The Goat Man by Richard Lee Fulgham

THE

EMBRACING WOODS:

A Book for Fathers

To Give Their Sons

Richard Lee Fulgham

A Collection of Short Stories about growing up in a small 1950's town

snuggled up to Georgia's Pine Mountain, part of the Great Pine Forest.

Contents

Chapter One………………………… The Great Pine Forest

Chapter Two……………………………Quicksand

Chapter Three………………………….The Alligator and I

Chapter Four…………………………. .The Day of the Black Boar

Chapter Five……………………………The Goat Man

Chapter Six……………………………..The Bat with a Human Face

Chapter Seven…………………………The Goldenrod Spider

Chapter Eight…………………………..Fear in the Desert Night

Chapter Nine………………………… The Horn Hunter

Chapter Ten…………………………….Fox and Hounds

Chapter Eleven……………………… The Death of the Viking Princess

Chapter Twelve……………………… The Courage of Field Mice

Chapter Thirteen………………………Wisdom in a Serpent’s Eye

Chapter Five

The Goat Man

It was the first week of June when we met the Goat Man. The year was 1963 and through the years I had explored further and further into Georgia’s Great Pine Woods. Sometimes I would spend all day hiking to my destination – if I had a destination – and camp wherever I found myself at dusk, hiking back the next day.

I was lucky then and had Jack Keefer as my constant companion, having decided between us to be best friends till death. This was a new and wonderful experience for me because I’d always felt like the outsider, friendless and unwanted by my peers. Jack changed all this for a few years – not till death, but till his family moved to another state. But for those few years we were inseparable. I loved him in a way that I have been unable to love anyone since. We were brothers – initiating ourselves into mutual commitment to each other by cutting our fingers and mixing our blood like the blood brothers we were.

We were both sixteen and both possessed by those remarkably clear ambitions of adolescence, those lofty dreams we knew would come true. We followed our destinies with the certainty of sleepwalkers. We especially liked to camp out on Pine Mountain, hiking all day and sitting around the campfire all night -- telling corny jokes and swapping our most private secrets about the girls we adored and the futures we envisioned.

So it was no surprise to our parents when Keefer and I decided that day in June to spend a whole week in the woods, as far as we could walk, all the way to the Flint River fifteen miles away. Though our mothers loudly objected and conspired to stop us, we left anyway at dawn on Monday morning. We carried our packs on our backs, our Stevens Savage .22 rifles in our hands, swinging casually by our sides.

So on we pushed forward, mile after mile, until at last we were in the secondary forest with its flat open floor of pine needles, and there we fell on the ground and panted and wheezed and rested till we could go further into the unspoiled woods.

We eventually picked ourselves up and pushed on for many more miles until at last we were stopped by the Flint River’s shore and decided there to set up camp before the sun fell into that emerald sea of trees. We found a clearing full of grass and set up our tent and dug a shallow depression about three feet across and lined it with large stones for our fire. We got out our lines and sinkers and hooks, impaled victims from our box of worms, and tied the lines to sticks stuck along the shore and threw the baited hooks into the river.

During the night, catfish might strike. And with the morning sun we’d roast them on the rocks around the fire as the coffee boiled in our old copper-bottomed tin pot and potatoes baked in the coals.

That night we spent catching crayfish in shallows, which we carried back to the camp and boiled in the coffee pot until they turned a bright blood red and we could peel and feast on them like shrimp. The moon was full, a silver dollar in the sky, and beneath it we excitedly discussed the coming war, tanks and battleships, guns, hunting knives, crossbows and pistols, and how we would forever be rugged outdoorsmen, rejecting the glass and concrete world of humanity.

How painful to remember back to those uncluttered days when the future seemed bright as the moon. Now, of course, the moon is just as bright, but the future has become the past and in retrospect seems black as an eclipse. When Keefer left for Vietnam, to be shot through the leg and come limping back, I was at sea on the USS Raleigh and never saw him again.

But that night by the campfire, listening to the hushed whispers of the woods and river, under a sky resplendent with moon and a billion stars, we both understood with our flesh and blood that happiness was found in the wild.

