Long ago, when the seas were mountains; when the rivers flowed backwards, there lived a goat. The goat’s name was Goaty McGoatface, not that goats often have names; sometimes one goat would be called bleat, or baah, but no. This one was called Goaty McGoatface. Goaty McGoatface always thought that he was a smart goat. He was not, in fact, a smart goat in any way; sometimes he would wonder too far from the flock, sometimes he would become confused and end up inside, where he was definitely not allowed because he was an outside goat and rather fond of putting the soft furnishings in his mouth. Goaty McGoatface was what we call an idiot. One day Goaty McGoatface was eating a bush. It was rather a nice bush, the leaves were green and tasty. But it was quite close to the edge of the mountain, the tall, tall mountain that towered over the land. The tip of the mountain grew higher than the clouds, and all the goats lived there. And Goaty Mcgoatface was happy eating his shrub, munching away without a care in the world. That was, until he took a step forward. His foot landed on nothing. Which was a large problem, as his foot needed something to be put on to stay if he wanted to stay attached to the mountain. Oh Goaty McGoatface. You idiot. So Goaty McGoatface plummeted down the mountain and landed at the bottom. And in a miraculous turn of events he landed in one piece. Seemingly unscathed. Weird. There was a woman at the bottom of the mountain. Goaty McGoatface never saw her face, but he felt like she was a woman and also that he should be careful what he said to her. She gave off a vibe that made him feel that by messing with her one would be messing with the skies themselves. Goaty McGoatface, however, had no problem being around her. Perhaps it was his lack of a conscience. But what she said was this. ‘Goaty McGoatface. You’re an idiot. But it just so happens that I need a servant. Someone to assist me. I’d like your help, Goaty McGoatface.’ Goaty McGoatface, of course, didn’t know the meaning of any of these words. ‘Will you ride the dawn? To take to the clouds and wake the morning sun from it’s slumber? Can I trust you to make sure day breaks, and that light beams onto the ground?’ Goaty McGoatface agreed. Mentally of course, although for the sake of the story he bleated. The woman seemed to nod affectionately towards him before turning away. Goaty McGoatface was unsure of what to do, standing on the narrow ledge, the wind rushing beneath him. But before she left the woman spoke again. ‘Oh, and Goaty McGoatface? Here’s an absolutely sick motorbike for you to wake the sun with. It’s red. With flames on the side. Rev it up thrice and the sun will be alert.’ So Goaty McGoatface climbed onto his red motorbike, securing the helmet to his horns. And every morning since, he has revved that motorbike thrice, and that is what chases the light into the world.