All the same, one by one, through the dying hum of the bells, each of them began to think he heard…footsteps in the snow.

And turning their eyes to the long road into town, they saw one final guest make his arrival:

A young man in a black coat.

—

Blacker than the darkness hidden inside your eyes.

“Come, stranger, come!” cried Fishl. “Join us!”

The dark stranger paused in the middle of the street.

Softly, through a cloud of pipe smoke, Mendl tsked his tongue. “Come, friend.”

“Of course,” said Fishl. “Come, friend, and join us.”

The stranger made his way over to the little knot of Hasidim.

“Welcome,” said Fishl. “Welcome.”

It had been a very long time since the Dark One had been given welcome anywhere; it produced an odd sensation in his throat—something like sorrow, but then again, nothing like sorrow at all.

Slowly, stumblingly, Fishl began to go around the circle. “This is Reuveyn; the fellow behind all the smoke there is Mendl; the one who won’t stop singing is called Velvl; I am Fishl. And what is your name?”

Four pairs of bloodshot, smiling eyes turned toward the Dark One.

“It depends who is asking.”

The Hasidim burst into laughter.

But this was literally true—the caretaker of the Russian church on the hill would’ve called him by a different name than the four Hasidim who stood before him now.

“Very well,” said Fishl, “very well. We’ve all felt like we had to run from something before. But you needn’t worry. You’re among friends.”

The Dark One was acquainted with this word, friend, but never before had it been spread around with such profligacy in his presence.

“And where do you come to us from, my friend?” said Mendl.

There it was again. Were they mocking him?

“I travel from place to place,” said the Dark One. “But my home is always near.”

“I understand completely,” said Reuveyn. “I spent a couple of years traveling, and at a certain point the road itself becomes your home.”

A general murmur of understanding went about the circle.

“Listen, friend,” said Fishl. “If something weighs on you, some deed you have done, if you are weary, perhaps you ought to see the Rebbe.”

“Yes, certainly,” said Reuveyn. “The Rebbe is very wise. And the wonders he works are pure miracles! One poor pilgrim I met walked three full days to sit with the Rebbe and recite Tachanun just once, and when he returned home, he found that all his hens had laid eggs with heavy gold coins where the yolks ought to have been.”