In the neighboring hut, a baby was bawling his head off. The forest, echoing his cry, sang an incessant evil song. The rustling of leaves became either human voices or the ringing of bells. On nights like this, when the Howl-Wind raged, no one slept. The little children cried as one, anticipating trouble. As long as Ruta could remember, the villagers were always missing a chicken, or even a calf, after such nights. And after sunset, children were not allowed not only into the yard, but even near the windows.