“I have told you,” the Mothergoat replied. “It is not our way to give and take names. But I do recall finding it funny, the sound she gave us when referring to herself. How the two words began — baa and baa again — much like the sounds my children make. Most amusing.”
Braiden pressed both hands to his chest, heart nearly bursting.
“My name is Braiden Beadle — baa and baa again. Do you think — does the name Bethilda Beadle sound familiar at all?”
“I believe that to be correct. Was she someone most important to you?” The Mothergoat tilted her head. “Little weaver, why are your eyes watering?”
The weaver woman had been kind to the herd, the Mothergoat said, trying to hand-feed them clumps of grass instead of chasing and frightening them like all the others. She’d woven a great fleece to help keep a newborn otherkid warm.
Braiden rubbed his eyes and blubbered into his sweater’s sleeves, shocked and slightly mortified by his sudden need to pour it all out, struggling not to sob too hard so he could keep listening.
Augustin kneaded his back in congenial silence, nodding as the Mothergoat summoned up the precious fragments of her memories. Braiden would have to count on Augustin to remember. He couldn’t stop his mind from running in every direction.
Why hadn’t Granny Bethilda mentioned meeting the othergoats, of all things, to Braiden? She knew how much he adored these elusive creatures, how he’d always dreamed of meeting one, of reaching out to touch their supernaturally warm wool.
Something bumped against his hip. He wiped away his tears, staring and smiling bleary-eyed at the othergoat from before, the first cannonball. He recognized the odd asymmetric curve of its left horn, the tiniest smear of white fur on its forehead.
It pressed up against him, almost, though not quite like a cat displaying affection for its preferred owner. Braiden glanced at the Mothergoat, as if asking for permission. She nodded.
He patted the top of the othergoat’s head, chuckling when it raised its neck and shut its eyes, as if asking for more. So warm, warmer than any living creature had any right to be.
He ran his fingers through fleece that warmed his skin like kindling at a slow smolder, radiating heat, but never actually burning. Braiden almost broke down crying again.
That night, they slept peacefully under the stars — or more accurately, under the much more sensible moss-green tent that Augustin had acquired from the Noose.
The Mothergoat had insisted that they stay, partly out of amusement at the coincidence of that one weaver woman’s progeny coming to see her, but perhaps also out of an abundance of caution, in case more windwalkers materialized in the night.
Braiden was only too happy to accept, especially after being shown a nearby stream where they were free to wash up and draw fresh water for drinking. The othergoats lived simple, satisfied lives here in Yhip Valley.
Once or twice through the evening, a thought occurred to Braiden, the possibility of offering the Mothergoat and her herd a safer life away from the ravages of the air elementals.
But there was a reason that no one had ever successfully tamed these unusual creatures. Some things in the world aren’t meant to be kept or contained. Despite the inherent, if occasional dangers, the othergoats, like the burrowfolk, were happy to stay exactly where they always lived.
The night did turn out to be very chilly after all, especially at this time of year, and most especially at night. For once, Braiden wished that Augustin was a fire mage instead.
But not long into the night, the pair of them tucked shivering and wide awake in their sleeping rolls, something warm and soft wandered into the tent, settling into what little space remained between them.
It was too dark to see, but Braiden knew it was the othergoat from before yet again, sensing their need for heat. It smelled like sweet, fresh grass and blazed hotter than any fireplace. Braiden fell asleep with his hand twined with Augustin’s hand, their fingers threaded through the toasty, warm heat of their new friend’s fleece.
That night, Braiden dreamt of two women: one who lay in the sky, using a cloud as a pillow, her hair twinkling with stars. Far below her, in a valley she’d once carved out with her own finger, was a smiling woman with Braiden’s eyes and a handful of grass.
The next morning they broke fast with simpler rations, mainly nuts, berries, and salted meat. Their othergoat companion turned its nose up and left for its more familiar fare of sweet grass.Heleft, rather, as Braiden and Augustin learned, getting an unexpected eyeful of the othergoat’s unmentionables as he walked away.
“Leaving so soon?” the Mothergoat asked, watching as they dismantled their tent and packed their things. “You still haven’t harvested the bit of my personal wool that I promised you.”
Braiden’s hand trembled as he fixed the clasp of his rucksack, thinking of the shears wrapped safely in a bundle of cloth deep inside.
“Are you absolutely sure you can spare some?” he asked. “I’m incredibly grateful that you offered at all, but the nights are so cold, and — ”
The Mothergoat burst into peals of bleating laughter, and this time out loud. The othergoat herd followed suit, an oddly melodic chorus of baas and bleating.
“You won’t leave me wanting for warmth, that I can promise you. And you do not intend to shear me bald, do you? Perhaps enough wool to make yourself a fine new garment?”
The shaking in Braiden’s hand reverberated throughout the rest of his body. That was so much more wool than he’d ever expected — and from the herd matriarch, too! Othergoat wool was already so magical on its own. What more the wool of a Mothergoat?
Braiden fought to keep his hands steady as he sheared a generous quantity of wool from the Mothergoat.
“More, weaver,” the Mothergoat commanded. “Don’t be shy.”
