The entirety of Mottke’s responsibility consisted of sitting close to the ferry, waiting to hear the ringing of a small bell that could be pulled from the landing platform across the river. Of course, the bell never rang. But in the event that it did, Mottke’s job was simple: he was to climb aboard the little ferry barge that sat tethered on the Tupik side of the river, take hold of the chain attached to the far platform, pull himself across the current, and return with whoever had rung the bell.

But, of course, the bell never rang. There was no road passing anywhere near Tupik on the far side of the river, and it was almost impossible to conceive of someone slogging through the miles and miles of nearby swampland in order to end up there accidentally.

This is why it was so very strange that, just as Yehuda Leib began to think about finding a place to steal a few hours’ sleep, his ear was drawn down to the banks of the river by the unmistakable sound of a tinkling bell.

—

“Mottke.”

The ferryman was snoring softly, his breath curling away in little ringlets of mist.

“Mottke!” This time Yehuda Leib jostled the man, and he started awake.

“Hrrrrghm?”

This was not a word. Yehuda Leib had never before heard Mottke make a sound that could be unconditionally classified as a word.

Stillness had descended over Tupik, as if it had stopped breathing in the night. The snow had broken off, the cloud had cleared, and the air was dense beneath the star-riddled sky.

And it was into this heavy hush that the soft tinkling of the bell fell.

Dingadingading. Dingadingading. Dingadingading.

Mottke’s eyes were wide. “Beh,” he said. “Beh.”

Yehuda Leib nodded.

Mottke leapt to his feet, dashing and sliding across the slick icy rocks on his way to the ferry. Down on the water, Yehuda Leib could hear him shatter a thin layer of ice; he could hear the clanking of the heavy chain, and the river beginning to buffet the edge of the ferry as it edged out into the current. The stars were bright overhead, and in the cold light the ferryman could be seen lunging forward and pulling back, lunging forward and pulling back, as he drew himself across the water.

Only when Mottke had finally reached the far shore did Yehuda Leib’s eyes fall on the dark stranger waiting on the opposite platform.

Without hurry, the stranger stepped onto Mottke’s ferry. There was a murmur of exchanged words, their sense lost in the susurrus of the flowing water. Before long, Mottke was pulling again.

Now the figure on the ferry was moving toward him.

Gradually, it occurred to Yehuda Leib to be afraid.

Yehuda Leib heard the ferry barge bump against the Tupik landing platform. The chain rattled as Mottke returned it to its place. Some further indistinct murmuring of voices.

And then footsteps in the snow.