Sindy stared at me from the street, terror frozen across his face. For a few seconds he halted before the sight that met his eyes. But the instant the child emerged from the ruins that had concealed it until then—hands empty save for the blood that ran and dripped onto the floor—he turned and fled back toward his own house, shouting for Rigas to alert everyone else.

  I remained motionless on the roof, shaken but otherwise rooted to the spot. As the child drew nearer, it spoke to me without cease:

  “My mother told me I have no problem. She said I’m fine. She said Father would come to take me, to carry me somewhere better, where the other children won’t drive me away and they’ll keep me company. But I don’t want to leave. I want to stay with Mother. Please—have you come to heal me, sir? Please, make me well so I can live with Mother.”

  The expression on its face shifted from blankness to weeping, yet not in any smooth or natural way—as though invisible hands had seized its features and were forcing them into new shapes by brute violence. Yet no tears fell. Its eyes never reddened; its fists never clenched; its chest never heaved with distress or grief. Once again I did not know what to do. I shouted toward the street, but no one answered. People passed the house, searching for me, peering into neighboring yards, yet finding nothing.

  The child did not run; it advanced with deliberate steps. When it drew close enough that I felt real danger, I descended the stairs and found myself on the ground floor. I tried to open the door to escape the house, but the moment I pulled it wide I saw only darkness beyond—not the streets of the island. Through the windows I could still see the houses and the people outside; I could hear every sound from the world beyond the walls. Yet when I hurled chairs against the glass with all my strength, nothing shattered.

  The old staircase leading to the second floor creaked under the child’s descending footsteps.

  “Why won’t you help me?” it asked again.

  No matter how deeply it entered shadow, its silhouette retained the same size—a detail one overlooks at first, but which soon begins to terrify. Worse still, though the laws of light and physics should have placed the shadow behind the child, it preceded instead, as though dragging the small form toward me.

  I wanted no further exchange of words. I did not know whether speaking would make things worse or not. I refused even to meet its gaze, lest it turn away and leave me in peace. Yet at that same moment screams erupted from every corner of the island, one after another. The men who had been hunting me ceased their search. Even the child paused its advance and turned its head toward the street.

  I searched desperately for any weapon, anything to defend myself or at least delay it, or even for some sign that might break the curse and save my skin. Nothing suggested I could reason with it, speak to it as one human to another. Yet the cries grew louder and more numerous. Every few steps the child halted and glanced outside to see what was happening; each time, the shadow twisted and stretched toward the window. I realized this was my chance. The instant the shadow drifted once more to the glass, I sprinted up the stairs and returned to the roof.

  From there I saw the very people who had chased me now pounding on doors, warning everyone to remain inside. No one was permitted on the streets except council members. Even those delivering the warnings trembled and hurried from house to house, glancing constantly over their shoulders, shouting as they ran but never stopping to speak with anyone on the open road—only with those who opened doors to them.

  Then I heard the stairs creak again. The child reappeared. Without much thought I leapt from the roof to the street below. By some mercy I broke no bones, though the impact jarred my right leg painfully. I began to run toward Petros’s house—slowly, yet steadily—without once looking back.

  I passed through the streets heedless of whether anyone still pursued me or wished me harm. To my relief, no one molested me the entire way.

  When I finally reached Petros’s house, I saw him watching from the window. The moment he spotted me he flung the door open, his face taut with alarm, and spoke sternly:

  “Inside—quickly! Someone has unleashed one of the curses. If it finds you outside this house, you are certainly dead.”

  “I was the one,” I gasped. “I entered the house with the child that strangled its mother. Sindy set a trap for me, deceived me. I’m sorry—I’ve been exposed, and now you’re in danger too because of me. I have to leave the island, return to the forest and the road.”

  “No—no, that cannot happen. You are not ready—not even close. We will not be granted another chance like this—not while I live—no, no, no—” Petros began to rave, distraught.

  He struck his head with both fists, then clutched his hair and sank to his knees before the open door.

  “It cannot be—it cannot—not now—not now…”

  I understood he was speaking to himself and could offer me no immediate help. At that moment I heard a sound beside me. The child had followed—but it no longer resembled anything human. With every step it deformed and grew. The shadow had ceased to guide it; instead it tore open wounds in the child’s flesh and stuffed pieces of itself inside. Yet the shadow’s substance was inexhaustible; each severed fragment seemed to cost it nothing.

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  The child no longer spoke; it howled in agony. It emitted strangled sounds, as though still attempting speech, but in vain. Its footsteps—though steady—now covered distance far more swiftly on legs grown monstrous. I began running once more toward the lake. I thought perhaps if I plunged into the water and returned to the forest, it might leave me in peace. This affliction belonged to the island—not to me.

  But misfortune struck again. The eight remaining council members appeared before me, blocking my escape. The two elders stood at the rear while Loupos, Sindy, Rigas, and the others brandished weapons, ready to bar my path.

  “There is no escape, Leo,” Loupos shouted from afar. “You brought this upon yourself. You must be sacrificed to the curse to stop it from running wild. You have caused us great trouble.”

  I took no step backward, yet I dared not advance. Rigas had drawn his bow and aimed at me; I knew from experience how true his aim was. Even the veterans paled before his talent. Petros still had not left the doorway. He mourned and beat himself, oblivious to everything unfolding before him. The world around him seemed dead—until Stas, roused by the commotion, descended to the front door and saw what was happening.

  With swift movements he dragged his father inside, stepped out himself, and sprinted along the shore in the opposite direction from me and from the curse.

