The Goat Who Ate the Village Laundry

Mira’s goat Nibbles had one hobby, and it was eating things that did not belong to her. On Monday she ate the washing. On Tuesday she ate the washing line. On Wednesday she tried to eat the gate.

“That goat is a menace,” said Mira’s father, hammering a new hinge onto the gate.

“She’s just curious,” said Mira.

“She’s a stomach with legs.”

On Thursday, Nibbles discovered the mayor’s petunias. They were purple and orange and as big as dinner plates, and the mayor had won a ribbon for them three years in a row. Nibbles ate every single one. She ate the petals, the leaves, and most of the stems. Then she belched a small purple belch and looked pleased with herself.

The mayor arrived at Mira’s door with her hands on her hips. “Those petunias were my prize winners!” she said. “I fed them tea. I read them poetry. I sang to them in the mornings.”

“I’m very sorry,” said Mira. “She didn’t mean to.”

“She absolutely meant to,” said the mayor. “She looked at me while she did it.”

Mira’s mother sighed. “What do you want us to do?”

“I want that goat kept in a pen,” said the mayor. “A strong pen. With a lock. A lock with a key.”

Mira knelt down and put her hands on Nibbles’ scratchy cheeks. “You have to stop eating things,” she said.

Nibbles chewed a button that had been in her mouth for two days.

“I promise,” said Mira, standing up. “I’ll keep her contained. I’ll watch her every minute.” She meant it, too. She really did. But Nibbles was already eyeing the laundry line out the window, and she had a look in her yellow eyes that Mira did not like one bit.

***

The next morning, the gate was open.

Mira knew before she even got out of bed. She could hear a soft, rhythmic sound from the garden. It was the sound of a goat chewing something that was not grass.

She ran outside in her nightgown. The laundry line stretched from the kitchen window to the apple tree, and it was completely empty. So was the basket. So was the second basket. Every sock, every shirt, every towel, every pillowcase was gone.

Nibbles stood in the middle of the garden with a pair of long underwear hanging out of her mouth like a giant grey tongue. There were buttons on the ground in a neat little trail, like breadcrumbs in a story.

“Nibbles!” Mira shouted. “No! Bad goat!”

Nibbles swallowed the long underwear, one leg at a time. It took a while. She looked Mira right in the eyes while she did it, the way she always did.

Mira’s mother came out and put her hands on her head. “Oh no,” she said. “Oh no, no, no.”

“I’m sorry,” said Mira. “I latched the gate. I know I did.”

“You latched the gate,” said her mother. “But the latch was broken. Your father was fixing it.”

Mira looked at the long underwear disappearing down Nibbles’ throat. “Whose are those?” she asked.

Her mother was quiet for a moment. “The mayor’s,” she said. “She hangs them on our line because her line gets no sun.”

Mira sat down in the grass. Nibbles came over and nuzzled her ear with a warm, damp nose. She smelled like soap and flowers and trouble.

“You have to run,” said Mira. “Or I do.”

Nibbles burped. A single button bounced out and landed in Mira’s lap.

Mira followed the button trail across the square. Buttons winked up at her from the cobbles. Nibbles had left a path of chewed plastic and chewed thread, and every button was bitten flat.

“She’s heading for the bell tower,” Mira said. “Of course she is. The highest place in town.”

She ran. The tower door stood open. Up the spiral stairs she went, two steps at a time, her breath loud in the stone.

Halfway up, she heard the bell. Not a proper ring. More like a clunk, then a wobble, then a bong that went on too long.

“Nibbles!” she yelled.

At the top, the goat had wedged herself between the bell rope and the wall. Her horns were tangled in the rope. Every time she moved, the bell swung.

Bong. Bong. Bong.

“Stay still,” said Mira. “Please stay still.”

Nibbles stayed still for exactly one second. Then she sneezed.

The bell rang so hard the whole tower hummed. Below in the square, people came out of their houses and looked up.

Mira grabbed the rope and tried to hold it. Nibbles tried to help by chewing the rope. The bell kept ringing.

“You are the worst goat,” said Mira, “in the entire world.”

Nibbles wagged her stubby tail. She looked very pleased with herself.

Down in the square, a door banged. Mira looked over the railing.

A small figure in a big hat was marching toward the tower. The mayor. Even from up high, Mira could see the mayor’s face was the color of a tomato.

“I am going to be in so much trouble,” Mira whispered.

Nibbles sneezed again. Bong.

***

The mayor arrived at the top of the tower puffing like a kettle. She held up one finger.

“My petunias,” she said.

“I know,” said Mira.

“My long underwear.”

“I know.”

“And now the bell. The bell that calls everyone to the harvest festival. The bell that has not rung properly in nine years.”

Mira blinked. “Nine years?”

“The rope jammed,” said the mayor. “The old ringer moved away. Nobody can make it ring right. And now your goat has rung it all morning.”

The mayor folded her arms. “I should ban that goat from the village.”

