And so on, in the course of which she ate the rest of my bread and we shared the apple, and Herr Woodenkopf sat between us and watched the road to make sure no one was coming.

After she’d run away from the police station, she hadn’t known what to do. She’d wandered through the village, not daring to knock on anyone’s door in case they turned her in to Sergeant Snitsch—or Uncle Heinrich. So finally, giving up all hope of shelter, she’d turned toward the forest, meaning to find her way to the mountain guide’s hut (such a safe refuge it seemed now, to both of us! Snug and warm and dry, and far, far away; what fools we were to leave it!), only to find herself face to face, on the dark road, with a Frightful Specter dressed in trailing antique robes, and (horror of horrors!) carrying its own head beneath its arm….

How she hadn’t turned and run, neither of us knew. But now that she’d made the acquaintance of Herr Woodenkopf, she was quite willing to agree that he wasn’t in the least ghastly—and he had the great advantage of not requiring to be fed.

“But we’ll have to go up to the hut again,” she said. “It’s the only safe place. We’ve just got to get through tomorrow, and then it’ll be too late for him to take us to the hunting lodge, because Zamiel will have come and gone—”

“Hush! Don’t say his name! I’m sure it’s unlucky.”

“Well, anyway, we’ve only got to hide for one more day.”

“And night. The night’s the most important part.”

“Yes—a day and a night,” she said impatiently, pushing her way through the snow-laden bushes that grew beside the road. “I’m sure the stream’s here somewhere. We’ll come across it soon.”

I followed, clutching Herr Woodenkopf tightly. “But, Lucy,” I said, trying to catch her up, “we can’t ever go back, not really.”

“Of course we can,” she said. But she sounded uncertain.

“Just think what he’ll do! There’ll be nothing to stop him. He’ll be so angry….Oh, Lucy, I don’t ever want to go back. I want to go away completely for ever.”

She stopped. “I think I do, too,” she said. “All right. Let’s. We’ll go right over the mountains into the next valley and then—just keep going.”

The Prospect of Liberty was so delightful that, for a short while, I even forgot the cold. And so, Orphaned Fugitives, we set out through the forest toward Freedom—or toward Death….

Max Grindoff’s Narrative