I held back a little, wandering away from the others, content to look up at the stars through the tree branches and listen for the inevitable shout of Straw Bear! Straw Bear! once someone finally found him.

I'd managed to lose sight of everyone, which is no mean feat even in the dark, when I heard a bird-cry off to my left. It was followed by what I thought was the rustle of wings, and instinctively I turned to look for the source of the noise. There was no sudden flight against the sky, however, and no fluttering feathers – instead I came face to face with a wide sheath of plaited straw, behind which a pair of eyes flashed and darted wildly.

I suppose if we were less serious, if it really were a children's game like everyone pretended, Charles would have dropped a wink and lifted his mask. Hello Christopher, where's the rest? Run along and don't tell. I hope I look all right.

I might have winked back and told him he was terribly fearsome and said Good luck scaring the children, but I didn't. Because it wasn't a game, really, not in Low Ferry.

Instead the figure growled and raised his arms, surrounding me in the musty-sweet smell of dry grass and the shifting shadows of his braided costume. Fear rose in my throat, real terror, and I yelled in answer to his low groan.

"Straw Bear! Straw Bear!"

From all around me came the immediate sound of crashing as would-be rescuers ran through the undergrowth. I shied back from the figure and shouted "Straw Bear!" again, even as I fell on my elbows, staring up at him. Two women arrived on the heels of my shouting and batted at the upraised arms of the bear with their sticks, driving him off. He howled and shambled away while they gave chase.

"Straw Bear!" they shouted, terribly serious, more people joining them as they went. I could hear the groans and growls receding in the distance as I was helped to my feet – they sounded like they were moving back towards the cemetery now, as they should be. My heart was beating fast and my breath came short, knocked out of me by the fall.

"You okay, Christopher?" Jacob asked, arriving in a cluster with a few other farmers, and now there were grins all round.

"Fine," I gasped. "Let's go on, we'll miss the Fire Man – which way is it?" I added, rubbing my chest with one hand.

"This way," someone else said, and we tromped back in the direction of the cemetery, following the noise, Michael offering me a shoulder to lean on as I stumbled along. I couldn't seem to get my breath back.

We emerged from the trees to see the Straw Bear at bay, standing in front of a lumber-pile in the center of the cemetery. The sticks fell in uneven rhythm on his arms and chest, not the random attacks of children but the purposeful, symbolic drumming that others in Low Ferry's past had used to drive off evil –

Thud-ump-ump-thud-ump

Thud-ump-ump-ump-thud-ump

Even as we arrived the Bear roared defiance and the straw suddenly parted, revealing a disheveled and sweating Charles underneath. He shrugged the suit backwards and off, crying out in a very human voice, "Help me! Help me!"

Those who had attended other Halloweens in Low Ferry all knew where to look even before the fire flared to life. Behind the low graveyard wall was a sudden red glow, and a lithe body vaulted over the stone and ran across the graves, carrying a flickering torch made of rags dipped in pitch and wrapped around a long stick. He darted through the crowd, the flame trailing out behind him, and touched the torch to the Straw Bear costume as he ran past. It flared up bright, crackling merrily. The new Fire Man was good. He hadn't even broken stride.

He turned before he reached the bonfire wood and ran back again, leaping straight through the flame of the burning straw. The Fire Man's leggings were thick leather and he didn't wear a shirt which could have caught fire, so it was safe enough. Clearly at some point in our history the village had figured out that it was a good idea to keep the youths from setting themselves aflame, and had arranged a dress-code accordingly.

It was a wonderful sight, as it always is. The Fire Man's mask looked new, made of brilliant strips of red and orange silk stretched across a wire frame. It came to me as he jumped a second time, twirled and danced, and jumped across the flame again that I had seen that kind of mask in the workshop Lucas kept. Hard on the heels of that thought came the realization that Lucas was at the village revels after all.

He was the one leaping over and through the flaming remains of the Straw Bear's costume, the one laughing at the children who clapped and kept time for the dance steps on either side of the leaps. I recognized the cut of his hair and the visible shape of his chin and throat, even if I had never seen him move so quickly or smile so openly. He was different – no tension in his body, no hesitant looks or slouched shoulders.

My chest tightened further, but not with sentiment – it was still hard to breathe, even if I tried to inhale on the rhythm of the clapping hands and stamping feet. Lucas jumped the flame one last time and ran to the wood piled for the bonfire, throwing the torch into the center of it. The whole crowd burst into spontaneous applause as it exploded in light and heat. I was busy trying to get enough air in my lungs to call for help.

The problem was, in the end, that my heart had yet to stop beating triple-time since Charles ambushed me in the forest. I tried to keep up with the clapping, the shouting bounced around and around in my head, but I couldn't. I wanted to see the bonfire and see Lucas pull his mask off and pick a girl for the dancing, but everything was narrowing down to a pinprick of light. Pain was flaring in my chest and my throat felt like it was closing off.

It was in the middle of Low Ferry's oldest ritual, then, that it happened: my heart gave out entirely from the strain and shock and the blow I'd taken when I'd fallen.

To everyone's surprise, mine not least of all, I died.

***

Fortunately for me, it was a short death. Which is not to say that the process of dying was short (though that too) but rather the time I spent dead could be measured in minutes rather than on a scale of "now" to "judgment day".