Old Roads

Through biting winds and burning cold, a caravan forced its way along a snow-capped mountain road that had long been forgotten by the people living beneath its wake. For days they had been trying to pierce through the winter veil, looking unsuccessfully for shelter in a cave or rocky outcropping. Several members of the expedition had already succumbed to frostbite, their corpses turned black and stiff, left to be buried by the elements. Hope dwindled as the shrieking of the wind grew shriller, and devoid of options, some among them prayed vainly to gods long condemned to history.

The leader of the group, a tall man covered in enough hair and furs to make people mistake him for a bear, was only slightly less cynical about their chances than the rest of his companions. Though he never let it show in his face or words, he feared that death would soon claim them all. His front of bravery was the only thing that prevented his companions from collapsing into total despair. He’d created tight bonds with the other caravanners during their journey and would mourn their passing if he managed to live any longer than they. It was his daughter though, small and filled with childlike confidence of better days, that prevented him from willfully surrendering to fate.

Their eyes had become nigh useless, battered by snow and wind, but in the near distance, the blurry outline of something shaped vaguely like a man became visible. This gave some people hope, believing that if there were people about that a village or town must not be far off. As the caravan drew forward a feeling of unease very much unlike their previous anxieties began to spread through the air.

The wagons stopped and a small group of men approached the thing. It sat cross legged in tattered, gray robes that flapped noisily in the wind. Its dull, foggy eyes did not move to acknowledge the presence of travelers, staring absently ahead.

“What is that thing?” One caravanner muttered, taking an instinctual step backwards.

“I’ve never seen anything like it, not in any myth or legend,” Their leader responded, completely unsure of what to make of the beast.

Most would assume it to be some sort of strange, shaggy goat, were it not that the head was attached to the body of an emaciated man bearing many almost artistically made scars crafted into its skin. None of them spoke above a whisper, afraid that drawing its attention would leave them cursed with strange devilry. The leader of the group, feeling the weight of responsibility and the cold chilling his blood, found the courage to try and communicate.

“Hello? Are you...alive?” He could not find the eloquence for a proper greeting, blurting out the first thing that came to mind. The thing did not respond, giving no indication of having heard or seen anyone.

“It’s not breathing. This is just some abominable ornament left here by the mountain tribes,” An older man said, the shakiness in his voice mismatching the assuredness of his statement.

Their leader edged forward, gloved fingers slowly reaching for the side of the goat’s furry cheek. He held his breath as the moment of truth arrived, and the winds seemed to be drowned out by the sound of his own heavy breathing. The instant before he made contact the beast’s head swiveled towards him and its unsettling eyes bore into his.

A frightened gasp escaped him as he hastily withdrew his hand and scrambled back into the frightened crowd. The goat’s eyes followed him and his fellows fell back from him, afraid that if its gaze fell on them they too would suffer the doom alongside their leader.

“It is not wise to touch strange monsters you find in the mountains,” A chorus of voices chastised, all seeming to emanate from the goat, despite its closed mouth.

None in the crowd could speak, fear shocking them to silence and their feet to stillness. The ominous feeling in the air thickened and spread, overcoming the whole caravan. Even those that lay dying in the wagons, unaware of the goat’s presence, could feel a potent fear overwhelming them.

A crowd began to gather as the people went to search for the source of the strange feeling that had gripped their breath. The weaker minded and some of the elderly among them fled back to their wagons, afraid to be in the presence of a thing that reeked of darkness. The rest waited quietly and cautiously.

The goat stood, observing the crowd before beginning an unnatural walk towards them. The women and more cowardly men in the group fled before its sluggish approach, fearful of something the laws of nature and god deemed should not exist.

It approached the caravan master, dragging its way through the snow on torn, gnarled feet. The others it ignored, much to their silent relief. As if frozen in place by magic, he alone was to parley with the thing that blocked their way. It peered down at him, lowering its face until they were nearly touching one another.

“Be wary of the roads you choose to walk. Even gods weep for what cruelties lay in wait at the end of this path.” The chorus whispered softly to him.

“It’s too late to change our path now. Death will surely take us if we turn back.” He managed to muster up a frightened response, barely above a whisper.

“Death is a meager price to avoid what’s waiting for you, but if your mind is set then I will not stop you.” The goat raised a bony hand and pointed, revealing the mouth of a small cave that none present would claim to have seen only moments before.

“Thank you,” He muttered hoarsely.

“You will curse me in the coming days for having shown you the way. The elder things that lie at the end of the world will show you no kindness.” It turned from his confused and frightened form without another word, shuffling back to its place in the snow where it had sat for centuries. While the caravanners crossed into the cavern it spoke not a word, conserving its dwindling energy and patience for the next group of travelers who would either heed its words or stand before the world’s black, beating heart.