Unable to sleep, we pulled a fallen log to the fire as a seat and knew we would be up all night. The frogs and spring peepers and a million trilling insects sung to us a harmony of unrequited love.

Down by the shore, a logging road paralleled the river. It hadn’t been used in many years, for young pines grew in its track, and the rains had left deep valleys in its clay foundation. It was on this road that, around three in the morning, we heard a clamor of clanking tin cans, the groan of a wooden cart pulled by a sighing mule, and the barking of a dog.

We had heard tales of the Goat Man and never doubted his existence. But we never expected to meet this mythical man and his phantom beasts, no more than we expected to meet the wild Choctaw Indians who were rumored to still persist in the deepest Georgia wild.

When we first heard the commotion, we grabbed our rifles and fled to the woods to hide among the pines on our bellies to await this fantastic apparition. I was scared and Keefer was scared but we breathed as one and felt inside a delicious exhilaration.

In the light of the moon, we saw him rumbling and clanking up the road towards our camp. Our fire still burned and there was no way the Goat Man could miss seeing it. Surely he would stop and warm himself and his animal friends, seeking just as surely hot coffee and talk.

Local legend had it that the Goat Man was a mad nomad roaming the woods with dozens of goats and a shepherd dog. It was said he had once taught college and had a doctor’s degree, but when his wife died of a dread disease had taken to the woods with his beasts to rove and never return to the towns. It was also said he was kind and wise, never failing to leave those he encountered feeling cleaner and better and free.

We believed because our algebra teacher, Mr. McMurray, had said he’d met the Goat Man himself while fishing on the Chattahoochee River. He had told us how the Goat Man had spoke of the river as if he, too, wanted to flow swiftly to the sea, cleansing himself as he passed over the earth. Mr. McMurray was not the type to lie; he lacked the imagination to make up such a tale. And now, sure enough, the legend was coming toward our camp.

We saw him long before he arrived, riding an ancient four-wheeled wooden wagon pulled by a single mule. The wagon was filled with a thousand things, no doubt those survival tools and ammunition and wild plants and dried deer jerky needed to live in the woods. And perhaps he hauled, too, some treasures from his past which he couldn’t bear to give up. Perhaps, deep in that wagon, were material memories of his lost wife.

Tied to the wagon with short ropes were about a dozen goats, who walked slowly beside the wagon, gazing around like resigned children on the way to a boring class at school. Running circles around them, occasionally nipping at their heels when they resisted the pull of the ropes, was a Shetland sheepdog with missing tail, all white but for black patches on his back and face. Later we would see that the dog had one blue eye and one brown eye.

The Goat Man himself was slumped in the seat, loosely holding the reigns, whistling some sad old song to himself.

The dog caught scent of us and began to bark crazily in the night, causing the goats to get nervous and begin trotting, trying to pull the old mule faster. The Goat Man perked up, peered at our fire, and pulled to a halt. He gazed at our camp for an endless five or ten minutes, before dismounting and walking towards it. His gait was slow but determined, as if he were on his way to the funeral of his brother, tormented but strong, grief-stricken but wise. He carried a rifle – a 1914 German Army 8mm Mauser, as we later learned – and a huge U.S. Marine survival knife strapped to his leg.

He was dressed in an old army uniform with a blanket draped over his back. He had on combat boots and from his web belt hung dozens of knotted cords. Around his neck was a khaki scarf, thrown carelessly over his shoulder.

But it was his face which mesmerized us. The second we saw that face, we both got up and headed toward the campfire to greet him. There was no madness or danger in those eyes, just a deep, resigned, unendurable melancholy. His expression was one that spoke of suffering, helplessness, anguish, and a terrible hard-won wisdom. Later in life I was to see that same expression on the faces of my friends returning from the jungle war, recovering from drug addictions, fighting nervous conditions, or trying to heal wounds left by constant loss.

He may have been thirty; he may have been seventy. His face was a tanned road map with a thousand etched lines. His eyes were blue and his hair streaked with gray. His hands were large, powerful, and very rough, with nails like clam shells, ridged and thick. His voice was soft, but deep and resonant, like that eerie ocean’s surf you hear in a conch shell, soothing, elemental, timeless, primeval, and free.

