I.

Out across the darkness, something began to shriek.

The scream carried farther and farther off, tapering amid the thickness of night, and then ceasing—with a painful, gurgling burst.

"Did you hear that?" Jean whispered, emerging from the guest room. He moved down the hallway with a brisk contradiction of fright and lethargy, bare feet brushing against smooth wood. The cottage creaked at every breath. It was dark, probably close to four in the morning, and yet everyone seemed to be awake.

His sister, Charlotte, poured him a cup of tea as he proceeded into the kitchen. This was her family's home. He had come from the city of L'Croux to visit; the bus ride had been a long journey into the remotest of hillsides, a distant corner of Duskaal, a place called Mumbles.

Another shriek flung itself from the silence and ended with the same, punctual burst.

Jean's blood beat cold. "Tell me you didn't just hear that."

On the edge of this town called Mumbles, there leaned a cliff which stretched out over the ocean. Beneath this crag sat a beach that went awash by night, and spanned just under a mile come first sign of day. It was a shallow shore, cold and flat and lifeless, offering nothing more than an isolated stretch of brief, unsettling freedom from the banal murmur of Mumbles—or, as the locals referred to it, their steady off-wind import of blasé, blasé.

"Yeah," Charlotte said, removing a few strands of hair from her tired face. "I heard it."

Jean waited for more, but got nothing. "Is it a banshee?"

She laughed. "No, Jean." The flourish of amusement wilted on her face. "It's the sheep."

It sounded nothing like a sheep to Jean. It sounded like a woman crying out.

Her husband, Garrett, leaned against the counter and said, "Difficult little fuckers, they've been."

"What do you mean?" Jean asked. "This is normal for them?" He lifted his mug from the table to take a sip, nearly spilling it at the sound of another diminishing cry. He wondered how anyone could ever sleep through this.

"Well, no," Garrett said, "but it is now." He opened the fridge and reached for the butter and jam. "Char," he said. "We're not outta biscuits, are we?"

She shook her head and pointed to the pantry.

"Why are they making that noise?" Jean asked. "Are they sick?"

"In the head, yeah." Garrett said, re-emerging from the pantry with breakfast. "You know what they're doing out there, don't you?" Jean shook his head.

"They're throwing themselves off."

"The cliff?"

Garrett laughed. "Well, what else?"

"How many?"

"About, uh," Garrett stared at the ceiling as he counted his fingers. "About thirty-three now, I'd say,  since this all began. Counting the one that jumped just a minute ago."

Charlotte nodded. "That's my count."

"You should see how they land," Garrett said, "all twisted and bloated."

"That's disgusting."

"Mhm."

"Garrett thinks they're protesting," Charlotte said with a shrug, her voice thick with that same taunting sarcasm that brandished Jean throughout their childhood.

Jean laughed. "Protesting what? Is the grass too brown?"

"Three years ago—"

"Garrett, no."

"Three years ago," Garrett repeated, above the loud sigh of his wife, "There opened a free trade coffee shop downtown. Within 24 hours of the grand opening—that very next morning—they surrounded the shop, bleating incessantly and blocking the roads."

Charlotte had warned him about Garrett's theories. He had theories for everything, she said. Theories for the unusually tepid seasons and dim skylight, theories of why fruits and vegetables had grown pale in comparison to years before, theories concerning constellations and their exaggerated tilts; everything, including exactly why his wife Charlotte was so angry all the time.

Jean looked to his sister, before asking: "What made them stop?"

"Nothing. They had to be forcibly removed from downtown." Garrett's eyes were wild, serious, excited.  "A day later? Again, had to be picked up and brought back here."

"Why?" Jean asked, growing more skeptical by the moment.

Charlotte was glaring at Garrett, who shrugged and said, "My guess? Coffee wasn't really fair trade."

The two men laughed. Charlotte stared into her mug.

"You're so full of it," Jean said.

"About the coffee, maybe," Charlotte muttered. She shook her head. "But he's right about the sheep."

Jean continued to laugh. "Both of you are full of it."

They all sipped their tea, and for a moment, the house returned to quiet. Jean moved to the window and peered out, but there was nothing but darkness. Frowning, he exhaled, and turned to his brother-in-law. "And you're sure nothing is throwing them off the ledge?"

Garrett nodded. "Absolutely sure. Caleb Macrae's said he's even seen 'em out there, lining up like ants."

The Macrae twins were neighbors, of sorts. One of the few remaining on the cliffside. Garrett had spoken of them before as listless, paranoid drunkards; their testimony meant little to Jean. For all he knew, they could have been the ones tossing the poor animals over.

Jean decided he would see the beach for himself after an extended nap. At the first sign of light, he trudged up the muddy path that led from his sister's house to the ledge. The land was sectioned with old wooden fences, cobblestone, and shrubs—all of it poorly maintained, and yet natural to the landscape.

It was odd to see animals have such freedom to roam as they did. The sheep occupied wherever they wished, from sunken holes to high, steep hills. Nothing like L'Croux, where strays would sooner be stuffed down the garbage chute than left to their own devices.

The struggling metropolis had other things to worry about.

"You know," Jean said, staring into the eyes of a lamb who'd lifted his head up from the ground. "For a group of politically actives, you sure seem dull."

The creature stared through him, eyes glazed, its jaw working on something pulled up from the dirt.

How cute.

Cute little demented sheep.

"Are you plotting your own end, too?"

Sighing, Jean decided to press on. He could see the ocean, and the sight of it rekindled his intrigue. He quickened his pace and threw his gaze over the end.

From the top, he could see the three mangled bodies, wet and sinking like stones. The water had drawn out, leaving them exposed as white heaps seeping out blood the color of passion fruit tea. Taking a step back, Jean scanned the ground for anything unusual. Jean couldn't see any sign of resistance; No tracks besides his own.

He turned and followed the rock-side stairway, which brought him down to the shore. Upon closer investigation, he grew even more concerned: the bodies were as mangled as Garrett led him to believe, fractured bone pulling up tents of wool off the carcass.

Why would anything do this?