In honor of the holiday, I'm posting a free short story. The monster in this tale, "The Goat Herd", is the legendary chupacabras.
Note, January 2013: The complete story is now available in New Mexico Fairytales. This blog post contains Chapters 1, 2 &3, original draft.
The chupacabras eats goats...or human souls. Sometimes it eats both. And on a night like tonight, there's no telling where the monster will hunt for its prey. Maybe your house.
Whatever you do, don't look back. It encourages them to hunt you.
The
Goat Herd
A
short story
by
Maryanne
M. Wells, author of the Undead Bar Association Series
This is a
work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously,
and any resemblance to any persons living, dead, or undead, or to any
business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
THE GOAT
HERD, a short story.
All rights
reserved.
Copyright ©
2012 by Maryanne M. Wells
Cover art
by: Maryanne M. Wells
This story
is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of
America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material
or artwork herein is prohibited without the express written
permission of the author.
First
Printing: October, 2012.
Printed in
the United States of America
Dedicated
to the seekers and the shepherds of this desert land.
One
In the desert land, a place where
relief from sun and wind lay hidden from human eyes, an old man
walked with his goats. The goats wandered around the trail, pulling
at the stubby grass with their firm teeth. They waggled their tails
and shook their heads against the breeze. Some of the younger ones
touched heads, pushing with their growing horns to see who was
stronger. The land was silent but for the occasional bleat of one
goat calling to another.
Twisted and bent, his torn cloak
colored like the desiccated soil around him, the old man blended into
the landscape. He leaned against a carved wood staff as he walked.
His face, lined by the years and the sun, seemed oddly youthful as he
stared at the goats. It was a trick of dust and light. The desert had
veiled his age by covering his skin with an even coat of dirt. Once
the old man moved again and began to sweat, the dirt would cake into
his lines and make him look older than before. Even the old man did
not know his true age. Years had no meaning.
The old man whistled to the goats.
The gap between his front teeth made it simple, almost too easy, to
send a shrill sound across the desert plain. He'd learn to modulate
the sound. His whistle was soft and comforting. The goats came
quickly, drawn by the promise of security.
Only the white goat lagged behind.
The old man saw, and frowned. He loved this goat. He loved them all,
but the white goat was a special joy. She mothered the other goats,
coaxed them along when the trail was steep, and pushed them away from
danger. If the old man had a partner in herding, it was the white
goat. When she stopped on the trail and looked back over her
shoulder, the old man wondered why.
He walked around the goat herd,
pushing them into a tight group. Then he turned to the white goat.
“What do you see, Blanquita?”
he asked the white goat. “Do you fear it?”
For days, the old man had sensed
the presence of evil stalking the herd. It kept far back, the evil,
but it never left their trail. Whenever the wind shifted and the old
man smelled the dark one, his heart seized with fear and he hurried
the goats along.
Yesterday, the old man had come
across the carcass of a dead goat. He'd pushed it quickly off the
trail, before his own herd had seen it. But even in his haste he'd
seen the three puncture marks on the goat's throat. Something had
drained the animal of blood.
“We must reach Haven. We must
hurry for the mountains,” the old man urged.
The white goat made a noise deep in
her throat, a quiet call. She looked into the bushes to the right.
Her tail twitched happily.
“What is this,” wondered the
old man. He looked from the goat to the bushes. Tentatively he
stepped forward, and poked at the brush with the end of his staff.
From out of the gray mesquite
popped a pair of stubby horns. A brown head with a black stripe
emerged.
“Cabrito,”
the old man exclaimed. “Young one, why are you here alone? Have you
lost your herd? Or are you wild, cabra salvaje?”
The little
brown goat jumped out of the bushes. He looked around quickly. The
white goat's familiar form appealed to him. He bleated to her, and
she answered. The brown goat hurried to the white goat's side.
The old man
followed, and carefully inspected the brown goat. He had never seen
it before. The black stripe running down the center of the goat's
head and partway down the neck was distinctive. The old man had never
seen it among his goats, or the other herds he knew in the area.
“You are far
from home,” the old man said; “But you are old enough to be
without a mother's milk. And I think you want to be with this herd,
yes? You found us.”
The brown goat
looked up at the sound of the man's voice. The old man rubbed the
goat's head between the stubby horns, and the goat sighed with
pleasure.
