Wuthering GOAT by Leila Allison

-1-

Meanwhile, “inside” a song playing in the fantasy multiverse….

A middle aged man dressed in late 18th century finery stood pensively at a window. It was late in the evening and he was gazing across the wily, windy moors at an ethereal, yet extremely familiar young woman in a fleecy white dress. She was singing (incredibly, accompanied by an invisible orchestra) and steadily progressing toward the window in an artistic dance. He heard his name in her song, “Heathcliff.” (The lyrics also contained some character observations that Heathcliff could have done without.)

“Cathy,” he sighed. The same Cathy who died eighteen years earlier. Although Heathcliff had hardened some since, he remembered everything. The romance, the betrayal, the misunderstanding, the great loss. “Damn it,” he thought, “I just had to dig her up and instruct her to haunt me forever, and to take my soul.” Indeed he had done this right after Cathy’s burial. Of course that had been melodramatic grandstanding on Heathcliff’s part; he never seriously believed that Cathy would try to cash that check. And for years that assumption held true–yet, there she was, headed his way, looking remarkably fresh for a person who has spent eighteen years in a loamy moor grave at Wuthering Heights.

When Cathy arrived at the window, Heathcliff realized that they had come full circle. His soul was going to be taken by a person who neither blinked nor cast a shadow in the moonlight.

Yes, the prolonged saga of Cathy and Heathcliff at last approached denouement. The endless years of class bigotry, jealousy, temper, duplicity and shoveling shit in the stables were at last over. And just when the anticipation was so thick that you could slice it with a Bronte sister, both lovers were startled by a sharp little knock at a previously unseen door.

This chased the ethereal right out of Cathy, who actually blinked thrice and looked at Heathcliff, who had been gobsmacked catatonic.

Fortunately, Cathy had seen plenty during her long absence from “wuthering-wuthering” wherever. And she certainly had better control of her wits than Heathcliff had over his. A determined look entered her face and she simply passed through the window into the room. She glanced at Heathcliff with tired contempt. “Just don’t stand there, ninny, answer the door.”

“Um, uh, come-come in,” Heathcliff said.

“I could have done that, arsehole,” Cathy said. She strode confidently across the room to the door and called “Please come in. I am a Ghost and have lost my power over doors, save to pass through them.”

The door swung open and Cathy saw a brown and white Pygmy Goat wearing a cape and a pair of dark eyeglasses. That would have been queer enough on its own if not surpassed in strangeness by the Goat’s companion–an apparently alive, yet crude two dimensional drawing of some kind of Bird–perhaps a Woodcock. The oddity had free movement yet was somehow limned onto the fabric of reality more so than in it, and was the size of a large toadstool. The creature was wearing a top hat, and in one wing, which behaved like a hand, it held a metal drinking vessel. Cathy assumed that the contents of the vessel had something to do with the individual smelling greatly of ale.

“*Greetingly Greetings,” said the little Goat. “I am Daisy Kloverleaf, the Goatessly Goatess of G.O.A.T.–The Greatest Of All Time. This is my sidekick, PDQ Pete. We bringingly bring an opportunity. ” (*Here, and everytime she spoke, a greatly great many adverbally adverbs were usedly used by the Goatly “GOAT”–from here, nine in ten have been editly edited for content.)

“Hello, there, Daisy and PDQ Pete,” Cathy said, much more amused than bemused. She had also learned that on the “otherside” it was best to indulge the nutters, it kept the drama down to a minimum.

Heathcliff had recovered his senses and demanded “What is the meaning of this?” all Master of the Manor and dick-like.

“Silence, insolently insolent stableboy!” Daisy said, with a stomp of a hoof.

Daisy’s hoof stomp engaged an interdimensional vortex, which took everyone in the song to the fantasy realm of Saragun Springs.

-2-

Meanwhile…Inside a dingy little office in the realm of Saragun Springs…

I was sitting in my office, listening to music, searching the contents of a fifth of Old Number 7 for a purpose other than cleaning litter boxes, when I “heard” the preceding scenario unfold on my Unsteady Jukebox (a tablet and bluetooth speaker). Kate Bush’s Wuthering Heights was playing–and I imagined Heathcliff at the window, finally opening it, like I usually do. Then in the fade I heard the knock and all that followed. I picked up the fifth and wondered if it had caused an audial hallucination–just a little aged fermentation gag, between friends. But I knew that I wasn’t that lucky.

