~ Chapter II ~
The Creature In The Cave

Hours passed before Morogh was certain they were gone. As long as he could bear it, he stood at the cave mouth, his knife ready for action in his hand. When his knees trembled and his legs gave way, he sank upon the dust of the cave floor, exhausted. He knew it would be unwise to sleep, but his second unexpected escape from death had brought back some of his previous euphoria, and he felt secure in the stony embrace of his blessed shelter. While still far less inviting than his old homespun mattress, Morogh welcomed the dry dust of the cave as a fitting alternative to the mud outside.

Though a nagging part of his mind told him to be wary of all gifts of the forest—even life-saving ones—the old man could no longer fight off the desire to rest. Finding stonier ground a little further into the cave, he settled for a place near the entrance, his back pressed close to the warm wall.

Sleep came to him while he was still sitting up.

~o~

Morogh woke with a start. Recalling the events of the night before, he lashed out with his knife, expecting the steel blade to pierce wolf-hide. But it met only the soft resistance of cloth, and the tearing sound was accompanied by the gentle plashing of spilled liquid. Fearing it was blood, Morogh jumped to his feet with a yell, wondering what it was he had wounded. But as the sleep was driven from his eyes, he saw that it was no animate thing at all.

It was a woven skin, such of the kind that the women of his village used to hold goat's milk. He stared a little longer before he realized that the spilt liquid was, indeed, milk. Pale creaminess leaked from the knife wound, to be absorbed by the thirsty dust of the cave floor. Still stupid from his sleep, Morogh did nothing until the last of the drink was gone. Then he lowered himself to his knees and lifted the skin, wondering at its existence. Had someone placed it there overnight? But who? And why would they care to provision an old and unsuccessful hunter with such a gift?

These thoughts were still dancing through his head when he noticed the basket. It had sat a little behind the skin of milk, covered in a rough cloth. Morogh reached for it and pulled it closer, hesitating only a moment before uncovering its contents.

He inhaled sharply. Inside the basket, shining in the early morning light, as if ignorant of its humble bearer, was a crystal carafe of wine. Two loaves of white bread—the kind that poor Morogh had ever only seen on the sideboards of the very rich—lay nestled next to the wine. He removed the loaves with trembling hands, his hunger suddenly overwhelming. But the basket had not yet reached the end of its offerings. A matching goblet wrapped in silk was tucked in a corner, and at the very bottom, two fillets of fish had been carefully folded in a buttered cloth.

Morogh did not even consider the possibility of guile in this honest and wholesome food; he ate gratefully and without shame, hoping to soon see his invisible benefactor before he had to depart. Morogh finished his meal as the sun broke over the rim of the horizon, gilding the passing storm clouds with rosy gold. With the filling of his stomach came a raising of his spirits. Now that death no longer stared him in the face, the old man entertained a reasonable hope of tracing his path to the village again, and possibly even catching something on the way. He could not return to his daughters empty-handed.

And who knew? He might be able to sell the carafe and goblet for a good price to the traveling merchants that visited his village every few weeks. A smile played on the old man's lips as his daydreams distracted him from reality. Morogh fingered the faceted crystal. They might even be valuable! He might be bringing his girls a fortune! He might…

A tinkling sound from the darkness pulled Morogh back to the cave. His pleasant fantasies evaporating like mist, he set the basket on the ground and seized his knife. The noise grew louder, though it didn't seem hurried. Morogh bit his lip and gathered up his courage to shout into the darkness.

"You there! Show yourself! I am armed!"

The tinkling only got louder, though no one replied. He held his breath and readied his knife to strike.

But there was no need. Only seconds after he had announced himself, the gentle black muzzle of a billy goat thrust itself out from the curtain of shadow that obscured the recesses of the cave. It looked at the old man quizzically but came forward without fear. Morogh laughed aloud in relief as the creature reached him, nuzzling his knee with the end of its velveted nose. He bent to scratch behind its ears, whistling in wonder at the little harness it wore upon its back.

Two large baskets, each of the same kind as the one that provided his breakfast, hung by black leather straps from either side of the goat's round belly. They were covered in coarse cloth, but Morogh did not need to lift either to know that they were filled as the previous basket had been. The smell of freshly baked bread hung in the still air, masking the smell that had so bothered him the night before. But he had long since ceased to notice it.

The goat nudged his hand and Morogh looked down again. It was clearly a tame creature, and it liked his attention. He continued scratching its ears, marveling at the little silver bells that had been attached to the harness. It was a well-fed goat, he noted, and he wondered if his mysterious benefactor wanted him to have the animal. Morogh frowned, thoughtful. It had been a very long time since he had been able to buy a goat, either for milk or meat. Of his two daughters, only the oldest would have remembered the taste of either. The youngest was not yet seventeen. Morogh sighed, ashamed. He had not been able to afford even a goat for seventeen years.

