Free Giles Goat Boy by John Barth Page A

stinking barn? Was I being taught to read and write? Had I no friends at all besides the goats? Half of what she said I couldn’t grasp; even when the words were familiar I sometimes failed to understand the question. What did it signify, for example, to ask whether anything was being done for my legs? They had always been as they were—wiry and tough, with fine horny pads at the joints; not so supple as Tommy’s, but far usefuller than Max’s. Why ought anything to be done for my legs, any more than for hers? Again, to illustrate what
reading
was she took from her bag a white book, which mistaking for another sandwich, I tried to snatch from her.
    “No, now,” she mildly chid, “that’s just paper, you know. Poor thing, you never had bedtime stories, did you? Let’s sit down, I’ll read you something …”
    I pretended to be listening; then as she seated herself I ripped a leaf from the book and sprang away to eat it.
    “Oh dear!” she cried merrily. “So that’s how it is! Well you needn’t grab, young man, it’s not a bit mannerly. You march yourself back and say ‘Please,’ and you shall have all you like.” In earnest of her pledge she tore a page out herself and offered it me. “Now, that does for the title-page and end-papers, doesn’t it? We mustn’t eat the others till we’veread them.” She chattered on, and all I understood was the gentle good humor of her tone. We wept again, I do not know why—indeed, we wept repeatedly throughout that griefless day. In the end I laid my head in her lap as she read to me, and toyed with the silver watch she wore on a lanyard round her neck. Why was I not with the herd, and what would Max think?
    Unlike much of what I heard that morning, the
story
was splendidly clear and gripping: it involved three excellent brothers who desired to cross a stream and feast upon cabbages, but were opposed in their innocent design by a typical human visitor called Troll. This Troll, understand, had no desire to eat the cabbages himself, nor from what I gathered was the
bridge
his private pen; even had it been, his intent was not the honorable one of guarding his privacy. Ah no: I was aghast to hear from my friend’s calm lips that the brute meant to kill those beautiful heroes and
eat their flesh
. My gorge rose at the thought; I could scarcely chew the page on which such evil was. The woman saw my agitation, patted my neck and insisted it was “just a story”—as if that excused Troll’s wickedness, or would save Wee Willie! Only her assurance that the brothers would triumph staunched my tears and dissuaded me from calling Max to their rescue—for though I could not see the Misters Gruff, they were there in the words that sounded off the page, as real and clear to me as Redfearn’s Tommy. What resourcefulness the youngest of them showed in turning Troll’s blood-lust to their advantage: the story named no breeds, but I was sure in my heart that this initial Gruff (to my mind, the real hero) was of the same species as myself. I hung on the tale’s unfolding, I wanted it never to end, and yet trembled with concern for the second brother, lest he not have caught the gambit of the first. “Tell him wait for der biggest brudder yet!” I counseled—yet durst I hope even Troll could be gulled thus again? At the appearance of Great William Gruff I forgot to eat, and when I saw justice done (albeit bloodily) and that worthiest of families cross to their reward, I embraced my newfound friend about her middle.
    Never was such a wonder as this
story!
Its passion drained me, yet I was bleating for more when Max’s shophar hooted in the distance.
    “What’s that? Must you go?” She returned the precious volume to her bag. There’d be another tale tomorrow; she knew a host of them. And more peanut-butter.
    “Bye-bye, now,” she called. I scampered back to her, mistaking her meaning; the pull of the shophar against my movement brought tears tomy eyes. Ah, was that