“I’d have headbutted it right off the cliff!” Bramble roared, charging a defenceless pine stump with a crack that echoed through the crags. He shook his head, dizzy but grinning broadly. “One hit. Boom! That’s all it takes to be a hero, right Papa?”
Clover didn’t even look up from fastidiously cleaning a hoof. “You’d have headbutted your own brains out, Bramble. Real heroes don’t just hit things. They have to be… well, they have to be like Papa.”
Aster, perched on the very edge of the ridge, didn’t join the argument. He stared at the purple clouds in the twilight as if expecting them to speak. “Papa says the clouds show us the path,” he whispered, “but the path looks scary tonight.”
A deep, resonant chuckle rumbled from the shadows of the pines. Buttercup stepped into the fading light, his massive horns scarred and silvered by the twilight. He settled onto the Storytelling Stone, his presence instantly silencing the rowdy kids.
“You think it’s all about the ‘Boom’, do you, Bramble?” Buttercup asked, his eyes twinkling in the dusk. “And you, Aster; you think the path is only for those who aren’t afraid to walk it?”
“Well… yeah,” Bramble mumbled, scuffing the dirt. “You’re the strongest. You weren’t ever scared, were you?”
“I was terrified every single day,” Buttercup said, his voice dropping to a gravelly hum. “And so was the greatest goat who ever lived. Sit. Chew your cud. It’s time I told you the story Old Billy Goat once told me: the legend of Zamba.
“Zamba was a titan,” Buttercup began. “They say his horns were carved from the same black granite as the mountain peaks. When he ran, the earth didn’t just thud; it trembled. The animals put all their faith in him because he was the strongest. If a boulder blocked the path, they didn’t look for a way around; they called for Zamba to roll it into the abyss.
“But inside,” Buttercup’s voice lowered, “Zamba was scared stiff. He didn’t believe he could protect them from the world’s many teeth. He felt like a fraud wearing a hero’s skin.
“In those days, the herd lived on a jagged rock surrounded by a mysterious fog. They were prisoners of a nightmare called the LooGawoo. Legend said it was ten times the size of Zamba: a beast of shadow that spat fire and growled like thunder.
“Because Zamba was the strongest, the burden of safety fell to him. Every night, while the herd huddled in the deep caves, Zamba was ordered to keep guard next to the Big Lantern. They told him that as long as that flame stayed bright, the LooGawoo would stay in the dark.
“So, Zamba stood there, night after night. His hooves were slick with sweat and his heart hammered against his ribs. He didn’t feel brave; he was simply too ashamed to run.
“Then came the night the oil ran low. The Big Lantern began to flicker, its light gasping against the rising wind. And deep within the fog, a different light appeared. Not the warm orange of the oil-flame, but a sickly, burning red, accompanied by a low growl.
“The LooGawoo,” Clover whispered, her ears twitching.
“The beast was close,” Buttercup said. “The air began to smell of sulfur. Zamba’s knees visibly wobbled. He looked behind at the sleeping herd, then at the dying lantern, and finally at the glowing red eyes rising from the dark. He had to choose: be the hero they thought he was, or the coward he feared he was.
“But what happens when the strongest goat in the world is too scared to move? The lantern went out. Zamba was shaking so violently that he was unable to strike the flint to light it back up. He was left in the pitch black, alone.”
To be continued…
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