Blood calls from the earth in the voice of a shepard, and blood responds.
Earlier: shot of a sheepfold, a flock of idiot beasts watching a lone traveler passing along the road. Close up on a row of rectangular, unblinking irises. In the distance the sounds of slaughter. Foreshadowing, but also excuse; it’s unclear.
Later, much later: slow push along an abandoned railroad, weeds growing wild and high through the ties, spiky and alien, turning slowly to follow the track of the sun. The same traveler edges past the camera, and the weeds cling greedily to their clothes, their skin. Close up on a pale cornsilk flower, an offscreen hiss, and a spatter of blood on thorns. Footsteps withdrawing; leaves rustle with intent.
Now, here: a cliff overlooking the ocean, far off in the distance, and the traveler deep in the frame, a mannikin of a figure, toy sized. A dog at their heels, barking furiously. They turn and — the cliff is empty, silent except for the barking dog, the screech of seagulls, and the distant surf. We pull back yet farther.
Blood cries to blood.