Marks in the Quiet

Nine winters in

Mons's friends came to play today.

They have a game. Running and yelling. Pretending to be something. I watch but I can't tell what they're pretending.

I asked what the rules were.

They laughed. Not the good kind of laughing.

Mons pulled me aside after and said I'm "too serious." I don't know what that means. I was trying to understand the game so I could play it with them.

I went to sit by the goat pen instead. The goats don't laugh when you ask questions. They just look at you and decide if you're dangerous. Then they either run or they don't.

That makes sense to me.

Fifteen winters in

Seven winters since anyone besides Mons spoke to me without needing something.

The goats need nothing from me. That's why I can sit with them.

Last night I heard Mother crying through the shelter wall. She was asking Father what she did wrong.

"He won't even try," she said.

I am trying. Just not at the thing she wants.

Being with people feels like trying to breathe underwater. The sound is wrong. The pressure is wrong. Everything moves too fast and I'm always trying to catch up and I never do.

The goats are air.

They move slow. They watch for danger. They're quiet for long stretches and then they make sounds that mean specific things—alarm, contentment, warning.

I understand those sounds better than I understand people's faces when they're talking.

Mother thinks I'm not trying. But I don't know how to explain that every time I try to be with people, my chest gets tight and my thoughts scatter and I can't find the right sounds to make.

With the goats, I don't have to find the right sounds. I just have to be still.

Twenty-three winters in

They call me by name now.

After the cave game validation, after the goats chose to stay, after the elders marked the pattern on the wall—people say "Weiknos" with respect in their voices.

But I don't think they see me. They see what I did.

I was alone with the herd for seven winters and when I came back to people, I'd forgotten how to make human sounds properly.

My words come out wrong now. Too slow or shaped strange. Sometimes I can't find the word at all and I just make a sound—not a goat sound, just... air escaping.

Wenh told me gently that I move like them. The goats.

I startle at quick movements. I keep my head tilted, listening. When someone approaches from the front, I back away without meaning to.

I taught myself to think like prey and now I am prey.

Last night someone touched my shoulder in greeting—just touched it, normal greeting—and I jumped so hard I knocked over the water vessel.

It broke. Water everywhere. Everyone stopped and looked.

Mons said later, "It's fine, they understand."

But I saw their faces. The way they looked at each other after. The way they didn't look at me.

I am the goat man. The odd one. The useful one who can't be touched.

Forever.

Thirty-four winters in

Wenh has apprentices now.

Young people seek her out. Want to learn from her. Look at her with respect and something else—something warm that I don't have a name for.

My goats are reproducing. Three generations now since the first ones chose to stay. Other families have started their own herds using what they learned from watching mine.

The technique spreads.

But no one asks to learn from me. They copy what they see—keep the goats near camp, move slowly, offer food. They don't ask what it cost to learn those things.

They don't ask how many winters I spent alone. How many times I was butted or kicked while learning to read their warnings. How it feels to understand goat-thought better than human-thought.

I am useful. I am not wanted.

The first goats—the ones who knew the wild—are getting old. The billy with the notched ear, the one who first trusted me enough to stay, his legs are stiff now. He moves slow in the morning.

I think about what happens when he dies. If anyone will understand that I'm losing family.

Probably not.

People see goats. I see the billy who chose to trust me when trust should have been impossible. Who taught his kids to stay. Who let me touch his flank that first time without running.

When he dies, I'll be the only one who remembers what it cost him to stay.

Maybe fifty winters in—I've stopped counting carefully

Renkhos came to talk about his protection system.

He's organizing watchers. Families who guard the settlement while others work. He says my goat work proves settlements can be permanent now—that we can stay in one place because the animals stay with us.

He thanked me. Called me a founder. Said his children learn my story.

I should feel honored.

Instead I feel used.

His warriors eat my goats. The ones I spent fourteen winters teaching to trust humans. The descendants of the billy who first stayed, of the nanny who first let me milk her.

They eat them casually. No ceremony. No acknowledgment. Just food now.

I wanted to say something to Renkhos. That they should at least honor what they're eating. That these animals gave up their wildness and deserve more than casual slaughter.

I didn't say anything. Never do.

That night I sat with the oldest billy still alive—the one with the scarred flank, grandson of the first one. He's twenty winters in now. Ancient for a goat.

I put my forehead against his. Breathed with him. Cried without making sound.

He didn't run. He never runs from me.

I think he understands more than the warriors ever will. That trust is a gift. That staying is a choice they keep making every day. That we owe them for choosing us.

But I can't explain that to Renkhos or his warriors. They see food on legs.

I see family.

Old now—maybe seventy winters, maybe more

I pissed myself today.

Not much. Just enough to feel the warmth spread before I could stop it. Enough to smell it after.

The young herders pretended not to notice. They're kind that way. But I know they saw.

I spent seventy winters learning to think like goats and now my body is learning to think like old bodies think—slowly, wetly, unreliably.

My hands shake when I try to make marks. My legs don't always do what I tell them. I forget things—not important things, but small things. Where I put the waterskin. What I meant to say before the words left.

The billy I loved died three winters ago. The one with the scarred flank. I knew it was coming—goats don't get as old as me—but it still hurt like something tearing.

I sat with him at the end. Put my forehead to his like I'd done a thousand times. Felt his breathing slow and stop.

No one else came. It was just us. The way it should be.

His daughter's daughter's kids are in the herd now. Seven generations since the first wild ones chose to stay. They don't remember wild. Don't remember what it was like when goats ran from every human sound.

And I don't remember human anymore. Not really.

I can make the sounds when I have to. Shape words. Nod at the right times. But inside, where thought happens, I'm still moving with the herd. Still watching for predators. Still thinking in terms of flight distance and safety and which plants are good to eat.

We're both domesticated now. The goats and me. Tame all the way down.

They gave up running. I gave up whatever it was that made me human.

Fair trade, I think.

Most days.

Last mark

My hands don't work right anymore.

I'm making this mark lying down. The tool keeps slipping. The lines are crooked.

I can hear the goats outside. The young ones playing. The nannies calling to their kids. The billies testing each other with that hollow thud of horns meeting.

Normal sounds. Safe sounds.

I thought I'd be afraid when this time came. But I'm not. I'm just tired.

Mons visited this morning. He's old too now, though not as old as me. His hair is white. His hands shake like mine do.

He sat beside my sleeping furs and said, "I'm sorry I laughed at you. When we were young. When you wanted to sit with the goats instead of playing with us."

I told him it was fine. It was a long time ago.

He shook his head. "You were right. About the goats. About everything. I just couldn't see it."

I wanted to tell him—it's not about being right. It was never about being right. I just found the place where I could breathe.

But the words wouldn't come out shaped correctly, so I just touched his hand.

He understood. I think.

After he left, I asked the young herders to bring the oldest nanny to me. She's twelve winters in—old for a goat, but still strong. Granddaughter of the first one who let me touch her.

They brought her. She came to my sleeping furs without fear. Lay down beside me. Her warmth against my side.

I can hear her breathing. Feel her ribs moving against mine.

This is how I want to finish. Not alone with humans who try to understand but never quite do. With her. With the breathing warmth of the ones who never needed me to explain.

They just needed me to be still.

I can do that now.