Wulver blinked his eyes. “Dead? You mean the Grey Man died on the mountain?”

“I mean he was never alive,” the Dullahan said. “Hasn't been for centuries.”

“He's a ghost then.”

“No, he still has his body.”

“He's a... ghoul?”

“Ah, that’s a better word, but it still falls short.”

“Why does it fall short?”

“A dead body becomes a ghoul when a demon takes possession of it. The Ancient King’s soul still lingers in his mortal flesh.”

“Along with the demon?”

“Indeed.”

Wulver’s hairs were on edge. “Sounds horrific.”

“It is.”

“And you want me to go and stop this entity?” Wulver said.

The body nodded.

“How am I going to accomplish that?” Wulver asked. “It is not even alive from what you say.”

“You must find a way yourself,” the Dullahan said.

“How?” Wulver asked again.

“I can’t say. I have interfered too much myself by telling you this. All you have to know is that if you don’t find a way, no one else will. Now before you speak, ask yourself, dear Wulver, who else would be able to protect the island except you?”

Wulver had no answer. The Dullahan was right. He was the only one there to care in any proper capacity against the newfound threat. He had to do it himself. But fighting an undead entity all by himself…

“Please,” Wulver said softly. “Help me. Any way you can.”

The herald closed his eyes and breathed slowly. He opened them after a moment and smiled. “Fine. I suppose I should lend you a hand or two.” His body picked up his head and stood up and went looking around Wulver’s home. He came back bringing Wulver’s axe from the fireplace and fishing rod from the pantry. Taking out his knife from the scabbard on his belt, he carved strange flowery runes upon the wood of the axe and then of the rod. The runes gave a faint green light.

“Here,” he said, resheathing his blade. “I have enchanted your axe and your rod. Nothing will be able to break them. From the axe head to the handle, from the rod to the line and hook, a giant’s blow will not crush them nor dragon’s fire flame them. They will serve you well Until you come back from your journey. Now, I must be off.”

Before Wulver could stop the otherworldly creature, he had picked up his head and already was outside upon his steed. It passed in the blink of an eye. The Dullahan galloped away into the darkness.

“Farewell, Wulver!” the Dullahan’s voice reverberated from the darkness. “Good luck!” He gave a laugh so horrible and the night outside was so dark that Wulver ran inside and bolted the door and hinged a chair against it.

It was another sleepless night for Wulver. He woke up tired beyond belief and worried beyond comfort. He would have stayed there moping if not his stomach grumbled him to act or starve. So he took his fishing rod. As he was stepping out, he glanced back at the axe on the dining table and decided to take it as well. He wanted to test the enchantments on his tools and also because fish and wood were getting short.

First, he went up and found a grove of alder trees that looked like white stones due to the blanketing snow. He struck the tree with the flat part of the axehead with as much strength. The iron was embedded into the bark but the axe didn’t break. “So it’s truly enchanted,” Wulver concluded. He cut down the tree and dragged it in front of his cabin and left it there for later chopping.

He made his way down to the sea and shivered at the icy breeze. The shore was foggy which made him a little nervous, but he steeled himself and ventured forth on his boat to catch a fish before he caught a cold. He didn’t have to wait long this time. The line caught on immediately.

Three big tunas hung and swung on Wulver’s back as he made his way back to his cabin. He was in a better mood with his catch and his mind had cleared. He noticed the forest was quiet, quieter than it was usually in winter. The whole island seemed asleep under the blanket of snow. And it showed no sign of waking up. Something dropped in front of Wulver, terribly frightening him for a moment. He stooped down and picked it up. It was a curled-up dead bird.

No, not asleep, Wulver thought. Dying. He trudged home.

That night Wulver sat in his bed, strumming softly on his lute. The moon was shining bright in the sky and the clouds were draped with its light and looked like river foam. He would love to see the river flowing again in all its torrent. He would love to see the salmon fleeting across the current, jumping and spraying water that would glisten in the sun. He would love to see the green and the lichens on the hazels, the alders, the sycamores, the bumbling bee, the shy grice, the wandering woodpecker, the nocturnal owl. He would even love to see the fox in his pantry and the six bears at his doorstep if it meant for the winter to be over.

Autumn comes

the Summer is past

Winter will come quite soon

Stars will shine clearer

Skies seem nearer

Under the Harvest Moon

Autumn comes

but let us be glad

Singing an autumn tune

Hearts will be lighter

Nights be brighter

Under the Harvest Moon

Absentmindedly, Wulver strummed but didn’t sing anymore. He reminisced about summer, autumn, and spring. They felt so far away as if they were never there, and all of his memories were but fanciful imaginations of his cold-beaten mind. A golden morning, dew sliding off blades, soft leafy forest floors, and of fish convulsing under swift, flowing streams.

He stopped strumming. He got out his window and climbed to the roof and eyed the white mountain far away. He sighed at first, but then gave a hmph!

“Fine,” he said.