But it was the aroma that gave him away.

Thick, sticky black tobacco.

—

Yehuda Leib had barely managed to dive beneath the tarpaulin before the horseman drew up and began to speak.

“Issur,” he heard the man say. “You seem nervous.”

“What?” said Issur with a forced laugh. “Me?”

“You know the boy Yehuda Leib—”

“No,” said Issur, and then, “But of course, yes, I mean. No, I haven’t seen him. But yes, I know him. As you said. And as I said. Before.”

Yehuda Leib fought not to sigh aloud.

“When did you say you last saw him?”

“Earlier,” said Issur.

“Yes,” said Avimelekh. “When?”

“Oh, hours and hours,” said Issur Frumkin. “Back in Tupik. Down by the synagogue.”

The cart jostled as it went over a thick tree root.

“The river, you mean,” said Avimelekh.

“Hmm?” said Issur, just a bit too loudly.

“You said you saw him by the river. Not by the synagogue.”

Issur was silent.

“The reason I ask, Issur, is that I dropped something near where we met last, and when I tracked back to retrieve it, I saw the strangest thing: a pair of footprints, small, like a boy’s, leading out from between the trees and ending right next to your cart ruts. How do you explain that?”

Softly, foolishly, Issur Frumkin murmured, “Demons?”

Yehuda Leib could feel his heart beating in every extremity of his body.

With a jangle and a clank, the horseman cut in front of the donkey, and Issur was forced to pull his cart to a swift stop. “Hey!”

“You’re Moshe Dovid Frumkin’s boy, aren’t you?”

Again, Issur failed to speak.

“I know your family, Frumkin. I know what kind of people you are. So why don’t I make this clear: I came looking for one boy, but I could be perfectly happy leaving with another.”

“Ah,” said Issur.

“I’ll ask you one more time,” said Avimelekh. “Where is Yehuda Leib?”

It was over.

He was caught.

Yehuda Leib drew in his breath, tore back the tarp, and launched himself into the trees.

Chapter Four: Into the Darkness

Branches, needles, thorns, tearing at his coat and cap and face, and he raised his arms to keep them away from his eyes, and the horse was crashing through the brush behind him, and it would be upon him now if he didn’t move, move, move, and he leapt sideways, putting the trees between them, but the horse was deft and dodged, and he would never outrun this man, never, never, never, and he could not see into the dim, and he had to do something, had to think, but his heart was banging and his jaw was tight and he was afraid the pounding hooves would trample him into the loam and he dove down into a low copse and the hooves pounded past.

What could he do?

Soon the horse was reined in, turned around.