“Then it is
agreed. You come with us to the Haven,” announced the old man.
The white goat
butted the brown one gently with her horns, directing him to the rest
of the herd. The old man smiled and nodded.
“Onward,”
he said to the herd.
He led the
goats up a small rise and halted them at the top. In the valley below
rested a small city, splayed out on either side of the highway.
Mountains rose in the distance, milky brown against the sky's
cerulean blue.
The old man
pointed with his staff to a place near the highway.
“There,
chivos. That is where
we cross. The local road goes under the highway. Stay close; there is
much danger in a city.”
Pulling his
cloak tighter around him, the old man checked the sky. A few clouds
gathered in the distance.
“Quickly now.
We must reach Haven before the next snowfall.”
The old man
lead the way down the path. As usual, the white goat brought up the
rear. The little brown goat dashed around the rest. He stayed close,
but kept wandering off the path. It would take time for him to learn
his place in the herd.
The white goat
stopped suddenly, and glanced back. The old man did the same.
“You
feel it too, Blanquita,”
he noted. “The dark one follows us still.”
With a loud
bleat, the white goat charged forward. She found the little brown
goat and knocked him back into the herd. He looked at her with
startled eyes. The white goat butted him again. She pushed him to the
front of the herd, and kept him there, blocking him each time he
tried to wander away.
“It
is good,” the old man said. “You hold on to our cabrito.
Leave the dark one to me.”
Now the white
goat led the herd, and the old man brought up the rear. Between them
moved the goats, happy and bleating. Occasionally, one paused to grab
a mouthful of grass. But the closer they came to the city, the less
there was too eat, and the faster the old man made them move.
They passed
under the highway. The walls around them, rough and sandstone beige,
threw back the sounds of cars rushing past. The heavier traffic of
the highway rumbled overhead. It confused the goats. They thought it
was the thunder that came with rain, and if there were a storm, that
meant they should stay under shelter. But the old man pressed them
on.
“Faster,”
he urged, “Rรกpido.”
The goats
trotted. The herd emerged from the overpass into a bowl area of dirt
and sparse grass. A highway off ramp curved around them. The goats
ignored the cars, intent on the grass they could find. And the cars
ignored the goats. The animals and the goatherd were mere landscape,
timeless relics in a place where travels set their watches by miles
traveled under the sun. Had the goats and people in the cars locked
eyes, they would have seen nothing.
The old man let
the goats feed, but only for a moment. He felt evil drawing closer.
I
cannot face it here, the old man
thought. The dark one will use the city against me. There
are too many footholds for the creature in this place. We must pass
through the city to the mountains.
“Enough,”
he told the goats; “We go. Vamonos.”
They waited for
a break in traffic then hurried across the road. The old man directed
them behind a strip mall. The goats sniffed the air eagerly and
wagged their tails with glee. Their path held delectable bits of
garbage, crushed paper cups and forgotten food wrappers.
“No,” the
old man said. He struck the ground with his staff. The goats jumped,
and left the garbage alone.
The little
brown goat behaved well, until they passed a dumpster in the middle
of the alley. He stopped and smelled the air. Then he planted his
front hooves on the side of the dumpster, and pushed himself up so he
could see through the opening on the side. The white goat bleated
with dismay.
The old man
stepped around a blue car parked in the alley, walked to the
dumpster, and scooped up the brown goat with one hand. He tucked the
little animal under his arm.
“Not
for you, cabrito. If
it were up to me, you would never know that thing was there at all,”
said the old man.
Soon they
passed through the last tendril of civilization. The white goat
sighed with relief. The old man set the brown goat beside her, and
the white goat crooked her head over the brown goat's neck.
The old man
could not share their comfort. Fear for the goats gnawed at him. He
scaled a small outcropping of rock and looked back, across the city.
Something dark moved in the distance. It slunk towards the city with
calm knowledge of the path. Sun glistened off its coarse fur, making
the animal shine.
“Chupacabras,”
challenged the old man. “If you want a fight, you shall have it.”
Two
Cristiano
laughed into the phone. He cast an admiring glance over his black and
turquoise flame stitched boots, the new ones with the ostrich leather
toes. The blue-green turquoise matched perfectly with his shirt, and
Cristiano knew it. Everything matched and everything was perfect,
because he paid to make it that way.
