They were in the valley when they saw the fire – a pinprick on the slope, light welling out.

It was promising.

They crept through the trees, uphill, over stones and up loose mounds of dirt. They closed in on the fire, watched it through the dark forest.

The fire burned beside a pile of stones, and a boy stood alone at the foot of the pile, head tipped forward on his chest, sound asleep.

They moved out of the trees, towards the pile and the boy. He snorted awake.

“Give us your gold,” said the first.
“And your shoes,” said the second.
“And your coat,” said the third.

He took off his coat and shoes and threw the clothing at them. He didn’t run.

“Your gold,” said the first.

“I wouldn’t have gold on vigil,” said the boy.

“They pile rocks on their dead,” said the third.

The first looked at the stones. “They put gold on their dead?”

“You can’t have it,” said the boy.

“Don’t lie,” said the first, and it WAS a lie.

Under the stones was gold on the body.

They stamped out the fire before they left.