarrassed, as the old woman once again made the sign of the cross. The little child peeked at him from behind his father’s back. The couple gave him another steady, stony stare. He continued down the other side of the hill, past the village.
The village clearing gave way to deep, dark forest. Billy had heard tales of these woods. Wolves and bears, driven from the sunlit farmlands of England, lurked in the trees, hungry, waiting for food. They’d tear the Wise Wig to pieces, if they could. He wasn’t afraid though, not Billy. He’d use his gun to drive them off, then wander back to London with all his new found tales. He pressed on through the trees confidently, ignoring all the minor squeaks and whistles of the woodland.
The forest continued, quietly taunting the Englishman within, and Billy made his way along the valley floor, until the trees began to thin. Finally the forest disappeared, and in front of Billy stood a modest, bracken covered hill. There was no clear path to the top, where gorse clustered on a long plateau, but the bracken thinned out halfway up the hill. Billy pushed his way through the vegetation and started to climb. He was sweating now, in his long coat, and the bag jabbed uncomfortably into his shoulder. His garments repeatedly caught on bracken, which, much taller than Billy, soon swallowed him whole. He pushed blindly through dark green brambles and spiky twigs, looking for the clear blue sky.
Finally, he found it, the clear blue sky. The crest of the hill was close now, gorse bushes on top, staying where’d they been for ever, just waiting for him. Billy dropped his bag in tiredness. It thumped on the ground, and he looked inside it, searching for some weight he could take off his aching shoulder. The shears had to stay in there – they were just too awkward to carry. The strip of cloth? Not much weight, but he draped it over his other shoulder nonetheless. The gun – well, he could try and carry that, though he wasn’t really sure how people held muskets when they weren’t firing them. He rested it on his other shoulder, over the cloth. That just left the wig. It wasn’t any weight at all, but Billy wanted it removed from the bag anyway. Besides, he still hadn’t found a replacement for the wig that the Admiral took from him, and he’d felt under-dressed ever since. Billy put the Wise Wig on his own head.
It was fine, no-one would see him wear the King’s wig. There wasn’t anybody about. An offence punishable by death, but what were the chances? Billy, wig on head, cloth and gun on shoulder, bag on the other shoulder, trudged up the last section of the hill.
Over on the other side of the mountain, it had been a quiet morning, quieter than recent mornings, anyway. Nebuchadnezzar, Leader Of The Angry Geese, Imperial Majesty Of The Mountain Valley, was content today. His goose-pack had recently taken control of the stile from Zanzibar the Hedgehog, so geese no longer had to give crumbs of bread when entering the lower field. Zanzibar and her hedgehog minions had, of course, retaliated, but their attacks had been decisively thwarted by Nebuchadnezzar’s sheep legions, expertly led by Tobias the Goat, a veteran of the valley.
Nevertheless, Nebuchadnezzar was restless, unsettled. Now that the lower stile was taken, there was little for him to do. Yes, he would have to defend his lands against future attacks – Zanzibar was still out there somewhere, lurking in the bushes or the bracken, and she would continue to pose a problem – but the goose was not a defensive animal. He longed for conquest. He loved the scent of victory. He wanted to venture into new lands and bring them into his ken, under his control. Nebuchadnezzar was truly an Imperial ruler.
There was something else too, a longing beyond that of simple conquest. Nebuchadnezzar, like all others in the valley, had deeply admired one sheep above all others. Once upon a time, in the preamble of this story, Davey the Wise Sheep had impressed all who met him with knowledge, learning and wisdom. Nebuchadnezzar knew, deep down, that, for all his strength of might, he could not conquer a wisdom such as that. For all the battles, the carnage, he would never be a knowledgeable goose, and he felt that insecurity more than he’d felt anything else. Now, with Davey’s wisdom shorn from him, Nebuchadnezzar mourned its loss.