“No,
they don't have a clue!” he said into the phone. “This location
is perfect. I estimate another three months before the authorities
become suspicious. Even if an insurance company reported us tomorrow,
it would take them longer than that to investigate. What? No, no
one's reported us. I'm not saying they have, I'm saying if they did.
Why don't you listen, idiota!”
Cristiano hung
up, muttering to himself in Spanish. He looked up and saw a man
standing in the doorway of his office.
The man was
young, but with tired eyes and thinning hair. The thin hair he
disguised by using pushing volume underneath and slicking it back,
giving particular attention to the middle where it ran thick and
black from forehead to neck. The fatigue in his eyes could never be
hidden or diguised.
“Mario,”
Cristiano crooned, his smile and suave renewed. “Come in, come in.
You want a drink?”
Cristiano
opened a drawer in the metal desk. The desk was old, and the drawer
stuck, so he had to tug.
“Don't
bother,” Mario said. “I just finished a drop off. Now I'll get
back on the road.”
“You going to
Texas?” Cristiano asked. He extracted the bottle from the stuck
drawer and took a swig.
“I could. Do
you need me to go to Texas?”
Cristiano
grinned. “See, this is what I like about you. No family demanding
your time and attention. Not even a girlfriend in the way. You're all
about the work. And let me tell you, that attitude will take you
places. You and me, we're not lazy Mexicans. We know what it takes
for success. Hombres de negocios afortunados.
Good businessmen, you and me.”
“I had a
girlfriend.”
“Here's the
next patient I want you to bring in,” Cristiano said, handing Mario
a sheet of paper. “What did you say?”
“I had a
girlfriend,” Mario repeated. “We met in Albuquerque.”
“Nice,”
Cristiano said. “Is she hot?”
Mario didn't
answer. He took the sheet of paper Cristiano offered. Without looking
at it, he folded the sheet in quarters and shoved it in the inner
pocket of his leather jacket. Cristiano laughed.
“You aren't
even going to look?” Cristiano asked.
“No. In the
end, they're all the same.”
Mario turned to
go.
Before he could
leave, Cristiano asked, “Does she have a sister, your girlfriend?
Or a cousin? Beauty runs in families. Say, we'll go to Albuquerque
together, you and me, when you finish this next drop off. One wild
weekend. I'll even pay.”
“I had a
girlfriend. I don't anymore,” Mario said quietly.
“What? How
did you screw it up?”
Mario turned
around and glared. “She found out what I do for a living, and she
left me.”
“Then she's
stupid. You make good money, and it's low risk. What's she want you
to do, run drugs?”
“That
would be more acceptable. It wouldn't be so...” Mario paused,
searching for the words. “Que raro,”
he said at last.
“Bizarre? You
think what we do is bizarre?”
“You don't?”
Cristiano
took his feet off the desk and leaned forward in his chair. “This
is life changing, hombre.
Easy money. You think we should have stayed in drugs? We each have
two strikes. One more, and that's it. I've seen the inside of maximum
security. I won't go back.”
“This is
illegal, too.”
“It's not the
illegal they look for. It's not sexy, like drugs.”
Cristiano
settled back in his seat with a self-righteous air. “Besides, we're
helping people. We get them quality medical care. It's like the
opposite of selling drugs. Instead of selling sickness, we sell
health. Your girlfriend stupida
ever think of that?”
Mario folded
his arms over his chest. “What happened to Mr. Mendez?”
“Who? Oh,
him. There were complications.”
“And what
will you tell his family back in Amarillo?”
“That he died
because of unforeseen medical complications. If he was smart, he had
life insurance. You can make good money on a dead man in this
country, if everyone plans ahead.”
“What if he
didn't have life insurance?”
“It's not our
fault if the stupid people don't plan ahead. And Mr. Mendez knew the
risk of the procedure. He signed the release forms. Say, what's with
all the questions? Don't tell me you've developed a conscience.”
Cristiano's
eyes narrowed to reptilian slits. Mario frowned and shook his head.
“I'm
just wondering what we do, surgieron complicaciones.”
“If
complications set in after surgery, you call me, and I walk you
through it. Okay?”
Mario nodded.
“Good. And
you should be fine on your next case. She's been a patient here
before.”
“All right.
I'm going.”
