THE WOLFGOAT

With a heavy heart, I stepped onto a narrow plateau above which rose new, even steeper cliff. I somehow hoped we wouldn’t find the wolfgoat’s lair. To my regret, Keret truly read those tracks like a seasoned Cheyenne. I followed him. He walked without making the smallest sound. I wasn’t as successful – I made enough cracking and rustling noise for both of us. Some sixty yards further he paused and pointed upwards.
“I can’t see a thing,” I whispered as quietly as I could.
“Look closer.”
I squinted trying to draw an imaginary line from the tip of his index finger. Caught on a sharp rock, a small piece of orange fabric fluttered in the wind.
“Maruša’s?”
He nodded. “She had an orange shirt tied up around her waist, don’t you remember?”
“Unfortunately, no, but yes, this could be hers.”
“Let’s go,” he said and went.
“Wait a minute… how about I wait here, just in case.”
“No need.”
I didn’t feel like climbing up a steep, narrow little path suitable for wild goats, wild cats and agile monsters. Nevertheless, I somehow mustered my courage and followed the Israeli. This still wasn’t a climb that an average amateur climber couldn’t master without pins, ropes and other equipment, but it wasn’t far from it. A quarter of an hour later we reached a plateauish, protruding rock.
“I’ll sneak up all the way to that plate,” Keret whispered. “When I give you a sign, grab a rock and throw it up there. Aim above me, so that it lands on the ledge.”
“And then?”
“In case it’s here, the wolfgoat will, if we’re lucky, come to the edge.”
“And?”
“I’ll stab it with my knife and with a little bit of luck – it’ll plunge down.”
“Etgar, my brother,” I whispered.
“What?”
“Don’t get mad at me, but this is not the smartest plan I’ve ever heard about.”
“You have a better idea?”
“I do, let’s go back and wait for Tanja, Wells, and the Mountain Rescue Service.”
He dismissed me with a wave of his hand and climbed exactly as he had planned – right under that ledge. I waited. He turned toward me and gave me a sign to cast the first stone. They were everywhere. I picked one, aimed and threw. It fell to the right spot. We waited. Keret had his knife ready, leaning with his other arm against some runty tree that grew slanted among the rocks. He motioned me to throw another rock. I did, hitting almost the exact spot. Before we expected it, the wolfgoat appeared on the edge of the rock, looked somewhere into the distance and then, probably smelling the intruders, it threw itself down, its stomach first, and punched Keret right in the back of his head. For a moment, it seemed that the Israeli writer would stay where he was, but then his body gave up, his hand let go of that puny tree and with his arms flayed he dropped into the abyss. The wolfgoat rose to its feet, glanced once more at the horizon and then left. Me it hadn’t seen. Probably it couldn’t have. I eagerly wanted to believe that. I waited until my heart stopped beating at the rate of two hundred beats per minute and then began my descent. Not daring to look back, I blindly went one foot after another, looking for a firm footing. I felt my strength was slowly abandoning me.