He waddled around the central field, surrounded by his guards. Somehow this grass was not so lush, not so dewy, not so soft, as he had imagined it when, as a gosling, he’d dreamed of ruling over it. The field was not so big, the brook not so fast. Over the mountain, past the bracken, there might be greener fields, more swollen streams. Breadcrumbs might be crisper, and the water might be a more startling blue. Perhaps there were other wise sheep for counsel, or teachers of knowledge, teachers that could mature an angry goose. Nebuchadnezzar felt all this, and waddled some more.
It was at that moment, that precise moment, as it so often is in stories, that the sentries sounded the alarm. The signal quickly passed along the beacons, back to the biggest field, where Nebuchadnezzar stood with his guard of geese. A human being had been spotted! The geese huddled round, waiting for news.
Sure enough, soon afterwards, right on the crest of the hill, a figure could be seen. A tiny spot in the distance started tripping and tumbling down the mountain, scattering little stones as he did so. The figure slowly came further into view, and the animals could see that it was carrying things, lumbering with objects on either shoulder, and struggling with the extra weight.
Lucien the Sheep had spent the morning on the lower slopes of the mountain, contemplating. He wasn’t in the best of moods. Despite his collaboration with Nebuchadnezzar’s regime, he was only cooperating from political necessity, not from shared conviction. His hero and mentor Davey was his one guiding star, or at least the memory of Davey was. For the sheepy Solomon now stood beside him, absent-mindedly chewing grass, unable to recall the Upanishads at all, or even a single line of Wordsworth. Lucien wanted the glory days back, and he thought on them for the thousandth time, gnawing sadly on the daffodils.
Once the sentries had sounded, however, thought was put away in its box, and Lucien bleated to action. Seeing the newcomer, he led his skirmishers up the hillside, cautiously peering towards the approaching figure. Davey followed behind, still chomping his cowslip. He didn’t have much of an opinion about the human, but just went because the others were going. That tended to be his only reason for doing things, these days.
The sheep advanced. The human drew closer, stumbling down the hillside, looking confusedly around him. He had a large scroll in his arms, which was flapping in the Welsh wind. His long cloak tripped him up occasionally, making his descent easier than he might have liked. Yet it was neither of these things which most attracted the attention of Lucien and his skirmishers. No, there was something else about him. Despite the cloak, the scroll, the lack of coordination, there was a presence to the man, a trustworthiness. He was still some distance away, but the animals felt, nevertheless, that this figure was someone to be revered, honoured. There was something steady in his stumbling gait, a knowledge of the world in the way he walked. Lucien looked on in wonderment as the man grew closer. Hardly a human, a God perhaps. What was the word that described such beings? The human being reminded Lucien of a young Davey, strangely. That same aura of understanding emanated from this person. Wisdom. Yes, that was the word. Pure wisdom…
Wisdom!
With a terrible, sudden click of consciousness, Lucien understood, and felt the most intense anger, a rage more powerful than he’d thought himself capable of. The man, close now, was wearing a wig, and Lucien recognized that wool. It was Davey’s wool. The wise wool which had once made Davey so knowledgeable and elegant and refined, the wool whose presence had once blessed the valley with peace. Well, it was clear what had happened to Davey that fateful day. This human must have found him in the gorse, seen his fine coat, and taken it for himself. Thief.
Billy, seeing the sheep staring at him, felt slightly nervous. There were five sheep, one of which stood just in front of the others, with the wide stance of a leader, Billy fancied. The leader stared at him, with a sheepy sort of malice in its eyes. That was ridiculous, Billy thought to himself. Sheep aren’t malicious. They eat grass and marvel at the rise of the sun each morning. They don’t have the power in their woolly little heads to be malicious. Nevertheless, there it was was, eyes narrowed in a threatening way. Another of the sheep, as bald as the day it was born, wandered around pointlessly in circles.
