Zeno thanked her and then said he understood that consulting the goats was a very old custom indeed.
“So it is,” Minthe confirmed. “There are even those who claim the herd has been there since the days when humans were sacrificed to the sea for a fruitful harvest and for good fishing.”
“An extremely regrettable practice, to say the least,” Zeno observed, “although obviously that would be the origin of the straw man’s role in the village festival. On the other hand, I’m puzzled as to how the area acquired this remarkable tradition concerning the goats.”
“Nobody knows. Some say the goats were set there by the old gods themselves, others claim the herd was taken over centuries ago. Whatever the truth of it, their island is forbidden to all and the only time villagers set foot there is when they leave occasional supplies of food for the keeper of the goats. It’s said that a villager left the beach on one such visit to explore a little, but that as soon as he set foot back over here he had a strange fit and fell to the ground. Ever thereafter, he could hardly lift his arms. It was and still is considered a fitting punishment for profaning the goats’ island.”
Zeno shook his head at the fate of the unfortunate villager. “But the patterns, Minthe, what method do you use to interpret them?”
“It’s done according to the arrangement of the clusters of goats, taking into account the dominant color of the animals in each group. The height at which they’re grazing is also very important.”
Zeno observed that it sounded very complicated.
“Not really.” A stronger gust of wind caught at their clothing and she shivered. “Different patterns symbolize different words and whoever requested guidance interprets the answer according to the content of the question they’d posed. Thus the message conveyed in any given answer means something different to everyone, since its sense would change according to the nature of what had been asked.”
They had arrived at the rebuilt temple that was Minthe’s home. Zeno hardly noticed where they were. His eyes gleamed with delight as he contemplated Minthe’s words. “Absolutely fascinating! It’s one thing to read about these ancient arts, but to see them still practiced on one’s very doorstep is even more intriguing.”
Minthe shivered again. “I’d be happy to discuss it further with you if you wouldn’t mind stepping into my house, away from this wind.”
“Of course, of course, I wasn’t thinking of you freezing half to death while I stand here babbling away.”
As they stepped into the dim interior, redolent of herbs, Minthe observed that many old customs lingered in villages though they were long forgotten in cities. “Take medicinal matters, for example,” she went on. “City dwellers may speak highly of all manner of new and more effective treatments for old ailments but those of us who live in the country know that the ancient herbal remedies are often just as effective.”
“There’s no doubt that many are very efficacious,” Zeno remarked. “Castor swears by them when his joints feel particularly rusty. The relief he gains is almost magickal, or so he claims.”
“I am glad to hear that. However, my preparations are not magick despite what some may say,” Minthe said. “Many such as I can make up an herbal mixture for someone with a cough or a fever or other ailment, but people should be cautious whenever they hear talk about magick. You’ll find many who claim the ability to, say, provide you with a curse that will kill anyone you choose or a love charm guaranteed to bring the one you desire to you, willing or not. They’ll charge a high price while they’re at it too, yet very few can really accomplish what they promise.”
“Magick may be nothing but trickery but it has its fascinations to a scholar such as myself.”
“Magickal tricks are simple once you understand how they work, sir. People are gullible. They’ll see what they want or expect to see. When the jeweler substitutes green glass for emeralds, people accept what appears to be genuine gems and never realize they’re completely worthless.”
Suddenly, Zeno wondered uncomfortably if the elderly woman considered him gullible-a foolish old man looking for answers from a herd of goats.
***
“Minthe made up this concoction for Anatolius.” Zeno waved the small clay pot enthusiastically rather too near to John’s nose. “I told her he suffered mightily from a malady brought on by proximity to certain plants. ‘Elderberries,’ she said. ‘They’re the best treatment for that particular misery.’ I’ll present it to him when he returns from the city.”
John had met Zeno coming up the drive to the villa. The garden air was suffused with the faint smell of smoke, whether from the workshops or a lingering memory of the fatal fire it was impossible to say. The two men stood before the villa entrance while Zeno relayed, with some excitement, the goats’ reply to his inquiry. Although he listened politely enough, John was relieved when his host abruptly changed the subject to Anatolius’ affliction.
“From the odd smell of that mixture, you’ll be fortunate to get Anatolius into the same room with it, let alone take it,” John observed, “but I wanted to ask you again about Castor. Are you absolutely certain there is nothing more you can tell me about him?”
Zeno looked pained. “As I’ve already explained, John, I know nothing of the man’s personal life.”
“Even though he’s been your neighbor for such a long time and visited you often?”
“Yes. Castor is a very private man. As I’ve told you, he collects antiquities and books, he’s a scholar and a philosopher, a scientist-”
“He has many and varied interests, I know, but I’m interested in finding out more about the man himself.”
Now Zeno looked puzzled. “But surely, John, what we think about is who we are. In the workings of our bodies we are all the same. It is only in our thoughts and beliefs that we differ.”
John sighed. “There’s some truth in that. But even Castor could not have sprung full grown from some desiccated scroll in his library.”
“No, although it’s a most interesting idea. Now, if I may leave you for a while, I’m in need of some nourishment and a bit of rest. I’ve had a rather strenuous walk.”
John did not accompany Zeno into the villa but instead walked around the gardens. He had spent the morning making futile inquiries about Castor. It seemed that the man spent his time communing with written words rather than with people.
The Goths, not surprisingly, had barely glimpsed him in the short time they had been staying with Zeno. Castor had no neighbors other than Zeno. His estate was surrounded by fields, orchards, and vineyards. He employed the smallest of staffs, and all of his servants had apparently taken their orders directly from Briarus, who had been allowed to run the estate to even the smallest detail. They had had only the most minimal contact with their actual master. Setting a plate before him. Filling a goblet. Briarus had even decided the daily menu. Castor had more urgent concerns.
Not that it would be unusual for a wealthy man to confine his social contacts mostly to those he might see at court, but Zeno insisted that although Castor might travel on business, he never set foot near the Great Palace. John had certainly never seen the man there. Castor appeared to be one of those who live by and for and through the written word, a kind of monk of the intellect.
The image of a monk had not come to John out of the air but from the sight of Godomar, who was watching gardeners at work clearing out the flower bed surrounding one of Zeno’s ancient shrines.
“Lord Chamberlain,” Godomar snapped in an outraged tone, “I really must protest. This structure is an abomination.”
John mildly pointed out that since the estate belonged to Zeno, whatever was built on it was his alone to order.
Godomar looked even more upset. “I do not explain myself well. Erecting an edifice to house an idol and surrounding it with beds of the poppies its pagan worshipers love is wicked enough. But what’s far worse is that I’ve found Bertrada inside this building more than once. I’m convinced that her interest is neither that of an antiquarian nor the student of ancient religions. This is a shrine to Hypnos, and…” He lowered his voice and leaned towards John “…the statue inside is…naked.”