“You're
the best, Mario. My favorite coyote,”
Cristiano called after him.
Coyote. Mario
thought about the word as he walked to his car. In the past, the word
had only one meaning. It was the name given to the canine creature
that loped across the deserts and plains, feeding on rabbits and the
weak animals of large herds. Recently it had come to mean a
middleman, a fixer who took on illegal jobs. Most coyotes were border
smugglers. They helped Mexicans sneak into the United States, and
sometimes helped them find housing and jobs. Most coyotes were paid a
flat fee by the smuggled or the smugglers family. Some took fees from
both. Others waited until the smuggled began work in the US, and took
a cut of the pay from the job.
If Mario was a
coyote, he was the newest sub-species. Mario drove people back and
forth between the states of Texas and New Mexico. There were no
border crossing guards to sneak past. The closest thing to a border
crossing building was a tourist information center near Glen Rio,
Texas. Mario stopped there once, and the nice women who worked their
gave him free coffee. The element of danger that came from passing
guards with loaded weapons, just wasn't there. Of course, what he did
was still illegal, and Mario would be arrested if he was ever caught.
But who would catch him? The crime was so complex, Mario could barely
understand it. It would take police a long time to unravel the mess
of things the medical clinic did, and until that happened, Mario was
safe.
The medical
clinic that employed Cristiano and Mario was a sham. Yes, doctors and
nurses worked there, but they rarely treated local people from the
town. Their focus was benefit fraud. They performed procedures on the
patients Mario and other coyotes pulled in from Texas; colonoscopies,
circumcisions, septoplasties to straighten the insides of noses, and
other minor surgeries. The clinic didn't charge the patients, but
they billed the patients' benefit companies an arm and a leg. From
what Cristiano said, the clinic marked up the costs of each procedure
as much as two thousand percent.
Cristiano chose
the patients. He drove through low income neighborhoods and hung out
outside factories and warehouses, hunting people who knew little
English and would be eager to make some quick cash. Once he confirmed
the prospective patient had some form of medical benefits –
insurance, Medicare, Medicaid – Cristiano would pass the name to
Mario or another coyote.
So far, the
insurance companies and the government hadn't caught on. Either they
didn't know how much the procedures really cost, or they were so busy
processing claims they didn't take time to analyze anything. Mario
didn't know, and didn't care.
Mario delivered
patients to the clinic. He picked them up in Texas and drove them to
New Mexico. On the way, he coached them in what symptoms they should
complain about to the clinic staff. Then he got the patient checked
into a motel near the clinic, and bought them dinner. The next day,
after the medical procedure was complete, Mario would pick up the
patient for the drive back to Texas. He paid the patient a few
hundred dollars in cash then drove away. At the end of the week,
Mario collected his pay – a price per head he delivered, plus
expenses. Compared to when he'd run drugs, this new job was easy; no
one shot at him. And as Cristiano said, they were helping people.
Mario brought people to doctors who performed needed procedures, and
the only ones who got hurt in the end were the big insurance
companies.
Cristiano was
right; Mario's girlfriend didn't understand the good he did. This new
job was much better than drug running.
Mario pulled
out his car keys and reached for the door of his worn but serviceable
Ford. A pungent smell struck his nose, and he paused. He'd grown used
to the strong stench of decay coming from the clinic's dumpster. That
scent remained, but something newer and stronger floated over it. The
alley smelled like...goats. Mario looked around and noted a few piles
of goat droppings scattered around the pavement. Goats were not
unwelcome in his world. Mario's family in Mexico raised goats, until
the drug cartel came in and took possession of the ranch. He kind of
missed the smell. Mario unlocked his car and climbed in, thinking of
home.
The uneventful
drive back to Texas gave Mario plenty of time to reminisce. He
thought about his parents, their laughter and love for dancing. He
recalled his sister Maria's soft smile. But mostly he dwelled on the
memory of this grandmother. She waited everyday for him to come home
from school, and folded her strong arms around him the moment he
walked through the door. He recalled her sure hands flattening
tortillas, the smell of chiles and cinnamon filling the air.
Then he
remembered her still hands on the ground, palms up, as her body
swelled in the sun. His sister Maria's crumpled form. His mother's
tears, as she cradled the body of his father. Another family taken,
because they sided with the wrong gang in the war.