Slowly, purposefully, Lucien advanced towards the human, bleating a battle cry. His skirmishers followed, bleating too. Billy stood still, unsure whether the flock, who showed no fear of him, were curious at his arrival, or, as their eyes seemed to suggest, thirsted for his blood. The sheep continued to bleat and walk closer. Suddenly, without warning, Billy’s heart thumped. He was no longer still, The world thumped too. There were animals moving towards him, threatening him. This was danger.
Billy had no negotiation skills with sheep. He’d never been a diplomat or a talker, and even if he had been, he’d never met a sheep before. This wasn’t a situation he knew how to deal with. There was only one thing he had, one thing that might stop the threat, and it was also his last resort. Shaking and fumbling, he hastily reached inside his bag and pulled out the gun the coachman had given him. In mock competency he raised the gun and pointed it towards the oncoming sheep.
That made them think. Lucien looked at the man and the big stick he was waving at them. Lucien had never seen a gun before. He wouldn’t have known what it did, or that Billy was not holding it correctly, or that the safety catch was still on, but he did know it was heavy and wooden and liable to do injury. Lucien, gesturing to his troops, held back to a safe distance. It is fair to say that, if Billy had been given a pistol by the coachman rather than a musket, the sheep wouldn’t have been so cautious.
Lucien looked at the man. Billy looked at the sheep. Neither understood the other. Billy wondered where things went from here. At the first sight of trouble he’d pulled out the gun, leaving nothing in reserve for future peril. The gun was out, it was in his hand, he had a gun. That much was clear. There was no room for a bargain. He and the sheep stood, unmoving.
Something else had dawned on Billy. These weren’t wise sheep. Sure, there was something about the leader, a sort of military officiousness. If you were sneaking into a country you wouldn’t want it checking your papers. It might even have the acumen to command a minor garrison. Yet it wasn’t wise. It wasn’t steady, cerebral, unchanging. It knew not the ways of the world. It could give and receive orders, perhaps challenge military assumptions, and could be a leader in battle, but it was not world-wise. Its fleece would not, could not, confer wisdom upon its wearer. The sheep following behind were no better, they were just sheep. As for the sheep off to the side, chewing absentmindedly upon the cud – well, that looked the most foolish creature imaginable. If it possessed so much as a strand of wool it might make the career of a court jester, but would never grace the temple of a King.
Billy waved the gun some more, building up a primitive language that consisted solely of threats, and the sheep backed away, moving quietly down the hill before him. Billy trudged slowly, thoughtfully, down into the valley. If these sheep were representative of the valley, then this mission would be a failure. It struck him now that, despite his confidence, it was always bound to be futile. Sophie had found a single sheep amongst all the dales and valleys of England and Wales. Only one animal possessed a wise fleece in the entire land, to Billy’s knowledge, and it was unlikely that human beings would ever find it again.
The sheep had gone now, fled into some other field. Yet Billy was not calm. It was probably his mind leaping to conclusions, but it seemed like they’d retreated in a coordinated way. There was a plan. No, that was ludicrous. These weren’t the Russian steppes. These animals weren’t the vast hordes of Genghis Khan, trained to preform a perfect pincer movement. They were sheep. Billy continued through the bracken, far less dense on this side of the mountain, towards a large field at the bottom of the valley.
But they weren’t just sheep. And this might not be the steppes of Central Asia, but the valley was controlled by just as deadly a force.
Billy had just reached a flatter part of the hill. He was still a long way above the floor of the valley – valleys do seem to descend forever sometimes – but the hill had temporarily flattened, creating a small, gentle plain. Just as Billy reached that plain, wielding his gun like a log, the true extent of the peril made itself known.
It is difficult to gauge just how much knowledge of the world a reader has. Some audiences have seen country after country, foe after foe. Others are but children in life, innocent of all brutality, suffering and danger. If you, reader, are the former, then you will immediately grasp the terrible danger Billy was in. If you are the latter, then you must avail yourself of the horror that may lurk in a simple farmyard tale.
