The Goat that saw the World
The armchair traveller and his son's new quest
I hadn’t been home in years.
For good reason, I couldn’t stand the place anymore after mom died. The house became part mausoleum, part shrine to the impossible dreams my father held.
I still remember his crumpled face when I left. Not to travel, not to see the world, but to find a stable paycheck and provide.
Something he’d forgotten how to do, besides collecting welfare cheques and pennies from lookie-loos gawking at his collection.
“Small dreams, son. You leave with small dreams,” he's said and I’d shoved him.
My disabled father. My rage at his futility, his inability to leave his home, and because of his obsessions. I shoved him. Assaulted an invalid and left.
I never returned nor wrote.
I turned the cold key in the rusty cast iron lock. Bitter memories faded into the back of my mind as I pushed hard against the overgrowth.
Deep piles of leaves, vines and other unmanaged growing things choked the light out of what was a pleasant garden once.
I steeled myself against their eyes. Even when I’d left his collection was depressing, but now I’d heard from the estate lawyer, “If you want any sane person to buy this place, the gnomes have to go.”
And there they were.
Waiting for me with their smug faces and lopsided grins and little red hats.
I flinched when I saw them. They made me cringe, and I found myself rattling the fist of keys against the splintered wooden front door to get in.
Inside, it was worse.
The gnomes were everywhere I looked. In every direction, there were gnomes of all sizes. And books, stacks of books. First editions of Crime Brulée and the Anchora project.
My father’s other two obsessions.
“You don’t understand son, someday the world will know their value and I will have hundreds, hundreds of first editions. You’ll see!”
Every kind of pulp fiction, indie author collectible filled every crack that wasn’t a gnome's enquiring smiling face. If they weren’t pushing delightful little wagons, they were holding up yellowing books.
Some even looked like shrines.
I stared at a ridiculous installation of a disabled gnome and a smiling Indian girl. Photos and photos of the pair in exotic places. I grabbed the gnome and swore at it. Raging at its smiling face and gold cracks.
My handles trembled, and the gnome fell to the floor. Shattered.
And a framed letter from the wall caught my eyes. I stepped over the shards and saw my father’s name. I glared at the girl’s face. She was half his age or less. A third! What had my father become?
“Dear Harold,
I hope this adventure lives up to your dreams. My gnome and I did 97 countries together and I want you to have him. He’s patched up in the Japanese traditional way.”
I paused then and looked at the pieces. Old cracks filled with gold dust. Lovingly remade …
“Better than he was before, but wise in his breaks, his scars, and his lessons. I hope this symbolism of your own life is not too trite. Your life inspired my own.
I owe you my husband and soon our daughter!
Thank you! Vita”
I set the letter down, my hand shaking, and walked to another shrine and saw the travel photos, the gnome with the person in far-off places.
And the letters, all the letters thanking my father for changing their lives. For inspiring them to set aside their fears and embrace the world.
Not all of them were like Vita’s, but many were.
Enough of them were that when my daughter touched my cheeks she asked, “Daddy, why are you crying?”
She licked my face, and I smiled, our little game to stop tears with smiles.
“Because daddy was silly, my baby. I wasted a life.”
My wife’s soft hands squeezed my shoulders. “What have you found, my love?” A frown creased her familiar face.
A ghost of my mother’s, the love of my life, but alive and with me still. G-d willing until the end.
I found the photo of my father and mother, of the only trip they took, the one just before she died in the accident. I found a letter there too.
His final words to me were, “Travel my son, sell this all and travel.”
We’d framed the newspaper clipping and hung it in our van and looked at it every day, before setting out.
“Son of eccentric collector, sells first editions and makes millions. Opens world’s first Gnomic Sanctuary and Museum. Promises to continue his father's work when he returns.”
Our van was our home.
We called her GOAT — greatest of all time.
She took us everywhere and kept us safe and warm and moving. And in the backseat, buckled up tight. We took Dad, in his gnome shaped urn.
We saw the world together, finally.
Zane Dickens stories go bump in the night, ka-boom in space, and roar with adventure in fabled lands. And if he can help it, there’s a streak of humour too.
💯 Story Challenge (94/100)
- Share your ideas — let your audience tell you what works.
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A reply to Bradan's Monday Mashup #5 and teasing the future success of Jann and FJCMontenegro. Because we all know it's gonna happen. 🚀