He wasn’t quite sure himself. “Tupik. I feel it—the way people’s bodies move in the street, the streets themselves, the buildings, the mud, the water in the river—here, just where the back of my neck meets my head. Do you know what I mean?”

The Dark Messenger turned toward the boy and regarded him for a long moment.

Slowly, he grew a grin.

“You have keen eyes,” said the stranger, and he began to walk again. “Have you ever met a sheepdog, Yehuda Leib?”

Yehuda Leib shook his head. “No.”

“I have a deep affection for such animals. They herd, corral, protect their sheep, and they do it all in a very simple manner: they hunt them.”

“What?”

“They hunt the sheep. They chase them, stalk them, stare them down. But they hunt without killing.”

Yehuda Leib’s eyebrows fell. “Is it still hunting if they don’t kill?”

The dark stranger smiled. “Oh my, yes.”

“Hmm,” said Yehuda Leib.

“What I mean, Yehuda Leib,” said the stranger, “is that you might do well to consider the Tsar’s army.”

This idea shocked Yehuda Leib. “What?”

“Oh, it is a risky business, war,” said the stranger. “A risky business, to be sure. One stands to lose more than just his life. But unless I miss my guess, I think you might find the work well suited to your talents.”

Yehuda Leib’s lips were pressed together tightly. “No,” he said. “No.”

“You seem,” said the stranger, “terribly certain.”

“Wouldn’t the army…” Yehuda Leib swallowed as he looked for the word. “Change me?”

The stranger nodded. “It would. As will all things.”

“I don’t want to be changed.”

“That,” said the Dark Messenger, “is unavoidable, I am afraid. If you wish to live.”

Now the dark stranger brought his feet to rest, and with surprise Yehuda Leib looked up to find that he was standing again in front of the house of Reb Zalman the baker.

The stranger gave a heavy sigh. “Thank you for accompanying me, Yehuda Leib,” he said. “I know my way from here.”

“All right,” said Yehuda Leib.

“But there is one thing more,” said the stranger. “You must do me a service: the ferryman would not accept my payment.”

“No, no,” said Yehuda Leib. “He’s paid by the community.”

“So he told me,” said the Messenger.

Yehuda Leib had trouble imagining Mottke telling anything to anyone with much success.

“But it is a point of honor with me,” the stranger said. “I can leave no debt behind.”

Yehuda Leib shook his head. “You have no debt. The crossing is free for all travelers.”

“Yes,” said the stranger. “But still the ferryman is paid. I must provide his payment.”

“Really,” said Yehuda Leib. “There’s no need.”

“I am afraid,” said the stranger, “that I must insist,” and he held out his hand.

In his long, narrow palm, there were two worn coins.

“Take them,” he said.