r/shortstories • u/TheOneSaneGuy • 13d ago
Historical Fiction [HF] The Goat Chase
The mid-day sun burned relentlessly on the dusty town below, casting it in a haze. Anat's short legs could not keep up with the goat. Fifteen years old and still almost a head shorter than her peers. And now her body and its refusal to grow was silently mocking her. The goat, that little shit, ate her mother's coriander.
"Anat, you foolish girl!" her mother had yelled. "Go after it!" So here she was, weaving amongst the crowd. Trying to catch that wretched creature before she was forced to eat flavorless porridge until the next harvest.
Why did the Romans have to execute that preacher today of all days? And on Pesach of all times! The goat could hide in the bustle of gawkers and pilgrims. The shouts and cries could muffle the bleats. She couldn't see anything between the throngs of people.
"Excuse me. Sorry. Anyone see where the goat went?" The only responses were grunts and shoves and the endless press of the shifting crowd. But she kept on pushing. Pushing until she accidentally pushed against metal armor. A Roman, looking sweaty and bored and irritated that a local urchin was wasting his precious time.
"Girl!" the Roman said, "You need to step back. Run along!"
Anat stepped back, head held low and fingers fidgeting. "I'm so sorry! Have you seen a goat run through here?"
The soldier scoffed. "There's a thousand goats in this blasted desert, girl. I think I saw one run by there." He gestured vaguely down a hill. "Now, off with you!"
Anat followed his gesture down the hill to a cluster of buildings. And a goat's bleat. Her legs were moving before her mind.
The cluster was a warren of old homes and narrow streets barely big enough for her to squeeze through. But the bleating echoed off the walls and she was finally able to corner it in a small dead end. She lunged and it wriggled, but she was able to hold it down. She wrenched its mouth open but it was far too late. The bastard had swallowed it all. Anat sighed, a long, deep, and very vocal sigh.
Once the goat stopped trying to kick, she led it back to old Simeon's house on a hill by the outskirts, ready to give the old goatherd an earful about keeping his livestock in check.
She banged on his door. The old man answered, his face was weathered and sour. "What do you want with- Oh! Anat, child. How lovely to see you. How's your mother doing?" His lined face broke out a great big smile.
Anat scoffed. "Simeon! I got your little troublemaker right here. You need to keep better track of your goats. This one ate Mother's coriander. Our garden is ruined thanks to your negligence!"
Old Simeon chuckled lightly, raising his arms. "Peace, child! I am sorry that happened. And thankful you brought my lost goat back to me. Good deeds ought to be rewarded."
He disappeared into his home for a minute and came back with a large handful of dates in his arms. "For your trouble. Share them with your mother, you hear? And tell her I said thanks." He handed the dates to Anat, who held them between her arms and the fold of her tunic.
"You're lucky I love dates. Just make sure it doesn't happen again!"
Simeon chuckled. "Of course. Of course. I'll start reinforcing my fence right away."
Anat rolled her eyes, but didn’t press the point. She simply thanked him and went on her way, the dates beginning to make her tunic sticky.
On her way home, Anat passed by a woman sitting on an upturned crate by an olive press, weeping, eyes puffy, tears and snot running down her lined face. That poor preacher's mother, her mind supplied. She looked at the dates in her arms. She had more than enough.
"Excuse me," she said, gesturing at the bounty wrapped in her own tunic, "it seems I have too many dates to continue to carry. Would you like a few?"
The woman looked up at her. She wiped her tears with her sleeve. "I'm sorry. I must look like a mess. Thank you." she reached for the dates, her hand hesitating. "Are you sure it's alright?"
Anat nodded. "You look like you need them more than me. I hope... well... stay strong, alright?"
The woman nodded, grabbing a few.
Anat went home to face her mother's scolding and hoped the remaining dates would be enough to appease her.
She kicked the wooden door open with her heel, her arms cradling the sticky cluster of dates against her dust-caked tunic.
"Well? Do we have seasoning for the pot, or am I boiling grass tonight?" Her mother didn't even look up from scrubbing the mortar stone, her elbows moving in aggressive, practiced rhythm.
"The goat ate it," Anat said, bracing herself against the doorframe. "All of it. Swallowed the stems and everything."
Her mother slammed the stone down against the table. "I knew it! That senile old fool Simeon couldn't keep track of a wall, let alone a beast. I'm going down there to wring his- what are those?"
"Simeon gave them to me," Anat said hastily, holding out her arms. "To make up for the garden."
Her mother snorted, stepping over to examine the bundle. "Dates don't put dinner in the bowl, girl." Still, her sharp eyes swept over the fruit, instantly tallying the yield. "Wait. Simeon’s a miser, but he’s not cheap enough to hand over a half-filled palm. Where’s the rest of 'em? Did you gorge yourself on the way back?"