But Mario
showed them. He joined the local gang, and avenged his family. Then
he moved to the gang's drug trade branch in the US. He'd be with them
still, but the drug team dropped him after his second arrest. Good
thing Cristiano came along when he did.
Across the
border, near Adrian, Texas, Mario began to fell hungry. It was dark
out, and well past dinner time. Normally Mario would stop in Adrian
to visit the Midpoint Cafe. He felt so American there, eating a
hamburger and pie. The Cafe was a landmark on historic Route 66, and
attracted tourists from around the world. So most times when Mario
entered the cafe, he wasn't the only foreigner. He was often the
least foreign one in the room.
Tonight when
Mario drove up to the cafe, he saw it was closed. He glanced at his
watch. Eleven o'clock. He should have realized the cafe wouldn't be
open. Somehow, being a coyote effected his perception of time. He
thought more about the miles he drove and the fuel he burned, than
how much time passed.
Clearly if he
wanted to eat, he'd have to wait until he reached a larger town or a
city. Mario decided to check his destination. He pulled out the
folded paper, and read it by the light of lamp outside the cafe. The
patient, Teresa, lived in Amarillo. That was just fifty miles away,
and large enough to offer plenty of late night eating options. He'd
catch a meal there.
As Mario backed
out of the parking lot, a dark shape dashed past his car. Mario
caught a brief glimpse of the creature as it crossed his headlights,
a vision of slick reptilian skin and sharp spines. He slammed on the
breaks and looked around. Then he turned off the engine, and rolled
down the window.
It was very
quiet. In the distance, cars rushed along the interstate. Crickets
chirped in the dry grasses at the parking lot's edge. Mario expected
those sounds; he listened for something more. After a moment, he
heard it. The faint sound of labored breathing seeped out from the
shadows.
Mario fumbled
around the floor of the car until he found the flashlight. He pointed
the light at the breathing noise and turned it on. Two points of
green light, night eyes of a predator, glowed for a moment then
disappeared.
“Chupacabras,”
Mario gasped.
As
a child, he had learned to fear the chupacabras.
The monster targeted livestock. It sucked the animals dry, pulling
out their blood and organs through punctures on their necks.
The
monster loved the taste of goats. The name, chupacabras,
literally translated as goat-sucker. Mario, his sister, and his
entire family, feared what the monster could do to the family's
livelihood.
The
chupacabras didn't
attack his family's goats, but a neighbor's herd was destroyed over a
period of two nights. Mario's father stood watch the second night. He
tried to protect the neighbor's goats, but the monster was clever.
Whatever direction the man faced, the monster stood behind him.
Mario's father would hear a noise, turn, and find another goat dead
on the ground.
Finally,
Mario's father herded all the goats to one spot. He corralled them in
with a make-shift pen of rope and wood stakes. Then he placed a cross
on the ground behind him, to ward the monster away.
Mario's father
stood tall, facing the goat herd. He blinked once, and the goats were
there. He blinked again, and the goats were gone; the cross lay
before him. Mario's father whirled around. There were the goats,
caught in their pen. They bleated and howled in terror. Mario's
father ran to the fire. He grabbed a burning stick by the cool end,
and pointed the torch at the herd. At the far side of the pen,
slinking in shadow, he saw a beast.
The
chupacabras stood
higher than a coyote, but lowered its head and curved its spine like
the desert predator would. The light of the torch reflected off its
dark, course fur. The hair on the monster's back grew thick and tall,
like spikes.
The
chupacabras looked at
Mario's father. Its eyes glowed green in the firelight.
Mario's
father dropped the torch and fumbled for his gun. He raised the
weapon and pointed it at the chupacabras.
But the monster had moved; it wasn't at the back of the goatherd
anymore. The thing stood directly in front of him.
“And its
eyes,” Mario's father said; “Were blacker and redder than the
pits of hell.”
That
was how he always finished telling the story. Mario knew there was
more. His father, terrified by what he saw, dropped his gun and ran.
He arrived at the family ranch, and ordered everyone to bring the
goats into the house. For the next ten days they lived with the
goats, keeping them inside until the chupacabras
moved on to another part of the country.