There was a sharp little knock at my door.

If this piece had passed its thousandth word the door would open no matter what I said. If under, there was still a possibility of escape. It must have been over because the knock on the door was one of those unnecessary knocks executed by someone who’s opening it at the same time. I’ve always wondered why people do that. Guess people figure if you are doing lines that you’d have sense enough to shoot the bolt.

Anyway, it did not matter because at the door was Daisy (who had removed her GOAT costume), an unknown Donkey with a surly expression on her/his face, someone who looked a hell of a lot like Kate Bush (circa 1978–this time wearing the red dress) sitting on the Donkey and Pie-Eyed Peety the PDQ Pigeon passed out on the Kate lookalike’s right shoulder.

“Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the Jackass,” I said.

“Hello Leila,” Daisy said primly (there were the adverbs, which can be read in the Director’s cut of this piece–all 6,000 words).

“I heard what happened,” I said, pointing at the Unsteady Jukebox. “Why is it that everytime I see you, Daisy, this little line between my eyes gets deeper?”

“Because you are aging?”

Well, I had that coming. It’s wise not to feed straight lines to Saragun Spring’s FCs. Although I am the Chief Executive Penname of the Springs, like most other leaders I’m not overly wise.

“I take it that the Jackass is Heathcliff?” This was a rhetorical question because the interdimensional vortex sometimes changes people who pass through it into the animal that they were compared to most often in life, upon entering Saragun Springs. It doesn’t do a thing to persons native to the realm, nor much to Ghosts–Cathy’s dress changed color, but she was still

Cathy. (Or the Demon who took her shape.)

“I demand an explanation. This is highly irregular!” brayed Heathcliff.

“Well, it’s like this Heathcliff, old pal,” I said, after pouring myself a shot and downing it, “lots of people must have referred to you as a Jackass–and the vortex you passed through has a peculiar sense of humour. But you can relax, you are still who you are in movies, the book and the song, but when you are portrayed here in the Springs, you are a Donkey–an otherwise sweet beast defamed by your behavior. And the more you bitch about it, the longer this production will take and thus the longer you shall remain an Ass–capisce?”

Apparently that got through because he said nothing and accepted the carrot Daisy fetched from the herbivore pantry in my office.

I made eye contact with the Ghost of Cathy, who’d been conspicuously, perhaps necessarily, silent, but appeared to be happy and enjoying the situation.

I smiled, “Hello Cathy.”

“Hello Leila.”

“You’re probably wondering why Daisy and that snoring derelict on your shoulder brought you to Saragun Springs–which gives us something in common–doesn’t it, Daisy?”

“If you say so,” Daisy said. She had been tossing walnuts into her mouth, shells and all.

“Yes, I think I need to know why you and Peety kidnapped Cathy and Heathcliff and brought them to my office.”

“HeXopatha is conducting job interviews,” Daisy replied. “We told Cathy that she was the favorite for the position of Wiccan Apprentice. We brought the Donkey along for transportation.”

I looked at Cathy. “So, you are here because you want to join the team, and he’s along as the ride?”

“Absolutely,” Cathy said. “You see I feel that I’ve reached my full potential as a Ghost. I cannot possibly add another layer to Cathy. But as a Wiccan in a new fantasy realm, I see nothing but possibilities.”

The crystal ball on my desk flashed red. It was Saragun Springs’ resident Witch, the Great HeXopatha. Her wholesome yet malevolent visage filled the ball.

“Bravo, Cathy,” HeXy said, ignoring me. “That is the attitude I’ve been seeking.”

“Does that mean I get the job?”

“Indeed! I will have a coach fetch you anon.”

“Hey, hey, hey–” I said. “Could we at least pretend that I am in charge just once in a while–especially when I’m in the room?”

“Oh, hello there, darling,” HeXopahta said. “Have you forgotten the conversation we had a blackout or three ago?”

I cast back through my memory and located a recent fuzzy moment when I may have green- lighted an “outsourcing” project for the Witch, without listening too intently because that sort of thing gets between me and my bourbon.

“Ha!” I said. “Part three is coming up and since you want something, the backstory is all yours, darling.”