“You boys from around here?” he asked.

Self-consciously we told him we were from Manchester, about seventy miles south of Atlanta, and we were camping out and looking for snakes to catch and take home. He thought about this information a minute or two, then said, “Why don’t you leave them alone?”

“Oh, we’re not going to kill them!” I said too excitedly, “We keep them as pets.” I was intimidated that he had criticized us so quickly. But at the same time, I wanted desperately to know this strange man of the pine woods. It was as if I was peering into my own future if I failed at my goals.

He smiled, and to my surprise his teeth were perfect and white as a porcelain china cup. I was even more surprised, even shocked, when I saw the firelight reflected from stainless steel that held those teeth and formed most of his upper palate and part of his lower jaw.

But his diction and grammar were perfect, cultured, cultivated, and clearly annunciated, betraying at once this man’s high intellect and sophisticated background. His voice seemed alien to his appearance, this man who lived in the wild with a bunch of goats.

Keefer’s eyes were wide-open and perfectly round, with all the white showing around the irises, as he stared into the Goat Man’s face. His mouth hung stupidly open. But the stranger either didn’t notice or didn’t care and invited himself to join us by the fire. I poured coffee into a canteen’s cup and handed it to him.

The three of us talked a while about unimportant things until Keefer and I calmed down and relaxed beside this strangest of all strangers. As the tension left, the subject of our conversation became more serious, though we dared not ask any personal questions. He spoke of comets and meteors and exploding stars, while pointing out constellations in the night sky.

But Keefer couldn’t control himself and blurted out, “Is it true you used to be a college professor?”

The Goat Man was silent. After a few moments, he admitted it as if guilty of murder. “Yes. A long time ago I taught zoology. But that time doesn’t exist anymore. This moment is all that’s real. This moment and the stars. You won’t understand that for a long time.”

There was no bitterness in his voice, but Keefer and I were old enough to realize we had touched a bruise on this man’s troubled heart. I asked his name, and he said he was once called Paul. “But you can call me the Goat Man,” he added with an odd little smile; “I guess your next question is why I have all these goats.”

We confessed that we were wondering. He told us that he liked goats because they were clean and silent. And as he said clean, he stressed the word so much that we knew he meant much more than clinical cleanliness. He meant some kind of nobility which transcended the slovenly soul of mankind.

Keefer and I looked at the animals as they stood motionless around the wagon, at attention and watching us with aristocratic eyes. They were quiet, still, unafraid, patient. They were stately animals with straight legs and backs, immaculate coats, and lifted heads with chins high, as if proud and full of an unsullied integrity.

For an instant, I thought of St. Francis’ sermons to the animals, but the image dissolved as quickly as it had come. This man didn’t seem religious, just powerful, wise, tormented, and independent. Even then I saw the parallel between him and the goats. They lived together, but not as a herd. Each one was a lonesome, dignified, isolated, aloof individual, asking for nothing from men.

And like the Goat Man, their eyes revealed just how different they were from other creatures. Their pupils were vertical slits with blue irises. Some might call them demonic eyes, but I saw them only as clues to their essential separation from other beasts of the fields and forests.

The sheepdog worked up the courage to come and sit by the fire with us humans. He stared wistfully into the fire. He listened carefully as we talked, twisting his head curiously this way and that, as if trying to understand. His stump of a tail wiggled furiously whenever any of us would reach over and pat its grizzled old head. I knew that this was the Goat Man’s friend, not the goats. The goats were a reminder of some sorrowful penitence he was paying to a God we had yet to know.

“Do you think you’ll ever go home?” I asked him, watching for that glitter from his stainless steel jaws.

“I am home,” he replied; “You boys can understand that, can’t you?”

“You like Nature better than people, right?” Keefer asked.

“Oh, people are Nature too,” the Goat Man said; “It’s just that people crowd together too much. Crowding squeezes people like me out. But they’re Nature all right, people are. They’re the mind of Nature. Nature thinks through our brains. Unfortunately, Nature has no heart.”

