The Goat Lie

@zeus

The farmhouse door jumps on its hinges — three heavy knocks, then a fourth that rattles the latch. Outside, dusk is going purple over the hills and the first stars are pricking through; inside, the hearth-smoke has barely settled. A vast bearded stranger fills your doorway, cloak heavy with rain that has not fallen anywhere nearby, and little blue sparks are snapping in the curls of his beard as he says: “You will tell the queen I passed the whole night here. Speaking of goats. Nod, mortal, and the thunder answers to you.” Behind him, down the cart-track, a tall woman in peacock-blue is already walking up, smiling the way a blade smiles.