Initially
they kept the goats in the courtyard, but the animals could hear the
chupacabras on the
other side of the wall, and they panicked. So, they moved the goats
into the house. They didn't lose a single goat; the neighbor lost
many. And Mario's father, being the man he was, gave two of his best
breeding pairs to the neighbor. It was the right thing to do, because
he ran.
But
Mario's father never finished the story of the chupacabras
by talking about his own fear, or the way the family kept their own
goats safe. He always finished by talking about the monster's eyes.
Mario wanted to see those eyes, wanted to look into then himself and
know the thing a brave man feared.
Mario threw
open his car door and hurried to the spot where he'd seen the
reflective flash of green from the monster's eyes. He shone the
flashlight all around. Six footprints, shaped like a large coyote's
stretched out in a line before him. The footprints set deep in the
ground. Mario followed them until the trail disappeared. Then he gave
up, and turned around.
As Mario's
flashlight played across the cafe wall before him, he two flashes of
green. Mario shouted and ran forward. He stopped, confused. There was
nothing in front of him but the cafe. There was no animal at all.
Now
I imagine things, Mario thought.
Perhaps I imagined everything.
He walked back
to his car, and tossed the flashlight inside.
As Mario
dropped into his seat, he happened to glance at the ground beside his
car. Four footprints, newly formed, rested in the gravel and dust.
They pointed at Mario's car.
The
hairs on the back of Mario's neck stood up, and he shivered. He knew
he was being watched; he could feel it. And he knew that if he raised
his head up just a little, he would see the eyes of the chupacabras
staring back at him.
Fear
reached up from the inside and grabbed Mario's heart. He didn't want
to see the chupacabras'
eyes. It was enough to know the thing was in front of him, breathing
and watching. To look into its eyes...
Bile rose up in
Mario's throat. He slammed the car door, turned the ignition, and
peeled out of the parking lot. Something outside the car shrieked as
he left. Mario sped along the choppy road through Adrian until he
reached the interstate, then he floored it. He didn't slow down until
he reached Amarillo.
When he stepped
out of the car outside the truck stop, Mario happened to place a hand
on the outside of the car. He felt a deep gouge cutting through the
paint and metal. Mario stared at the car. Down the length of the
driver's side ran four scratches, like claw marks from a monster.
Three
The
old man studied the brown goat with concern. A day had passed, and
the cabrito showed no
sign of settling into the herd. When the other goats stopped for
water and food, the brown goat held back. He stared behind,
constantly looking at the trail already traveled. The old man didn't
know what to do to help the cabrito.
It
seemed the white goat didn't know either. She nuzzled the brown goat
at every opportunity, and bleated mournfully when it was time to eat
and he turned away. When the cabrito
did eat, she stood guard over him. Still, she worried, and looked to
the old man with pleading eyes.
For
his part, the brown goat seemed unaware the white goat or the old man
were there. He acted like he didn't hear them. He didn't respond to
the white goat's caresses. When he looked at them, or any of the
other goats, he stared right through them. The only time his eyes
focused and shone were when he looked back.
And
the chupacabras drew
closer. The old man saw it every time he looked back. The creature
followed them, night and day. The old man almost wished the monster
would hurry. This slow lope behind the herd maddened, reminding the
old man of the inevitable conflict to come but delaying it hour upon
hour.
Then
the old man realized he wasn't the only one watching for evil. The
brown goat watched too. In fact, the cabrito
wasn't looking at the path at all; he watched for the evil that
stalked them. He watched eagerly. In that moment, the old man feared
for the brown goat's life.
He
hurried over to the brown goat and knelt down. With one hand on the
brown goat's back, the old man said softly, “Do not seek evil, I
beg you. Evil hunts us all, in this dark world. Better to stand with
friends so that we face it together, than to seek it and suffer it
alone.”
The
brown goat turned his head and looked at the old man. He glanced back
down the path, and shivered. With a startled bleat, the brown goat
hurried back to the herd. He sought out the white goat and huddled
against her.
“Bueno,”
said the old man. “Now we can fight the good fight together.”
He
stood up and watched the chupacabras
weave its way around a rocky outcropping. The fight would come, some
hour, some day. They must be ready.
Acknowledgment
Thank you to Maribel Martinez, for giving me an honest
opinion and checking my Spanish.
For more "Goat Herd" and other modern fairytales, buy a copy of the complete New Mexico Fairytales (Volume 1, Tales of My Mother Road).
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