He chuckled, knowing that we didn’t know if he were serious or pulling our legs. He knew we didn’t know what he was talking about. But I understand now what I couldn’t then. Keefer picked up his rifle, gave a big grin and asked him, “Do you like guns? I love ‘em. I’ll bet you’ve killed some big bucks out here. Hell, you could blow a bear’s head off with that cannon you got. You ever shoot a bear? You ever shoot a human being?”

I felt the same instincts as Keefer back then and shared his love of weapons and the thrill of the hunt, the lure of war. But I intuitively realized it might be best not to question this nomad about such things. In the firelight, I could see the remnants of some old but hideous wound around his mouth, despite the moustache and beard he wore.

The Goat Man showed only sadness as he said in a low tone, “I’ve killed to stay alive, but I don’t enjoy it anymore. Sometimes I’m afraid I’ve got life all wrong and I’ll have to answer for all the killing one day. That’s why I learned to dry meat into jerky. One deer will last me all winter. A ’coon will last me two or three weeks, a beaver six.”

Keefer evidently had not noticed the scars or the steel mouth and blatantly asked, “Were you ever in a war? That’s where we’re going as soon as we graduate. To Vietnam! That should be a real adventure!”

The Goat Man looked first at Keefer, then at me, then gazed again into the skies. “It’ll be an adventure, all right,” he told us; “It’ll be something you’ll never forget, no matter how hard you try. You may even bring home a reminder, like I did.” He smiled wide, and for the first time Keefer saw that metal mouth and angry scars. He blushed, mumbling an apology, saying he didn’t mean to offend anyone.

“That’s okay, son, I’m not ashamed of it. I used to think it was my badge of honor, but now I don’t think of it at all, except during the winter when it aches. Want to know how I got it?”

We did. We loved all war stories.

“I won’t bore you with a long story. I was standing guard at Bastogne when the Germans launched their last big offensive in WWII. They came in wave after wave, wearing snow white uniforms. We were overwhelmed before we knew what hit us. A shell exploded as I was running for cover, and it knocked me out. When I woke up, there were American bodies strewn all over the place and squads of German soldiers were finishing off the survivors.

Anyone they heard groaning was bayoneted in the heart. Those who were silent got their teeth bashed in with a rifle butt to make sure they were dead. When they came by me, I stayed silent because to breathe too loud was to die. A soldier kicked me and bashed in my mouth, but I was silent and they moved on. And that’s how I wound up with a steel and ivory mouth.”

He looked at us to see if he had made an impact. He had. We were speechless at the horror of his tale. There could be no doubt it was true.

“Is that why you live out here all alone?” I asked.

“Oh, no, that’s just life. Out of a thousand men, only I survived. I’m lucky in that respect. The Army fixed me up, gave me a new mouth and teeth, sent me to the university. I got married, taught college kids and for a long time was content. It wasn’t the Germans to blame, it was just Nature.”

I thought of the queen water snakes and tadpoles at Copperhead’s Retreat, how they all had been killed but a few. Those who escaped had done so randomly. It was sheer chance that the Goat Man had survived.

Keefer seemed thunder struck. “Then why live out in the woods if you were happy? I don’t understand. You might as well stay in the city.”

The Goat Man thought about this, then seemed to choose his words very carefully as he answered, “Well, it’s like this. What’s the difference where I live if man is just an animal anyway? I mean, people may be smart and all that, but when you boil it down, they’re just Nature and nothing more or less.

“That’s the way things should be, of course, and the killing and brutality of some people is good for Nature. It thins out the species. But I just can’t accept it, which means I’m inhuman. A freak of nature. I don’t belong with other people. See what I’m getting at?”

We both confessed that we hadn’t an idea of what he meant.

He sipped coffee, sighed, and looked at the dog. I wondered why he was bothering with us. What difference did it make if we understood him or not? Nevertheless, he continued, spurred on by some invisible force of which only he was aware.