But now he could. He lifted his head and stared at the goat. It stared back, gentle and trustful. Kind as his host must undoubtedly be, Morogh had no doubt the goat was intended for him. He smiled. Perhaps his trek home would be shorter than he anticipated—here was the game provided already.

Quick as a wink, Morogh seized the neck of the creature and drew his knife across its glossy throat. It hardly had the time to bleat, so fast was the hand that took its life. Collapsing to its foreknees, the goat gave what sounded like a sputtering cough and moved no more. Morogh grimaced at the warm red stream that pooled from the severed throat, but he hurried to untangle the goat's body from the burden of its harness. He would carry that over one shoulder, with the carcass over the other. It seemed a good plan.

But he hadn't even the chance to unbuckle the leather straps before a thunderous rumbling knocked him to his knees, tossed face forward over the body of the slain animal.

"You dare even this, foolish mortal?"

Morogh's face went white as salt and he felt his heart sink in his chest. He could not mistake the rumbling for thunder in the daylight, though he had the previous night. With quaking hands he steadied himself, though he remained on his knees.

The voice spoke again, shaking the very dust with the force of its fury. "This is how you repay my kindness? You slaughter the creature I send, whose life was not yours to take?"

Morogh could hardly push the words past his trembling lips. The voice was impossibly large and loud, and he could not help but imagine the giant thing to which it must belong. "Forgive me, sir! I…I…"

"SPEAK!"

"I thought…I thought it was a gift!" He screwed his eyes shut and extended his hands. "Forgive me!"

The voice was silent for a moment, though Morogh could hear the sound of stones rattling and a long, drawn out hiss. He shuddered. At last his host spoke again. "I grant you your life, fool, but only for a price. I watched as you faced the wolves this passed night, and your courage shows that you have much yet to live for. But it will cost you."

Morogh felt tears of terror run down the sides of his face. "W-what, sir?"

"You unlawfully shed blood when you took the life of this creature. I allowed you to take it, though it was a gift I would not have chosen to give. But you must provide a gift in its place. That, and you must answer honestly one question of mine."

Morogh felt his terror abate a little. A live goat for a dead one…poor though he was, he could surely meet such a demand if his life depended on it. "Ask, sir. I will do as you wish."

"Give me your unbreakable word!" the voice hissed.

"I give my word…I swear!" Morogh cried.

Something raspy sounded from the dark, and the old man felt a dry wind blow past his face, carrying with it the strange smell. He tried to make himself as small as possible as the voice continued. "Remember, foolish mortal, that you have sworn. You will not break this vow, for your very life depends on it."

Morogh nodded, mute.

"Then you will first answer my question, and you will take care to tell the truth. Why did you take the life of this animal, when I had already provisioned you with all that was needed?"

Again Morogh extended his hands, weeping freely. To his credit, he did not even consider lying. The truth, he knew, was pitiable enough. "Oh, sir, forgive me! I had been hunting in this forest for a day and a night and had caught nothing. My children…my two daughters…they needed food. We have nothing left in our stores, and our neighbors are no longer kind. I had no choice!" He touched the body of the goat. "This goat would have fed us for a week! I thought it was a gift!" he said again.

There was a low growl from the darkness. "You speak the truth, O man. You have transgressed, but it is fortunate that you have transgressed for love of your daughters." A deep booming note echoed through the stony chamber, rising like the wave of the sea and cresting over Morogh with the force of a physical blow. To his terrified ears, it sounded not unlike mirthless laughter. "Or perhaps not so fortunate."

The old man did not want to know what the voice meant. All he could think of were his daughters. He wanted to return to them, even if it was the last thing he did. "Please…please, sir. Allow me to go. I will come back with whatever you ask of me as payment for the goat."

A snort. "You will not, mortal! I know your kind. You will break this vow, though it cost your life."

Helpless, Morogh denied it. "I will not! I have sworn, haven't I?"

Again, the cheerless laughter. "That is because you do not know what it is I ask of you."

"Then tell me, sir!"

"I will tell you when the time is right, small one. Now you must return to your village. You will take the goat and feed your children. But I give you this warning: in three days I shall send my servant to fetch my recompense. You must not deny him."

Morogh bowed his head. "I promise!"

A moment of dry silence passed before the voice spoke again. "Now go. Take what you have bought so dearly and leave my mountain. A day's journey to the lower ground will bring you to your village." A growl shook the earth again. "You must never return here."

The old man rose unsteadily to his feet, staring into the darkness that shrouded his mysterious host.

"GO!"

Morogh wasted just enough time to collect the baskets and the goat's carcass before he ran for his life.