His laughter breaks out again when he sees my face; it grows steadily louder and sharper. He steps forward fluting out his lips and punches, hitting my jaw so my neck twists and I drop, his laughter crashing over me like waves—my spine goes cold. I get up trembling, staring, nearly choking with rage, and take a swing at him.

“Jil!” a voice roars.

He scampers out of reach and from him comes the ugliest laughter in the world, a hagging insane laugh—I whip my arm at him but he evades me and capers down the slope, turning back still laughing at me. I lunge, stumble, and, on all fours, I see myself reflected against the sky in the fragments of the charm there in the rocks, my eyes blank.

“Jil! I’m coming!”

He turns when he hears me—steps, cackling, picks up a rock—he pitches it at me with all his might. I raise my arm and bat the rock aside. Now I’m after him. Spinning my way he kicks me high against the ribs, but I bash him across the face and he tumbles. I hit him square in the face as he gets up and send him teakettling down the slope onto his back; he twists as I come to kick him. Drawing back my leg, I lose balance and fall down. He runs.

“Jil!” roars after him. “I’m coming for you Jil!”

Having slip trouble with the rocks. Now I’m on foot and following him down into the trees. I can see his track in the loose soil. A dark shape dodges among the trees ahead, the lighter irregularity of the face appears every few seconds, still laughing.

So he does not see the soldiers up ahead of him rise from cover and begin to swirl in their weightless, swinging formation like a bank of leaves blown up in a wind flurry. He does not understand why I scream his name in a changed voice. Laughing he turns to look where he’s going to. I hear cracks and snaps far off. Their roar races away, spreading rings in space, borne along by the endless trees. His left shoulder whips and he pinwheels forward. Punched against his right side he clops to a halt throwing up his right arm.

He takes two weak steps, his arm still high. The soldiers ahead vault away with great impossible leaps in among the trees, but two remaining swing there, aim and fire at leisure, before they go, in turn.

Jil Punkinflake crumples to the ground. Remote, smoke-hazed soldiers turn and skip away.

Low skids on his knees and pulls Jil Punkinflake’s body off its face, putting his hands here and there, throat, wrist. Blood slimes his hands. The slack face is pink and purple ... a blue-grey blush has already begun to spread across its cheeks.

Low jerks to his feet, the front of Jil Punkinflake’s uniform knotted in his fists. Jil Punkinflake dangles lifeless from his two hands.