John Barth - Giles Goat-Boy

Lady Creamhair I barraged with questions, blunt in themselves and sneeringly put. She told me she had once been Queen-of-the-May; I asked her now about those fairy co-eds whom the old dons-errant had been wont to rescue from the clutch of wicked scientists: Were they younger than she, and comelier? How was it the hero's costume was given in detail, but never his stud-record? Could a Chancellor's flaxen-haired daughter, freshened by a strapping young Doctor of Philosophy like those in the Tales , surpass Mary Appenzeller's output of seventy-three pounds of butterfat in her first year's milking? If not, what was the ratio of milk-yield to body-weight, say, required to qualify a milch-lady for Advanced Registry? Seven to one? Five? Why did she, Lady Creamhair, not relieve herself every little while as did I and everyone I knew, including Max? If it was, as I suspected, that her exotic diet left nothing to void, why did it not affect me similarly? This boss of hers, whom she compared to a keeper: when had he last arranged to have her serviced; and did he mount her as a rule himself or keep studs for the purpose?

"Young man," she replied, "those are naughty questions."

"I'm a goat," I said.

"Indeed you are, when you ask things just to be unpleasant. I've told you already all a boy of fourteen needs to know about marriage and that. As far as the rest — it's simply not nice to go to the bathroom where people can see."

This latter wanted some explaining; the ancient narratives had not taught me what bathroom meant, and given its definition I could still not grasp how one "went to the bathroom" out-of-doors, where no bathroom was. When all was finally made clear I ridiculed the queerness of it; danced round her on my knees with my wrapper drawn up to make public my "privates," as she called them, and gave demonstration of my contempt for human niceness.

"Now look here!" she cried. I mistook her words and left off at once, expecting her to show herself in turn. I was in fact suddenly possessed with curiosity about something that had not occurred to me until that moment. But she made no move to lift her garments. "You can't expect me to put up with that ," she said. I flattened myself on the ground to see under her dress; pressed my cheek into the hemlock needles. She was obliged to clutch her skirt about her and move away.

"Very well, Billy, I'm going home." I saw tears in her eyes, and was instantly contrite.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

But she was more bothered than I'd imagined. "No, I'm going. I know you're sorry, but at the same — I think maybe we shan't see each other again."

At this I rolled on the ground and wailed so piteously that she could say no more.

"See if I don't kill myself!" I declared. "I'll eat privet-berries and die, like Cinnamon Daphie!" In token of my vow I commenced to bang my head on a hemlock root, until she came to my side and begged me to stop.

I paused between bangs. "Will you come again?"

"You don't understand what the trouble is." She wiped my eyes and her own. "I'll have to think what's right."

But I could not abide uncertainty. I loved her, I declared: more than I loved Redfearn's Tommy or Mary Appenzeller; more even than I loved Max. She must promise to see me every day; she must never threaten not to see me.

"Ah Billy!" She hugged me to her chest, and for a time we wept together. "If you knew what you're saying! Don't I die when Dr. Spielman calls you home? My own Billikins! Pass All Fail All, don't I love you?"

Finally it was agreed our tête-à-têtes would be continued — but on a different basis. She'd been on a long vacation, she explained, which being now at end, she must return to work. She would still meet me in the grove on weekend afternoons, and occasionally on weekday evenings while the weather was warm and the days long. The nature of our meetings, too, must be somewhat altered.

"It's not fair to any of us," she said. "I want you to be a human being and Dr. Spielman wants you to be a goat, and you're caught in between. All this secrecy's not right either. Here's what I think: you've got to be one or the other, and Dr. Spielman and I must go along with your decision."

It was sweet to roll my head against her chest.

"Why can't I be both?"

"You just can't, my dear: if you try to be both, you'll end up being neither."

"Then I want to be a man," I declared — more readily than sincerely, for in truth neither option seemed endurable. The goats still struck me as far superior in almost every respect to the humans I'd seen and heard of: stronger, calmer, nobler; more handsome, more loving, more reliable. But the humans, for better or worse, were vastly more interesting; and what was more, there were no goats in sight.

"No," she said, "you mustn't decide so fast. Think hard about it till next Saturday. If you still feel then that you want to be a man, you ought to be raised in a proper house and dress and go to school with the other children. And we'll have it out with Dr. Spielman; if he disagrees I'll — I'll write a letter to the Chancellor about it. But think hard before you make up your mind, Billy. It won't be easy to catch up; the other boys may laugh at you sometimes, until you learn not to act like a goat — "

My face warmed. "I'll butt them dead! I'll kick them with my hooves and tear them into bits and drown them in the creek."

Creamhair tugged one of my curls. "That's what I mean."

I caught myself nibbling on a dandelion and spat it away. "Suppose I want to be a buck like Brickett Ranunculus?"

She looked at me with pity. "You can never be a real buck, Billy. A time will come sooner or later — if it hasn't already — I can't explain just what I mean… Oh flunk Max Spielman!" She began weeping again, as she did frequently, and stroked my forehead. "But it's not for me to criticize him, goodness knows! He did what he thought was best — and who's to say you wouldn't've been better off if I'd never heard about you?" She blew her nose briskly on one of her tasty tissues. "Well, you are what you are, and you shouldn't have to be something you don't like. If you decide to go on living with Dr. Spielman and your friends — which might very well be the best thing — why, then it wouldn't be right for me to see you any more, because… to me you'll never be a goat! Do you understand? To me you'll always be a little boy… who's been dreadfully mistreated…"

I understood only a part of what she said, but the tenor of it was clear enough. "I do want to be a boy!" I protested, more sincerely now. "I don't want to go back to the barn at all — except to say goodbye to Mary Appenzeller and Max and Redfearn's Tommy. I don't care what Max says. If he says verboten I'll run away anyhow, and live with you."

Thus I swore on, in the bliss of her loving demurrers. More, I would have done with goathood then and there: I tried to stand erect, but lost my balance and tumbled over; forgetful of the shame she'd taught me I pulled off my wrapper, deeming it a humaner condition to go about naked than fleeced with angora. Lady C. objected, but not as before; there was more of concern for my rashness than of disapproval in her voice.

"Next weekend is too far off. I want to start now."

With great reluctance and joy she agreed to come next day for my decision. But I insisted on some radical step away from goathood before we parted: she must shear my curls, or let me wear her sunglasses.

"But I haven't any scissors in my purse!" she laughed. "And it's nearly dark; you don't want sunglasses now." What she proposed at last — for I would not be put off — was that I wash my face in the stream nearby with a piece of pink soap she had in her bag. I went to it with a fury, howevermuch the strong scent made me sneeze; and didn't stop at face and neck, but sat hip-deep in the cold creek and lathered my skin from head to foot. Lady Creamhair stood by, protesting my eagerness; she wiped the stinging suds from my eyes, rinsed my hair herself, declared I'd catch my death, and toweled me with her sweater until I glowed. Then she insisted I put on my wrapper and get to the barn before the sun went down. In a stiller pool I regarded the image of my face — its sharp-edged planes, thick curls and gold-fuzzed chin — and thought it good.