From the other side of the undergrowth, on the far side of that small plain, appeared a large, white object. Billy, not really understanding what it was, blinked. Suddenly, by the time his eyes had opened and shut, there were seven large, white birds. They just appeared, it seemed, out of nowhere, bright bodies against the morning sun. The birds, a good ten metres from Billy, had smooth, sharp orange beaks, and tilted those beaks slightly upwards, disdaining the ground. The first bird padded slowly from left to right, lifting its beak high, treading as if on tiptoes, stretching its long white legs as thinly as they would go. The second bird followed with the same movement, in the same tempo, tiptoeing a diagonal line across the field, ignoring Billy entirely – or so it looked. The third made the same path, and the fourth, and the fifth, and the sixth, and the seventh. Seven identical birds, with big white wings and bright orange beaks, with long feathery wings and intricate bodies, sculpted by some natural, mecurial architect. Despite their delicate wings, there was something substantial about them, Billy thought, a certain heft. In their confident struts and broadened appearance there was a flighty, malicious air of power.
These geese were angry geese. They weren’t ignoring Billy.
The geese, precariously, turned to face the human, who realised, with lurching dread, that he was no longer disdained. The foremost goose, the creature leading the diagonal, arched its neck and began to hiss, gently at first.
The second goose, the second in command, began to hiss too.
The third goose joined in, hissing louder.
The fourth goose hissed louder.
The fifth goose hissed louder still, with urgency.
The sixth goose hissed, with heart-stopping venom.
The seventh goose hissed to crescendo, with high-pitched frenzy.
Slowly, the seven lifted their wings from their sides, raising them slowly, determinedly, viciously. They had their prey. It wore the fleece on its head, the wise fleece of Davey, and for that it must pay. It was time to take revenge, for the sake of the mountain.
Billy, for his part, stood transfixed, hypnotized by the graceful birds. Realizing the beautiful, terrible danger he was in, he lifted his gun high, waving it frantically. The musket was heavy though, and he could hardly flourish it. He was sure that the leading bird was smirking in triumph. The birds advanced, unafraid. Billy, understanding that now was the moment, lifted the gun to his shoulder, just as he’d seen the musketeers do on the parade grounds. To his credit, Billy did not hesitate. It was kill or be killed, and this was no sort of choice. The birds closed in. Billy fired.
That is, he would have fired, had the safety catch not been on. Nothing happened. Billy, in terror, clicked the trigger again, but still nothing happened. Another click, and another and another, and, faster still, another. The geese were all smirking now, in unison, as they moved in to kill. Billy screamed and waggled the gun with all his strength, but the geese knew this was no weapon. Billy waved the musket one more time, but, unable to bear its weight, he lost control of the gun, and it fell limply to the ground.
A perfect start to the morning, thought Nebuchadnezzar, a good kill before lunchtime. An unarmed man. He and his geese lined up for the death.
At this point in a story the narrative usually goes to something else, and we don’t see the kill. It’s just assumed that attackers know how to finish someone off. When you think about it, though, it’s probably quite difficult to take someone out properly. Maybe that’s why stories are often about soldiers and gangsters, who really understand how to get the job done – at least, they have more of a clue than the author, who turns his attention to something else and lets them get on with it. In this case, however, despite their murderous intent, the geese were pretty clueless on how to get Billy down. Yes, they had big wings and the weight of numbers, but they were used to killing small rodents and the occasional partridge, not human beings. Instinctively they looked for the parts of Billy that had no protection, no covering. The coat, utterly insubstantial, had been blown into a ball by the wind, so that it bunched moodily at his hip, and no longer covered the lower half of his body. His wig, wise as it was, protected his head. He was well attired on the upper body, with a strong jacket and jerkin. His britches stoutly protected his thighs, leaving only his shins to be pecked at.
Nebuchadnezzar had the first shot. He lunged at Billy’s ankles, catching him sharply.
