Once again the time had come when the whole appearance of the village was transformed for one winter night—like the moon when it is gradually obscured by encroaching shadows even when the rest of the sky is clear.

He had looked for the source of those shadows but had never been able to find it. He had searched for it on the mountain slopes and down in the valley. He had examined the heavens and the earth beneath his feet. Nothing. He’d understood, then, that the darkness came from somewhere beyond, from the unfathomable.

There was a shiver of that darkness inside him, too. It spread out every time he took a life, and it made him feel cold; it thrashed about like a trapped animal, but vanished as soon as he paused to capture its sound.

He looked at his hands. The smell of blood wafted up to his nostrils. He wondered at his own unease. All around him, life and death were engaged in their daily dance, like a butterfly and a moth at twilight.

That night the people of the village were going to face their fears, disguised as creatures half human and half beast. They would wear long horns the likes of which he had never seen in the wild, drape themselves in animal pelts, and brandish sticks and torches; they would paint their faces until they looked fearsome; that night, they would become like him.

He wore his sheepskin cloak and wrapped it around his waist with a strip of leather. He put on his headdress. The shadows projected onto the walls by its majestic antlers looked like the branches of a bare tree.

He dipped his fingers into the bowl and rubbed their tips over his skin. He watched his reflection on the pewter turn white.

He stood like that for a moment, staring into his own eyes. Then, he picked up the object that had recently captured his attention: a book he’d found abandoned in the village. He had barely understood the words at first, but now they evoked clear images in his mind. He started leafing through it and stopped at the page he’d marked with a leaf from an oak tree.

He opened and closed his mouth a few times—a hatchling testing its wings before leaping into the void—until the words began to flow.

“Yes, su-such you shall be, you, qu-queen of all graces, after the last s-sacraments, when you go beneath the grass and waxy flowers, to mold among the skeletons.”

He looked at the skull beside him. It had eyes now, and it had a face, but it was still missing the warmth of life.