All this talk was putting ideas in Yehuda Leib’s head—tiny, gnashing things, clinging onto his collar, working into his hair.

“…even, Yehuda Leib, even in the holy Talmud. Far more of the demons than there are of us: eleven thousand to one. That’s in the Talmud! And they’re particularly dangerous at night.”

Avimelekh had been moving twice, perhaps even three times, as fast as they. How long would it take him to determine that Yehuda Leib was not in Tupik?

“Only three things can protect us from them,” said Issur, counting them out on his fingers. “Salt, cold metal, and red thread.”

Yehuda Leib sighed. “Salt?” What on earth was he prattling about?

“Salt. When you build a new house in an unsettled area, you’re supposed to mound salt in the corners of each room before you sleep there the first night. The demons’ magic can’t pass beyond boundaries of salt. And because cold metal comes from civilization, they can’t stand the touch of it.” Here Issur flipped up the collar of his coat to display a thin sewing needle threaded through the fabric.

“As for red thread,” he said, “I don’t know how it works, but it’s the strongest. They tied some onto my bassinet when I was a baby.”

This was intolerable. If Issur was going to be prattling, at least he could share some useful information.

“Issur,” said Yehuda Leib. “What do you know about Avimelekh?”

Issur looked over at him, his face suddenly drawn with concern. “I’m not supposed to say.”

“No,” said Yehuda Leib. “But you’re not supposed to run off with the donkey, either.”

For this, Issur had no answer.

“Issur,” said Yehuda Leib. “If he’s dangerous, then what you know might help keep me safe. It might—”

But before he could say another word, Issur’s voice came bursting forth like water from a dam.

“He beat my father up, once. It was really bad. They were afraid he might die.”

Yehuda Leib swallowed hard.

“He’d gamble, he’d get drunk. People were scared. So when the constable came to town saying we had to send conscripts for the Tsar’s army…”

“They sent Avimelekh.”

“Right,” said Issur. “Without even warning him. And as scary and angry as he was before…”

“Issur,” said Yehuda Leib with a sigh. “You don’t think your donkey could move a bit faster, do you?”

“What’s the matter?”

There was someone—or something—rattling between the trees.

“There,” he said. “Don’t you hear that?”

Issur shook his head. “I don’t hear anything.”

“Issur,” said Yehuda Leib, rising to his feet. “Issur, stop the cart.”

“What?” said Issur. “Just a second ago, you wanted me to go faster.”

Yehuda Leib was growing frantic. “Stop the cart. Stop the cart!”

“Fine, fine,” said Issur, reining in the donkey.

Yehuda Leib leaned out into the cold and dim and listened with all his might.