Paul H. Williams, Gleaner Writer

Septimus Brown had a huge herd of musky goats, which he took to the bushes in the mornings to return at nightfall.

Claris Wagerhood, the Revivalist, the virago, the torment of the village, had one she-goat called Mary. It was a wiry animal with very big ears like Claris'. It ate almost everything, including paper. Daily, it roamed the village, and at night, Claris tied it to the ackee tree in her yard. Never once had she brought it to the bushes to feed on succulent and nutritious leaves.

She had bought the goat from Septimus after an idea came to her one evening when she saw him coming home with his herd. The morning after her spark of 'genius' came, she approached Septimus. He was reluctant at first, for he knew Claris was up to no good.

After days of pestering from Claris, he gave in, for the price he was charging Claris for the goat to get her off his back. He then thought of acquiring some more goats himself.

Claris got a big-eared brown kid one evening. Septimus put the money into his pocket and smiled; two more goats, he thought. Claris took the kid and smiled too. Stage one of her plan was done.

The next morning, Claris greeted Septimus as he passed by her gate. She asked him to take Mary to feed with the others. An angry Septimus flatly refused, and stormed off down the dusty road. Claris watched him in his fury, and smiled. Septimus cursed himself for making a deal with 'that deble of a woman'.

As the weeks went by, Mary did not grow much, and the first thing you saw on her, apart from her big ears, were the impressions of the bones under her skin. But Claris was not worried about Mary's emaciated state. It was only a matter of time that she would get fat. Mary might not have been growing, but she was becoming a woman, and Claris couldn't wait.

In the evenings as Septimus passed, Claris would go to her gate and watch Septimus and his goats. Septimus avoided her. Yet, the evening when Claris opened her gate, to let out Mary, all grown up now, to join Septimus' herd, he could no longer look the other way.

It was the mating season and Mary was in heat. As the little scraggly legged goat ran through the gate, Septimus rushed at it, waving frantically. As his goats headed home, he scurried to get Mary away from them.

Claris was riled. She ran behind Septimus, shouting, "Tief! Tief! Infidel!" She breezed past him, and grabbed Mary. She carried Mary under her right arm, put her back through the gate, and launched a diatribe against Septimus, who waved his machete threateningly at her, and said, "Go way, yuh old Deble yuh!"

Claris went under the ackee tree in her yard, and prayed for about an hour with Mary by her side. When she was finished, she said, "If it is your will, Lord, it will be done!"

In the evenings after that, Septimus had to keep a vigil at his fence, so that Mary, in her passion, could not jump over into his premises. The good thing was that Septimus could hear Mary bleating in distress as she approached his yard. It was the call of nature, and George, Septimus' big black ram, was the one goat that Mary wanted to quench her desires. More so, Claris, too, wanted her own herd. And if it was the Lord's will for Mary to be impregnated by George, it was done.

For five consecutive mornings, while Septimus was asleep, Claris crept into his yard with Mary and unleashed her into the section of the pen where George was. Each time she stood on the periphery with a big grin on her face, as she watched Mary and George in animal coitus. When they were through, she would grab Mary and run out of Septimus' yard.

A few days after the last time Claris went into Septimus' yard, Septimus realised that Claris would no longer attempt to get Mary into his herd, and Mary had stopped coming to his fence with her cries of distress. Tired of the daily confrontations with Claris and Mary's animalistic overtures, he was relieved.

Weeks after, he realised Mary's sides were round and heavy-looking, and the grin on Claris' impish face had become wider. But it didn't take him long to realise Mary was with kids. Unbeknownst to Claris, Septimus fumed.

But, it was Claris who was at her wits' end one morning when she woke up to find Mary missing from under the ackee tree. She clashed with Septimus at her gate, running among the goats trying to find Mary. She wasn't there. Claris even returned to Septimus' yard the following morning, and there was more weeping for Mary because there was no sign of her.

Claris went on her knees every morning after that as Septimus passed by, asking God to let the "tiefing infidel" return Mary. It was now Septimus' time to grin. And if it were the Lord's will for Mary to be returned to Claris, it was done.

One morning just as Claris was about to approach the ackee tree to pray, her wish was already granted. There it was; a weak-looking Mary, tied to the tree, struggling to stay on her legs. Her sides were sunken, and all the signs of pregnancy were gone. "Murder! Murder!" Claris shouted at the passing Septimus, who pretended to be oblivious of her woe.

Septimus laughed to himself as he remembered Ryland, his friend from a neighbouring village. It was Ryland who had kept Mary until she had given birth to two rams, one black and the other brown.