Mira’s throat went tight. “Please don’t,” she said. “She’s not bad. She’s just curious. She’s curious with her whole mouth.”

Nibbles chose that moment to work her head free. She trotted to the middle of the floor and stood by the rope. Then she looked at Mira. Then at the rope. Then at Mira again.

“What is she doing?” asked the mayor.

“I don’t know,” said Mira. “She wants something.”

Mira had an idea. A very small, very silly idea. She picked up a pebble and tapped it on the floor. Tap, tap, tap.

Nibbles swung her head. The bell rang. One clean note. Then another. Then a third, right on the beat.

The mayor’s mouth fell open.

“Do that again,” she said.

Mira tapped. Nibbles rang. Tap, tap, tap, bong, bong, bong. The sound rolled out over the square, and people stopped and listened.

“She’s ringing it,” said the mayor. “On purpose.”

Mira grinned so wide her cheeks hurt. “She likes music,” she said. “She always has. She just never had a bell before.”

The mayor looked at the goat. The goat looked at the mayor. Then the mayor took off her big hat and held it over her heart.

“The festival is tomorrow,” she said. “And we have no bell ringer.”

Mira’s heart went thump. “You want Nibbles?”

“I want a bell ringer,” said the mayor. “You come with the goat. Deal?”

“Deal,” said Mira.

The mayor walked Mira and Nibbles to the village hall. A crowd followed, whispering. Nibbles had to stop and sniff every doorstep.

“She needs a name for the festival,” said the mayor. “Something official. ‘The Bell Goat.’”

“She’s not a bell,” said Mira. “She’s a goat who rings bells.”

“Bell Goat is shorter.”

Mira looked at Nibbles, who was trying to eat a poster about lost keys. “Can I train her first? Before you tell everyone?”

The mayor thought about it. “One day. Tomorrow morning, if she rings the bell at ten, she stays. If she doesn’t, she goes back to your yard, and you fix the petunias.”

Mira nodded fast. “Deal.”

That evening, Mira tied a rope to Nibbles’ collar and led her up the bell tower stairs. The stairs were narrow and smelled of dust and old rain. Nibbles climbed them like they were a mountain she had been waiting for.

At the top, the bell hung in its wooden frame. Nibbles walked straight to it and bumped it with her nose. Bong.

“No,” said Mira. “Not with your nose. Listen.”

She tapped the floor with a stick. Tap, tap, tap. Nibbles swung her head and the bell rang three times.

“Yes!” said Mira. “Again.”

They worked until dark. Tap, bong. Tap, bong. Mira’s arm got tired. Nibbles never seemed to. Every time Mira tapped, the goat rang.

“You like this,” said Mira.

Nibbles chewed a cobweb and looked pleased with herself.

On the way home, Mira’s father was waiting at the gate. “I heard you were in the tower,” he said. “With the goat.”

“She’s good at it,” said Mira. “Really good.”

Her father looked at Nibbles, who was eating a dandelion. “She’s good at eating.”

“That too,” said Mira. “But tomorrow she’s going to ring the bell for the whole village.”

Her father was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Then you’d better get some sleep. Bell ringers need sleep.”

Mira slept with the rope still in her hand.

***

The morning of the festival was bright and loud. Banners hung across the square. Tables were piled with pies and jam jars and little cakes with sugar on top. Everyone was there.

Mira stood at the bottom of the bell tower with Nibbles on a red ribbon. Her hands were sweaty.

“What if she won’t do it?” she whispered to her father.

“Then she won’t,” he said. “And we’ll all eat pie anyway.”

That helped a little.

The mayor climbed onto a crate and raised her hand. “People of the village! For the first time, our festival will open with a goat!”

The crowd laughed. Mira’s cheeks went hot.

“Ready?” said the mayor.

Mira looked at Nibbles. Nibbles looked at the bell high above them, and her ears stood up.

Mira took a breath and tapped the cobblestones with her stick. Tap, tap, tap.

For one long moment, nothing happened. Mira’s heart dropped.

Then Nibbles threw back her head. Bong! Bong! Bong! The notes rolled over the square, clean and strong and right on the beat. People stopped laughing. They turned and listened.

Mira tapped again. Nibbles rang again. The sound filled the morning like something that had always belonged there.

When the last note faded, the square was quiet. Then everyone clapped and stamped and cheered.

The mayor took off her hat and bowed to the goat.

“The Bell Goat!” she shouted. “Official bell ringer of the village!”

Mira knelt down and hugged Nibbles around the neck. The goat smelled of dust and grass and, faintly, of petunias.

“You did it,” said Mira.

Nibbles chewed the ribbon.

That night, Mira sat on the tower steps with Nibbles beside her. Below, the festival lanterns glowed. She could hear music and laughing.

“Same time tomorrow,” she said. “And the day after. And the day after that.”

Nibbles leaned against her. Mira leaned back. Being in charge of something, she decided, was not so bad at all. Especially when the something was a goat.