From where Yehuda Leib had come to a halt, he could see the horseman’s boots twisting, squirming in the snow. Slowly, he made his way around the side of the cart, careful to stay out of arm’s reach.

Avimelekh was flat on his back.

His eyes were wide open, his jaw flopping wordlessly.

In his hand he held Yehuda Leib’s woolen scarf, and beneath his head the pure white snow was turning the exact same color:

Blood red.

“Issur,” said Yehuda Leib. “Issur.”

“I don’t—I didn’t mean—”

But now a low croaking sound was filling the air.

Avimelekh was laughing.

“Frumkin,” he said, his eyes flashing, and then, “Yehuda Leib.” His laughter broke off. “Yehuda Leib.”

The horseman’s legs stopped moving.

Beneath his head, the pool of red in the snow had grown as wide as the path.

“Oh my God,” said Issur Frumkin. “Oh my God.”

And there was a new kind of stillness lying on the path.

“He would’ve gotten me,” said Yehuda Leib. “He would’ve taken me.”

“I know,” said Issur.

But neither of them felt comforted.

It is difficult to say how long the two boys stood in silence over the body of the dead horseman. But the sound that broke the silence is sure:

Footsteps. Footsteps in the snow.

All of a sudden, the wind grew restless.

Issur’s donkey began to stamp and snort, straining against her tackle; high above, the birds took wing for safer territory.

And then he came around the bend, his coat blacker than the night, blacker than the darkness hidden inside your eyes—so black it seemed to eat up the light. At the sight of him, the donkey began to scream and pull, nearly tipping the little cart in her terror.

“Whoa,” said Issur. “Whoa, girl!” But there was no calming her, and, buffeting her body against the shafts of the cart, she turned it around by sheer force of fear and bolted back up the path toward Tupik, dragging Issur, cart and all, behind her.

And what he saw as he turned to look over his shoulder would haunt his eyes for the rest of his life:

A small patch of moonlight.

A dead man.

A pool of blood.

Yehuda Leib, looking very small.

And a stranger, dark and tall, closing in along the path.

—

“We meet again,” said the Dark Messenger.

He seemed very tired.

“Hello,” said Yehuda Leib.

“You must forgive me, Yehuda Leib,” said the Dark Messenger. “I am not best suited for comforting.” He said the word roughly, oddly, as if it were in a language he did not understand.

But Yehuda Leib was confused. His flight from Avimelekh had been frightening, but it was over now; he couldn’t see that he needed comforting.

“What?”

The Messenger cocked his head to the side. “Ah,” he said, “I see,” and then, “Oh dear.”

“What?” said Yehuda Leib again. “What is it?”