“I’ve thought about this for twenty-five years, boys, and I think I’ve got it figured out. Nature gave us an instinct to kill -- we love it. We especially love to kill each other. The reason is to destroy the weak, so that only the strong are left. The strongest will reproduce and the result will be more and stronger young. That’s the way things are and we ought to accept it. But I can’t. Does that make sense?”

A little, we admitted, not at all sure of ourselves.

“I believe in God,” the Goat Man said, “God is Nature. Everything is Nature.” He looked into the sky, adding, “The earth we’re on, everything on it, everything in the sky and the sky itself is Nature. It’s all one living Nature.”

Keefer was blushing in the firelight because he couldn’t understand what he was hearing. But I was beginning to comprehend.

“It’s only right, the way I feel about it,” I said; “Lots of animals and people have to die so a few can survive. This is a hard world. Only the strongest deserve to live.”

The Goat Man gazed into my eyes until I felt embarrassed and looked into the fire. He still wasn’t angry, though both Keefer and I had shown only how thick-skulled we were.

“That’s the first law of Nature, all right,” the Goat Man agreed; “And that’s where I made my big mistake. I cherished something too weak to live.

“I wanted compassion and conscience to evolve in Nature. I wanted the weak to live, too. I thought mankind was the mind of Nature and if enough of us with compassion survived, then we might evolve into the conscience of nature. But you’re right, boy, death’s as natural as the Smokey Mountains. It’s me who’s unnatural. I wanted the soft and beautiful to survive, not just the strongest.

“I tried to be above Nature’s law and look what happened. I’m the Goat Man. I’m the goat. The joke’s on me. This is what I get for trying to be more than just a man. Maybe in a thousand years Nature will grow a conscience. Maybe a few special people will survive out of the billions born, to evolve into a type of cosmic compassion.”

He suddenly seemed very tired and got up, heading back toward his wagon and goats. Before leaving us, though, he added, “You boys enjoy yourselves while you’re still strong. Just let me give you one piece of advice. Don’t ever care for anyone too weak to live. She’ll . . .” and here he stopped, seemed confused for a moment, then corrected himself.

“I mean, it will die young for sure and you’ll be left alone. You’re smarter to care only for the very strong. It’ll survive if it’s smart and strong enough. Until that thousand years has passed, you’re better off without a conscience. Don’t ever love the weak. I wish I never had.”

It was to be many years before I realized he was talking about his dead wife. She was the weak one he had wanted to live, only to watch helplessly as Nature’s ruthless laws were enforced.

And with that last cryptic message, he walked back to his wagon, clambered aboard, and patted his mule on the neck. He rolled away in a racket of metal and hoofs and creaking wooden wheels. I thought we’d said the wrong things to him, but he stopped, turned and waved goodbye. And then the Goat Man rolled into the darkness and was gone.

An hour later and the sun came up. We pulled in and cooked our catfish, speaking in hushed tones about the night. Neither of us had learned anything. Later, Keefer and I were both to sign up in the military and volunteer to fight in Vietnam. Keefer would be wounded at Da Nang. I would spend those years on a warship.

I don’t know if Keefer ever killed a human being but I expect he did, as I’ve heard he was in many lethal firefights. Me? I don’t know if I have or not.

When the USA invaded the Dominican Republic in 1965, my ship helped shell the beaches. I was part of a “pom pom” gun crew, and we fired three-inch diameter, high-explosive shells point blank into the tops of the palm trees lining the shore. When the firing stopped at last, through my field glasses I could see bodies hanging from those now leafless palms.

Snipers had tied themselves to the trunks, unwittingly making themselves sitting ducks. I enjoyed it then and hoped we’d blown away every one of the native defenders. Now I pray we didn’t hit any at all. I pray it was the other warships and other cannon crews who killed those people.

I wonder how Keefer feels now about the Goat Man’s talk of mankind evolving into the “consciousness and compassion of Nature”? As for me, I’ve had enough killing and seen enough dying. I wish I could find the Goat Man again now that his words make sense to me.

I would tell him there is hope yet. We are not snakes and frogs. Those few of us who can survive may indeed eventually infuse a trace of benevolent compassion into Nature’s otherwise merciless heart.

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The Embracing Woods

by Richard Lee Fulgham

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