"Never really came up," Lucas mumbled.

"Well, I suppose it's not to be taken or talked of lightly, but still. You should have told me," he said to the boy. "I wish we had come early enough to see it, but sometimes fate bars the way. I remember the Straw Bear from last year, though – and many years before that. We always like to come to Low Ferry for the celebration."

"We're your favorite," the boy suggested.

"Because of the Straw Bear? Well, there are other villages and even some with other festivals, but none so...potent as yours. It's good to drive out the evil before the winter starts."

"Drive out the evil," I repeated, laughing. He fixed me with a sober look.

"People are kept too closely together when the snow binds them up, especially land-owners. If there's poison, that's when you'll see it seep out. Disputes between neighbors, between a husband and wife – accusations of theft and ill intent. And in other times witchcraft, too."

"What does the Straw Bear do about it, though?" the boy asked.

"A Straw Bear," Christopher said, leaning forward, "is the spirit of evil, wrapped round a man's soul. That's why you burn the straw, you know – you take the evil away and purify it. And that's our young Fire Man there, taking joy in the purifying. And Saint Christopher too, I'd bet."

"I've never been Fire Man," I said. "It's just something fun to do on Halloween."

"Mmh, still the skeptic," he said, fixing me with a steady look. "But you had your part to play regardless."

"Oh? And what was that?" I asked.

"You carried the evil away yourself."

"Christopher!" I laughed again. "I see the boy's been telling you stories."

"But you did," the storyteller insisted. "There are times it goes into a person, deep in – "

"Are you saying I'm evil?" I cocked an eyebrow.

"No," he said, with the air of a patient parent trying to talk sense with a child. "The evils of a place. They can go into a person, but a good soul throws them off again. You have a good soul, Christopher. You carry your burdens, just like your namesake. Our namesake."

"The evil went into him?" the boy asked excitedly. He looked at me, apparently expecting my head to burst into flames.

"And out again. We're told your heart gave way," Christopher said, leaning in to examine my face.

"It's an old problem. Not worth a mention," I said.

Christopher eyed me for a while, but then he leaned back and looked at the boy.

"A long time ago," he said, with the skill and cadence that made him the caravan's storyteller, "winter was a frightening time. Not like your books say," he added to Lucas, "not because they were afraid the spring wouldn't come again. They weren't fools, and they understood the cycle of time and nature. They knew spring would come. How long the spring took in the coming, what their fortunes would be when it came, whether they would survive the winter peacefully... that was frightening, eh? Uncertainty scares us. Makes us wary of each other, makes us selfish. People think they made sacrifices to please the gods, but I don't believe it. Farmers are pragmatists, like us – they have to be."

"Then why?" Lucas asked.

"Exorcism. Freedom from fear. I think a strong man took the whole of the burden of the people on himself and died to rid them of it." Christopher shook a finger at me when I opened my mouth. "I know what you think, Saint, that it's fairy tales from old men and superstitions for the gullible. We've had that argument. But you died all the same."

"The Friendly are mystics, Lucas," I said, grinning at Christopher's solemn expression. "They believe in things like curses and ghosts and the occasional god."

Lucas just gazed back at me gravely and nodded. It made me feel small, to have ridiculed an old man and expected Lucas to join in. Christopher, on the other hand, paid us no mind.

"We believe what we have reason to believe. You stay in one place for so long, you land-owners, but out in the world you might see things your books can't explain," he said. "It hurts no-one for me to believe, and helps no-one for you to be skeptical."

"No, perhaps not," I agreed. The boy's eyes were round as saucers, staring at him. Lucas looked intently thoughtful, as if an idea had just occurred to him.

"So there's no more evil to chase out this winter?" I asked indulgently.

"Not in Low Ferry," Christopher replied, smiling back. "Perhaps there will be, in time. We've heard things."

"You've heard about the twins," I said. "And Bertha."

"Two baby boys born hard when the roads were closed, the midwife dead not long after. I imagine such a thing frets at a mother."

"She'll get over it, she can't worry forever."

"Where children are concerned," Christopher said, "one can always worry. Still, things will sort themselves out," he added, standing with a grunt. "Come along. Dinner's ready."

We ate with the rest of the Friendly gathering around, elbow-to-elbow with us for the warmth the fires could give. They talked about the next village they were headed for when they broke camp at Low Ferry, and the likelihood of the roads being passable soon. Gwen mentioned that Lucas had fixed his roof himself -- I don't know when he told her that -- and that led to a debate about the best methods for insulating trailers and cars against the cold.