-3-

Meanwhile…A drunk blackout or three ago…

HeXopatha is a facetious Witch. I do not know if all Wiccans are sarcastic, but she certainly is. The crystal ball she communicated through swelled to the size of the bubble that Glenda the Good Witch of the North used for transportation in The Wizard of Oz.

This enlarged ball contained an image of myself slumped at my desk, with an empty bottle of Number 7 lying on its side and the last of its contents in a glass that was in my hand.

HeXopatha was in the room with me, wearing a long dress whose train was held by Black Rats in Waiting. She and her little retinue (who all wore little gowns of their own, with tiny Black Ratlettes in Waiting holding their trains, and those dunce-cap like things with strand of lace attached to the top–this Rodently pattern repeated to the vanishing point) paced about the room as the Magnificent Master pitched her big idea, knowing that she had caught me at the perfect time.

“I require an Apprentice to help me with my day to day enchantments and spells, darling–but no one in the realm has the correct personality–so, I need your permission for a project.”

I caught a glimpse of the way I was on that occasion and “boiled” sums it up perfectly. “Awright, HeXy,” I slurred, “I gotta feelingth that if’n I juss say yesh, you and those little black dee-tees will goeth away–” At this point I relinquished consciousness, and my head made a disconcertingly loud smack on the desk.

The crystal shrunk back to its normal size.

“Swell,” I said. “But you must admit, friend Cathy here looks a hell of a lot like Kate Bush, a famous person, very much alive and whose disappearance from Earth is likely to cause trouble.”

“Who’s Kate Bush?” asked Cathy.

“No, no, no, not in the song,” said HeXopatha. “In the song she is still the Ghost of Cathy–or the demon pretending to be Cathy–that has never been established. In all other realms, like Earth, the song will sound the same to all who listen, and Cathy will appear as she has always appeared in people’s minds–their personal ‘head videos’–for the taped one is static. Only we in Saragun Springs will know of the alteration, only we will know that the original Cathy is no longer in the song–but rest assured that an adequate substitute has been procured.”

“‘Adequate substitute’?” I said. And that was when the “coach” arrived. Since it belonged to HeXopatha, it was, of course, fancy and gleaming black, and pulled by a team of what appeared to be horned ebony Shetland Ponies. Penrose the Flying Weasel was at the reins. When the coach stopped a figure clothed in a shawl emerged.

“Your ride awaits Cathy! From here on your name is Eira-Lysbyrd.” HeXopatha said.

“What’s that mean?” I asked.

“It’s Welsh for Snow Ghost–I so miss ancient Wales,” HeXy said, pining for the land where she began her own career as a Witch.

Cathy needn’t be told twice. She leapt off Heathcliff, placed passed out Peety on Daisy’s back and sprinted to the coach. She briefly hugged her replacement, hopped in the coach and it was off before I could say anything about it.

The figure stood outside the window, still concealed.

“What’s she waiting for?” I asked.

“He, actually, darling,” HeXy said, laughing. “Open the window and you will see.”

I didn’t need to ask why Heathcliff couldn’t open the window. Give me that much credit–I doubt that Donkeys need to do a lot of window opening in life. I sank another shot, walked over and opened the window.

The new Cathy dropped his shawl, and there in all his glory (even shrunk down from thirty feet to human size) was the recently hired Allosaurus, Juan G. He was dressed in the flowing white Cathy dress and began dancing in the courtyard. He performed a cartwheel. That was something to see. His short arms couldn’t reach the ground so he rolled on the top of his fairly flat head and landed on his tail. But that was nothing compared to his singing voice. The pitch was so high and uneven that my shot glass exploded and the fifth of Jack on my desk began to vibrate dangerously on the table.

“Please hoof stomp the vortex open, Daisy, before I lose my bar.”

Daisy activated the interdimensional vortex with a stomp of her hoof and both “Cathy” and Heathcliff vanished, but come by regularly whenever someone in the realm plays the song Wuthering Heights.

HeXopatha had signed off, but on her way out the crystal ball once again expanded and there was Juan out in the wily, windy moors. Unlike Earth, we get a view of Heathcliff in the “video.” The shot panned to the window and there in 18th-Century finery stood a man with the head of a Donkey.

Before I could complain, I heard HeXopatha’s voice telling me that on its way back into the multiverse the song passed through a rendition of Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream and the effects were temporary.

My glass was a memory, so I grabbed the bottle and said, “Bottom’s up.”

Leila