“Ow!”
Nebuchadnezzar’s second-in-command lunged as well.
“Ow!” Direct hit.
Billy didn’t want to go down without a fight. There must be something he could do. He thrust his hand into the bag over his shoulder, desperately searching for something he might use to protect himself against these beasts. The map was no good, they’d tear straight through that. He tried to wrench the shears from the bag, but they caught in the folds of the fabric. Billy, panicking, tried to wrestle the shears free as geese pecked at his legs, but it was no use, They held fast in the bag and, even though Billy tugged and tugged, and there was a loud ripping sound from the sack, the shears would not budge.
So this was it, though Billy, as another bird swiped at his legs, narrowly missing. His shins were sore and cut, and Billy could not stand much longer. One more peck on his bare skin and that was surely it. The courtier looked down towards his legs, bruised and bleeding, and suddenly noticed something lying on the floor. Or, rather, two things.
There was one object that Billy hadn’t considered – the strip of cloth. It – or, better, they, for the ripping sound Billy had heard must have been the shears tearing the cloth in two as he’d swung the bag around, tried to wrestle them from the sack – lay on the ground, having been wrenched free in Billy’s struggle. It wasn’t much use, really, for Billy would much rather have had the gun or the shears, both of which were now useless – but it was something, nonetheless. Billy hurriedly picked up the two strips of cloth.
The geese circled, smirking in triumph, ready to strike the final blow. The human now had two bits of material in his hands, but those bore no danger to the geese. What a beautiful morning, thought Nebuchadnezzar again, as he licked his own beak in a goosey sort of way.
Billy held up the strips of cloth. The merchant had been right, they looked quite hardy, quite tough. As it happened, they were just the same length as his legs, curiously…
At that moment Billy had his great idea. People often say that the best ideas are forced on us by the situation. The war poets might never have written so well without the monstrous anger of war. Archimedes would never have worked out how to measure volumes without finding himself in a bathtub one morning. Similarly, Billy’s invention, his gift to the world, the idea that ushered in the modern world, occurred to him while being attacked by geese. This was the Invention Of Trousers.
The courtier’s shins were being pecked. He had to protect his shins. The two strips of cloth were the same length as his legs and, fortunately, were thick enough to wrap round them. Ergo, he took the cloths and wrapped them around his lower body, working quickly before the fatal blow could be delivered.
Nebuchadnezzar, disdaining the cloth, struck again at Billy’s ankles. His beak, glowing a venomous orange, scythed at Billy, now guarded by his makeshift garment. The beak struck hard against the cloth, but the cloth withstood the attack.
The merchant really did know what he was talking about. This fabric was tough stuff. Nebuchadnezzar reeled back, expecting Billy to fall to the floor, but instead finding his prey grinning inanely. That blow hadn’t hurt at all. The killer blow, in fact, and the victim almost seemed to enjoy it. The second bird lunged for the shin too, but he was rebuffed. As was the third, the fourth and the fifth. The sixth and seventh birds swiped as well, but their efforts came to nought, leaving the troop staring confusedly at the human. This was a much tougher fight than they were expecting.
The clarity of Billy’s thought-process was admirable. Not only did he realize that, without a weapon to fight these birds, his only hope was to run, but he also had the presence of mind to understand that running was hopeless too if he failed to take the map with him. Dropping the bag and seizing the map, Billy turned from the birds and legged it away, holding his makeshift trousers – not that a name for them had been decided just yet – round his waist with one hand, pinching them with his fingers. With the other hand he clutched the map, simultaneously holding on to his wig, keeping it steady on top of his head. His garments billowed crazily as he wobbled towards the summit.
The angry geese got angrier still. Their prey, far from being weak and defenceless, was now galloping away up the hill. Nebuchadnezzar grabbed the big stick-like thing the human had been carrying, and set off after him. Between them the others managed the canvas bag, which, although heavy, was clearly too important to leave behind. Together the birds squawked louder and louder, abandoning all pretence of subtlety and strategy.
