The Goat Spirit

Winter came early to Yunjiao Village. Up on North Ridge the wind was harsh, and once the grass withered the flock could only nibble dried roots in the windbreak hollows among the stones. Ayan was nineteen and herded Old Zhou's hundred-odd sheep for him: up the mountain before dawn, home only when the sky dimmed to dusk. His grandmother simmered herbs by the stove, the door half open, and the yard smelled of pine boughs and wet wool.

It was the third frosty morning after winter set in. Ayan counted the sheep and came up one short, or rather one long. A white goat, its coat cleaner than snow, with a small grey tuft at the tip of its left ear, stood quietly among the flock. It did not look lost; it looked as though it had always belonged there. It seldom bleated. Its eyes were clear and bright, like two black pebbles soaked in cool water. When Ayan reached out to touch it, it did not shy away, only pressed its forehead gently into his palm.

His grandmother squinted at it for a long while and said, "The old talk of North Ridge says the white beast is one the mountain has perfected. It does no harm. Whoever treats it kindly, it shelters. Do not drive it off."

So Ayan did not.

The white goat seemed to take the flock as its own. In the days of herding it always walked at the head. Once Ayan dozed on the slope and woke to find the whole flock moved, and placed clear of a landslide; the night before, rain had loosened the cliff, and the white goat had led them to higher ground. Another time he heard a wolf howl and the flock scattered in panic; it was the white goat that turned toward the sound and stood its ground, and the flock gathered back to its side, and the wolf at last dared not come near.

As the winter solstice drew near, Old Zhou reckoned to slaughter two sheep for the feast. He squinted down the line of animals and stopped at the white one. "This one is fat, and has no master. We will take it."

Ayan drove his whip into the ground and stepped in front of the goat. "No. It came on its own and hurt no one."

Old Zhou spat. "Since when do sheep have masters and no masters? Skimp on the meat and the village curses me for it." He reached for the tether.

Ayan did not give way. He thought of his grandmother, who coughed through whole nights; the white goat had once led him to a patch of wild mint, and the brew she drank from it had eased her coughing. He tightened his grip on the whip. "Slaughter if you must, but take the one my wages pay for. This one, I am setting free."

Old Zhou glared at him a long moment, then at last kept his hands to himself and went off grumbling to pick a thinner animal instead.

That night Ayan led the white goat up North Ridge. Mist climbed from the valley floor and cool air crept up his ankles. He loosed the rope and patted its neck. "Go home now. Do not let anyone see you."

The white goat stood still, pressed its forehead to his hand, then suddenly pulled a soft tuft of wool from beneath its neck and left it in his palm, and turned into the mist. The bell sounded once, twice, three times, and faded, like someone counting him the way back.

When spring came, his grandmother's cough was wholly gone. Ayan still herded, and still could not quite count the flock right; there always seemed to be one extra, and never to be found. On the heavy-mist mornings a single bell rang far off on the ridge, clear and unhurried, as if to say: I am here.