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"Hah-hnnh!" shouted Samhain.

The scythe came in a guillotine which chunked the head off an oak tree and felled a maple. A whole orchard of autumn apples fell into a marble pit somewhere. It sounded like a houseful of boys falling downstairs.

"I don't think he heard you, Ralph," said Tom.

They dived. They fell among rocks and shrubs.

The scythe ricocheted off the stones.

Samhain gave such a yell as brought an avalanche down a small hill nearby.

"Boy," said Ralph, squinched up, balled up, feet against chest, eyes tight. "England is no place to be a sinner."

Even as a final rain, a shower, a downpour of hysterical souls-turned-beetle, turned flea, turned stinkbug, turned daddy longlegs, scurried over the boys.

"Hey, look. That dog!"

A wild dog, mad with terror, raced up the rocks.

And its face, its eyes, something in the eyes--

"That couldn't be--?"

"Pipkin?" said everyone.

"Pip--" shouted Tom. "Is this where we meet you? Is--"

But whoom! The scythe fell.

And yipping with fright, the dog, bowled over, slid down the grass.

"Hold on, Pipkin. We know you, we see you! Don't scare off! Don't--" Tom whistled.

But the dog, yarping with Pipkin's own dear sweet scared voice, was gone.

But didn't an echo of his yip come back from the hills: "Meet. Meet. Meet. Meeee..."

Where? thought Tom. Criminently, where?

Samhain, scythe uplifted, gazed all about, happy at his games.

He chuckled a most delicious chuckle, spat fiery spittle on his horny hands, clenched the scythe tighter, swung it up, and froze....

For somewhere, someone was singing.

Somewhere near the top of a hill, in a small clump of trees, a small bonfire flickered.

Men like shadows were gathered there, lifting up their arms and chanting.

Samhain listened, his scythe like a great smile in his arms.

"O Samhain, God of the Dead!

Hear us!

We the Holy Druid Priests in

This Grove of Trees, the great Oaks,