The Berry Steep

I am the man who tends the goats on the ridge above Hollow Creek. They call it the Leper’s Leap, because a hundred years ago, the sick were cast from the cliff, and their bodies piled up in the ravine below. Now, the wind carries a low, rhythmic chanting, like monks buried alive, but the goats don’t mind. They chew their cuds, and I throw them salt. My cabin leans against the old chapel, its stained glass long shattered, and the walls hum with a sound that is almost music. I have grown used to it.

My friend Elias, whose grandmother was of the Sahaptin people, came to visit for the first time in years. He missed the last bus, which only comes twice a day, and so he stayed. The night was cold, and the fog rolled up from the creek like wet breath.

‘Elias, you want something warm?’ I asked. He nodded, rubbing his hands. I heated a jug of cheap mulberry wine, the kind that comes in a waxed carton, and I had a tin of spiced chickpeas I’d bought from a traveling merchant. I popped them open. ‘These are from a land far away,’ I said. ‘They won’t kill you.’

He eyed them suspiciously, then took a handful. We sat by the iron stove, and the wine mulled on the coals, and I threw in a handful of frozen berries from the larder. The steam rose, staining the air crimson. Elias pointed to the window. ‘The lights are moving again,’ he said.

I glanced out. The fireflies, if you could call them that, danced in a spiral around the chapel’s broken bell tower. They never burned my skin, and the goats walked through them like they were nothing. ‘They’re just lights,’ I said. ‘They don’t bother me.’

We drank. The wine was sweet and sharp. Elias told me stories of his grandmother, how she could hear the songs in the earth, and how she warned him never to go near places where the land had been scarred. ‘This is one of those places,’ he said. ‘You feel it, don’t you? The hum.’

I laughed. ‘You get used to it. It’s like the ocean in a shell.’

But then he asked, ‘What are they chanting? Can you understand it?’ I set down my cup. The truth was, after ten years, I had begun to pick out words. They were old, but not unfamiliar. ‘It’s a list,’ I said. ‘Of names. And dates. Like a testament.’

Elias leaned in. ‘Names of who?’

I frowned. ‘Maybe the ones who were thrown over. Or maybe the ones who threw them.’ I didn’t like the turn the conversation was taking. The wine made my tongue loose. I stood to fetch more wood, and as I passed the window, I saw a shape among the goat pens. It was tall, thin, and its head was cocked at an angle, as if listening to the chanting. My heart lurched, but then the goat brayed, and the shape moved off into the fog.

‘You have a predator,’ Elias said. ‘A wolf, maybe.’

‘It’s been three years since the last one. They know the place is cursed. They stay away.’ I tried to sound calm, but my hands shook as I stoked the fire.

We sat in silence, and the chanting grew clearer. I could almost hear the words: ‘He who walks with the goats shall inherit the darkness.’ I shook my head. I had drunk too much. Elias was watching me, his eyes wide. ‘Ryu,’ he said, using my old name, ‘your goats are all facing the same direction.’

I looked. Every goat, every single one, stood rigid, noses pointed at the chapel’s door. Their eyes were closed, and they swayed gently, in time with the chant. I had never seen them do that. ‘It’s just a night ritual,’ I lied. ‘They do it when the moon is high.’

The moon was not high. It was new, and the sky was as black as a grave.

Elias stood and threw on his coat. ‘I’m going to the bus stop,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait until morning if I have to.’ I grabbed his arm. ‘Don’t go out there,’ I said. ‘There’s something—’ But he shook me off. ‘Ryu, this is not normal. You’ve been here too long. You’ve forgotten what it’s like to be scared.’ He opened the door, and the cold rushed in. The chanting stopped.

In the silence, a woman’s voice called out, clear as a bell: ‘Elias.’

He froze. ‘Who said that?’ I didn’t answer. The voice came again, from the direction of the chapel: ‘Elias, come to the door.’

He turned to me, and his face was pale. ‘That sounds like my grandmother.’ I shook my head. ‘Your grandmother is dead.’ But Elias walked toward the chapel, as if in a trance. I ran after him, but the fog swallowed me, and the goats began to bleat, a terrible chorus. I saw Elias reach the chapel door, and the door was open, and there was a light inside that was not fire, but a soft, pulsing glow. And in the glow stood a figure, wrapped in a shawl, and its face was my own face, but hollow, and it said, ‘We have been waiting for you to join us.’

I reached for Elias, but the door slammed shut. The chanting resumed, louder, faster, and the ground shook. I pounded on the door, but it was like hitting stone. When I finally looked through a crack, I saw Elias standing amidst other figures, their heads bowed, and they were all chanting the list of names. And at the end of the list, I heard my own name, followed by a date.

I ran back to the cabin, but the goats were gone. The pen was empty. The only thing left was a single, blackened berry, sitting on the doorstep, and the chant had changed to a whisper, just for me: ‘You are already one of us.’

Now, I sit in the cabin, and the wind blows, and the lights dance, and I have not seen Elias since. But the goats have returned, and they stand at my window, waiting. And I have learned their tongue. And tonight, I will open the door.