A human being might normally be too slow to outrun some angry geese. Such mythical beasts are famed for their speed, their ability to blitz a foe. Billy certainly thought so as he scampered breathlessly to the peak of the mountain. Any second now, he believed, a bird would descend upon him, cutting him down. Yet he continued to land his feet on the land, step by step, and no blow came. Perhaps it was the head start, the element of surprise, that kept him in front. Perhaps it was the fact that the birds were carrying such heavy objects that helped him evade their clutches. Perhaps it was because Nebuchadnezzar, His Imperial Majesty of the valley, was quickly working out how to use a gun.
And the goose was a great deal faster of thought than Billy.
BANG
The bird must have accidentally set the gun off, thought Billy, who was very close to the summit. Perhaps it’s shot itself.
BANG
Well, it definitely didn’t shoot itself the first time, then. Maybe one of the others…
BANG
At the third noise, which sounded a lot louder than the others, Billy turned his head. This was no accident. The first goose, the obvious leader of the gaggle, was holding the gun on his shoulder, safety catch off, and pointing it towards Billy.
BANG
Billy felt a rush of air past his own ear. This was really it. About to be shot by a goose with a gun. The bird, still running behind Billy, a distance away, steadied itself. It halted mid-stride, with Billy scarpering desperately up the hill, and it lowered the gun to the horizontal. Billy was stumbling, tripping now, turning backwards, chasing his own feet. The goose was utterly motionless, aiming the gun, training it right on the temple of Billy’s turning head…
Back in the world of human beings, the King’s lackeys were co-ordinating a manhunt. Once Geraldine’s testimony had been heard in court, the King’s agents worked quickly. Posters were hurriedly plastered across public buildings. Messages were sent out to the ports. The King’s men questioned witnesses in the capital. The King wanted someone executed, and so finding the fugitive became the court’s first priority.
Not that much detective work was necessary. Billy, the wanted man, left a straightforward trail. The King’s officers quickly discovered that he’d been to the coach stop, where he’d jumped on a coach to Chester. The exact events in Chester were unclear in far-away London, but a messenger was quickly dispatched on horseback to find out. The King’s officers had caught the scent of the chase. They’d get their man.
BANG
Billy fell to the ground, body bouncing once, twice, three times as he tumbled down the mountain. He rolled over and over, disturbing the occasional songbird, scuffing the grass. His body made its way, heavily, down the side of the mountain from whence it came.
The other side of the mountain, that is.
Nebuchadnezzar had fired his gun at the scrambling figure. Just as he was about to pull the trigger, the human, not paying attention to where he was going, tripped over the very summit of the hill and disappeared from view. Understandable, possibly, that the human wasn’t looking where he was going, but clumsy nonetheless. Nebuchadnezzar didn’t know whether he’d hit the man or not – he couldn’t see over the brow of the hill. Waiting for the musket smoke to clear, he silently gestured to his comrades to follow him. Treading slowly, carefully, alert to any sudden movements from the unseen enemy, they inched towards the hill’s summit. Quite why they were being so cautious would seem, afterwards, pretty inexplicable. The man was unarmed. Of curse, he might be able to spring a surprise, but there were seven geese, and no man could take on seven angry geese.
Nebuchadnezzar reached the peak first. Gesturing to his followers to stay back, he peered cautiously over the hill. There was no-one on the other side of the hill. The human was gone.
The goose’s shot had missed Billy. Instead, the courtier had tripped over the hill and rolled half way down, until he came to rest in the dense, thick bracken. Knowing that the geese would be following him, Billy crawled further into the undergrowth, making as little noise as possible, hiding quietly in the prickly bushes. The bracken really was thick, too. A standing adult human would be fully concealed – one lying down was totally immersed in the greenery.