  I no longer knew whether I could run at all. The curse reached me and halted above my head. It bore no trace of humanity now; black blood poured ceaselessly from every part, while the shadow attempted—with its hands—to stitch the wounds closed. It pierced the child—now neither child in form nor size—and filled the rents with itself.

  It seized me in its grasp, lifted me from the ground, and thrust me into its maw. A lake of black liquid held me suspended at the surface while I struggled to grasp anything, to drag my body free. Yet it was not the mouth I should have feared.

  The ravenous shadow ceased trying to mend the holes. It tore the child apart and hurled itself skyward. The black fluid spilled across the surrounding ground and burned with black fire—even the stones themselves. The council members fled toward the lake and plunged in. I felt my skin riddled with holes, peeling away from the flesh beneath. I feared to open my mouth and cry for help, lest the slightest movement tear my lower jaw free.

  Lying on the ground, I heard a whistle in the air and—with difficulty—turned my eyes to see what was happening. The black shadow plummeted from the sky toward my body.

  Then absolute darkness.

  I know I exist. I know I think. I know I can feel everything—yet I can do nothing. I see only black void, like the one that raced through the forest, except now I cannot even do that. I cannot cry out. I cannot reach with my hands. I cannot sleep. I cannot eat. And the truth is I have begun to hunger and to grow drowsy.

  “Greeeeeetings,” a smile said within the black.

  Black lips, black teeth, black interior of the mouth. Only the faint white outline of the lips allowed me to discern the shape and understand that it was a smile.

  “You are not from here,” it said. “You have a different taste. You know, in all my years upon the island I have met many humans, yet they all tasted more or less the same. You are different. Where are you from?”

  I hesitated to answer. I looked up, down, right, left—yet felt no muscles move.

  “You are already dead, if that is what you wonder. I consumed you. Now only your consciousness remains to be extinguished. You see, I do not eat only bodies—that is the easy part. I eat souls as well. I need them, you understand, because they are more delicious, more beautiful. I am an admirer and devotee of beauty. The more beautiful something is, the more I long to possess it, to taste it.”

  “Am I dead?” I asked silently, then louder: “Am I dead? Is it over? Is this all? There is nothing more I can do to save myself?”

  “Nothing whatsoever,” it answered.

  Though a strange relief flooded my mind—the greatest, most absolute freedom I had ever known—my thoughts grew sorrowful. All the people I had known in life spoke of the freedom they desired, of the ways they struggled to obtain it, of how vital it was to their existence, of how they wished to bequeath it to their children.

  Such an arbitrary notion—an idea that can mean everything—yet everyone understands precisely what the person who utters it intends. And now I understood it in its uttermost degree, and lived it. For me, freedom had meant cowardice: fleeing the world, refusing responsibility. I had done it while my parents still lived. I remembered—even though they never spoke of it—passing their bedroom at night on my way to the bathroom, though moments before I had been playing computer games with friends. I remembered my mother weeping for me, worrying, and my father comforting her.

  That night she questioned her mistakes in raising me: that I was unsociable, closed in upon myself; that my friends, though good boys, were of the same kind and would not help me advance or become better. I remembered my father saying that at least there were my siblings, that they would ensure I would not remain alone and helpless in life. He said they would take over the company and gradually help me stand on my own feet.

  Then my mother compared me to my cousins, to the success of her own parents and my father’s. How everyone—grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins—had succeeded in life, while I lagged behind; how that caused them sorrow. My father tried to calm her, stroking her head and consoling her, yet he never contradicted her words. He never attempted to comfort her otherwise, never told her she was mistaken, never pointed to signs of my abilities, never said this phase might pass.

  That night was two days before my birthday.

  And yet the truth is I am making excuses even now. My mother’s anxiety and complaint had to be expressed sometime; that is why she spoke them to her husband, the man of her life. That is why my father said little more—because he knew it was anxiety and fear speaking, not her love. But I did not want to know it then. I felt responsibility falling upon me. I was supposed to become better, and I did not want to. I did not want to because it would mean effort, struggle on my part. And I have never liked struggle—only to have everything served to me on a platter and to be praised for it. I felt imprisoned.

  And yet here, now—liberated within absolute black, within emptiness and nothingness, freed of every responsibility, every obligation, with everything destined to end, unbound from every tie—I felt sorrow. Not because I would vanish. Not because I could never ask forgiveness. But because I never understood how to achieve anything in life that satisfied me. I never managed to feel useful—even to myself.

  I understood that freedom was not, for me, the most important thing—or rather, the freedom I had imagined was not what I truly wanted.

  But now all that is past. Alone in the darkness, with the smile waiting for me to speak, I did not think—I simply answered:

  “And yet there is still something I can do. I can call a friend—a friend who has watched over me and cared for me all this time, on this side of the coin and the other.”

  “There is no one,” it replied. “And if you will not answer what I ask, you will cease to exist as well.”

  “You are not as powerful as you believe. And the more you speak, the more I understand that I have other friends who can defeat you—who can save me.”

  “You are playing games. If you cannot answer me, I will waste no more time. After you there are others I must eat.”

  “And who will keep you company until someone else enters the house and speaks to you? If the house appears again so soon? Because the reason and cause of the house reappearing—and of the child—are me.”

  “And why are you the cause?”

  “Because I am a descendant of the lion, and everyone on the island—and beyond it—seeks to kill me. So guess, you curse—what will happen to you if I die? You will have to wait again for some child of an elemental to be born before you can appear once more.”

  Silence. It did not speak. Neither did I.

  …………………

  I have no idea how much time passed. Then the black began to tear, like cloth being rent. And in the place where the smile had been, the small child appeared once more—gazing up at me from below—and said:

  “Are these friends of yours as strong as you claim?”