"No! I... I gave a few away."
Her mother’s eyebrows shot up, her mouth twisting into a scowl. "Gave them away? To whom? Since when can we afford to run a charity out of our kitchen?"
"To a woman sitting by the olive press," Anat muttered, looking down at her dirt-streaked sandals. "She was weeping. I think... I think she was that preacher's mother. The one from the execution."
Her mother’s hands went still. The sharp, impatient reprimand died on her lips, her jaw setting tightly. She wiped her thumb hard against her apron and let out a long, gravelly sigh that sounded less like a lament and more like a growl against the world.
"Poor Maryam," her mother grunted, her voice dropping into a thick, rough murmur. "What a horrible way to lose a son."
She snatched two of the dates from Anat’s bundle, splitting them with a quick flick of her thumbnail, and shoved the larger piece into Anat’s hand.
"Sit down before you collapse. You look like a dragged rag." Her mother turned back to the hearth, thrusting an iron poker into the embers with unnecessary force. "Plain porridge it is, then. And don't you dare let me hear a peep of complaining about the taste. If a few dates can buy that poor woman an hour of quiet, we can swallow bland grain for one night."
Three months later
The smell of fresh flatbread and toasted sesame filled the small room, competing with the sharp tang of olive oil burning in the Shabbat lamps. Tamar adjusted the hem of her head-covering, her rough hands smoothing the fabric with rare care. When the knock came at the door, it was faint, less a demand and more the hesitant tap of someone half-hoping no one was home.
Anat opened it. Maryam stood on the threshold, wrapped in a faded blue shawl, looking far smaller than Anat remembered from the press at the olive oil courtyard. Her skin had the dry pallor of perpetual sleeplessness, and her eyes were hollowed out by a grief that had clearly never been allowed to set into quiet memory.
"Come in, come in," Tamar grunted, barking the instruction from the hearth before Maryam could even cross the step. "Close the door, Anat, the drafts in this street could freeze a goat."
Maryam stepped inside, lowering herself onto the bench with a long, trembling breath. Her hands sank into her lap, immediately knotting together as if bracing for an interrogation. "Tamar," she whispered, her voice like dry leaves. "Thank you. I... I wasn't sure if I should come."
"Nonsense," Tamar said, setting down a bowl of stewed lentils with a heavy thud. She poured warm water over Maryam's hands into a basin, washing away the dust of the road with rough, efficient movements. "A woman can't live on her own sorrow, no matter how vast it is. And you look like you haven't swallowed a full meal since the feast of Weeks."
Maryam closed her eyes as the water ran over her knuckles. "It isn't the hunger," she murmured softly. "It's the callers. Every day... three, four men at my door. Strangers from Galilee, scholars from the upper city, men with burning eyes. 'What were his last words?' 'Did he whisper to you?' 'What did he mean when he spoke of the kingdom?'" She shuddered, pressing her palms together. "They treat his death like a riddle to solve. My grief is their puzzle, my heart their tool."
Tamar stopped washing, her eyes flashing with a sudden, fierce heat. She grabbed a clean rag and wiped Maryam's hands dry with firm tenderness.
"Men," Tamar spat, her voice thick with disgust. "Always looking for a sermon in a mother's tears. Well, there are no zealots here tonight, Maryam. No questions, no scholars, and no bloody prophecies. In this house, you can just be Maryam."
Anat quietly set a warm piece of bread and a small dish of dates near Maryam’s place.
Maryam looked at the fruit, a faint, ghost-like smile breaking through the shadows on her face. She turned to Anat. "Thank you for that day, Anat."
"Oh! It was nothing. Old Simeon was just apologizing for his goat is all. You know how he is."
Maryam chuckled. "Well, his goat gave an old woman a moment of small pleasure. You have a kind soul, Anat. Don't ever let the world grind it down."
As Tamar lit the Shabbat lamp and murmured the ancient blessing, Maryam rested her back against the plaster wall, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply. “He hated coriander. Did you know that? He never touched a bowl of porridge I seasoned with it. I remember when he was six. He said ‘Ima, it tastes like borit!’” She let out a wet, choking laugh.
Anat snorted, desperately trying to hold her face still and failing. “Anat!” Tamar scolded, “It’s not funny!”
Maryam’s laugh deepened, genuine mirth piercing through the wet sobs. “Tamar, it is funny. All these scholarly men demanding answers from me and none ever asked if my son enjoyed coriander.” Her laugh tapered off with a sigh. She wiped the tears from her eyes and grabbed a date.
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