A squawk of a bird told Billy that the geese were starting to make their way slowly down the mountainside. He briefly considered staying hidden, but he didn’t understand the ways of geese. Did they locate their enemies through sight, sound or smell? If it were the first, he should probably stay put. If the second, he should probably stay just where he was. If, however, it was the third, then he should move as fast as he could, for the bracken would be no obstacle to the keen noses of the geese. He could just imagine them now, sniffing him out, tearing him apart with their bullets and their beaks…
In short, he decided to make his escape while he could, just in case geese had a dog-like sense of smell. Billy pulled hard at the bracken, squeezing himself through the densest of shrubbery, whilst making as little noise as he could, trying his best not to alert his pursuers. Inch by inch he crawled, stomach scratching the ground. He could hear no bird song. He could hear no deadly bird song. The undergrowth seemed to go on for ever, and soon his arms, which had done little physical labour in the past, ached with the effort. Red lines quickly appeared on his hands, bleeding slightly from the stiff sharp vegetation.
Yet still there was no sign or sound of geese. And, as the minutes passed, Billy started to wonder whether he’d lost them for good. It must be harder for them to traverse the greenery, and he did have a good head start. Such a start, in fact, that the bushes were slowly becoming less dense, and little spots of light made their way through the thorns. Freedom was approaching.
The King’s relay of messengers sped their message to Chester. A sergeant in the local garrison was quickly dispatched to investigate, and he sent his troops out into the town. They began by putting up posters, complete with a depiction of Billy, on every prominent post they could find. The townsfolk would have no trouble recognizing the traitor, were he still here.
The sergeant started, as sergeants are wont to do, by going to a local pub. It just so happened that this pub was the very inn in which Billy had stayed the previous night. The sergeant showed the landlord a poster.
“Ay, I do recognize him now. He was here, just last night.”
“Just last night?” This wouldn’t be too difficult, thought the sergeant. Catch the traitor, and there might be a promotion in it, too.
“That’s right. Came in here. Didn’t mix much – at least, I didn’t see him in the bar – but then these traitors don’t, do they. They don’t spend their time in a good honest pub like this one. No, they go to shady-”
The sergeant cut him short. He wasn’t much interested what a barman thought.
“When did he leave?”
“Oh, er, this morning. Stayed the night. Neat and tidy. You know, I don’t think he touched a drop of ale. At least, didn’t act like it. Me, I’d shared a pint or two with the lads last night, I can tell you-”
The sergeant did mind hearing.
“Where did he go?”
“Can’t tell you that. There was a coach parked outside. He got in it. I’m pretty sure I saw a gun of some kind. But then, I suppose that’s normal for these traitors, isn’t it? Get up to all sorts, they do, need a gun just to say hello. One of the lads reckons-”
But the sergeant had already left the inn.
Billy, meanwhile, was fighting his way through the undergrowth, which was steadily thinning. The bracken came unexpectedly to a stop, and a gentle valley clearing lay before Billy. He paused, peering cautiously into the clearing, dreading the worst. He could still hear no geese. He put one foot out in front of him, treading the first step of clear ground. No geese appeared. He put the other foot in front of him, treading the second step of ground. No geese appeared. Billy, all calm flying away in a rush of air, burst into the clearing, not looking up, not looking left, not looking right, sprinting, rushing forward, hoping that no wings would flutter, no beaks would land, and no guns would fire.
No geese appeared. No guns fired. Billy was indeed free, for now. What Billy didn’t know, what he couldn’t have known, was that the land beyond the mountain was outside Nebuchadnezzar’s empire. The bracken marked the border between the goose’s fiefdom and that of his enemies. It is always the way of the tyrant that, away from their own lands, they cannot tread lightly, for they are immediately in the gravest danger, without the shield of their power. Billy, having no power, requiring no shield in the mountains, could flee as fast as his legs would go.
He’d forgotten just one thing.
Jezknee 