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The wind that night came out of the north, straight down Hudson’s River, and rattled the leaded windows of all the houses in the colony. To the legions of unsuspecting, mortal dullards—the pee-stained wretches at the taverns on Pearl Street overlooking the East River, the devout fools raising their lockstep voices in hymnal piety over at the church, the mewling brats in their beds hoping for a visit from dear old Sinterklaas—it was just another night in early December.

They took comfort in the sound of snow grains ticking against the glass. It must have seemed to them like the kiss of angels come to bless their pathetic souls. They weren’t listening carefully enough.

Winter weather is always worse in the eye of the storm. So from where I stood on the bridge overlooking the little canal that cuts through the southern tip of Mannahatta, the wind slashed savagely at my nose and lips and the tops of my ears. Yes, I thought. Yes. Like that. I drank it all in. It was intoxicating, as comforting to me as you might feel slipping into a warm bath.

The wind rose and howled. The rushing swirl of snowflakes collected in the gables of those amiable Dutch facades. Below me, empty barges and river scows strained against their ropes and thunked their noses, as if trying to keep warm. 
Our canal is a man-made waterway, hastily dug eighteen years ago by drunkards, prisoners, and enslaved African men. The bridge is young and stout, but nothing fancy. Plain planks ripped by my sawmill upriver and held together by hand-cut iron nails. I gripped the railing, relishing for a moment the cold, purifying bite of the splinters.

I couldn’t tarry long on the bridge. I was due to take a trip up north, and wanted my leave-taking to be observed by as few people as possible.
I savored the drop in temperature and listened to the creak of the wooden signs dangling from chains over every shop window. On Stone Street, just steps from where I conducted my little experiment, a plucky brewer dashed out of his tavern to roll another barrel inside. The oaf beat his arms with his hands and swore at the weather as he scurried back indoors.

That’s right, I thought. Lift your goblets and say your prayers to your heart’s content. Beginning tonight, Saint Nicholas’ Eve in the year of your Lord, 1643, the gods of men are banished from this patch of earth. Christ cannot save you, nor can dear, kindly Sinterklaas. Henceforth, New Amsterdam belongs to me—Jack Frost.

Or so I thought. Apparently even I am capable of self-delusion.
Once every hundred years I find it useful to change my name and take up residence in a new locality. It keeps meddlers off my back, and puts them off the scent. That time around, my name was Jacob Vorstman. I was a Dutchman.

I lived in a two-story place just off the Heere Gracht. It was a pretty house of timbers and glazed bricks, with tall windows that faced the canal. The house had been built to my specifications, with hinged shutters and half-doors constructed in that homey Dutch style. On the first floor, the walls of my counting-house were fitted on three sides with glass panes. I had what I regarded to be the best view in town: a 270-degree panorama of the young city—the canal, its four lovely bridges, the fort, and, if I craned my neck east to Pearl Street, the East River. From my desk I could see much of the city as it worked from dawn to dusk, and well beyond.

Earlier that day, I had sat at my desk in front of a slightly opened window, to better enjoy the freezing draft. I had a small cup of wine and was looking over my accounts when I heard a tick, tick, tick against the windowpane.

A black bird perched on the outdoor sill. I reached for the handle and pushed the window open a tad more. The bird cocked its head and tried to sneak in.

“Stop right there, Michael,” I said. “This is not an invitation to make yourself comfortable. I just don’t want to yell through the glass.”

“I come on business.”

“Business? My friend, to me business means to be engaged in a pursuit which leads to profit. But why do I suspect that what you’re about to say will lead only to the wasting of my time?”
“Something grave is about to happen. Soon. Tonight. The wheels are already in motion. The men already in transit.”

“Not my problem.”

I started to close the window.

“Please, you must listen.”

“Every time I listen to you, I lose time out of my life. I won’t do that again. It’s Winter. Time to make ice. Time to make money.”
“A wicked crime is about to happen!”

“No doubt. Look around, friend. We’re a colony of thieves, outcasts, and pirates. Crimes are a stiver a dozen.”

“Two innocents shall die tonight!”

“Some live, some die,” I told the bird. “Simple as that. Go bother someone else.”

I pulled the window shut.

The bird pecked at the pane. Finally, in frustration, he inserted his face straight through the glass, which bubbled and parted as if it were a pool of water. Now the bird’s head was indoors, his body outdoors.

“You’re the only one who can do this. The only one who can help.”

“Why do I doubt this?”

“I cannot reveal much. I have arranged your transportation. The horse knows the way to carry the sleigh. Will you go?”
“Why should I, Michael?” I said. “What you and the Ones Who fail to see is that when one chooses to live among the people, one grows accustomed to workdays, deadlines, income. Such are the necessities of life on this side of the veil. Boo hoo—two will die tonight? What of the thousands dying elsewhere in the world this very moment? Why do you not press me into service to help them? Because you know it would be impossible. Because you know that two more lives lost is nothing to be wept over. The people of the land, these mortals, are only becoming far more numerous.”

I nudged his beak gently back to the other side of the glass.
“Ekyal!” the bird moaned. “Ekyal!”

No one has called me by that name in centuries. The boy who answered to that name died four thousand years ago. 

“If they die, the treasure will be lost forever!”

I put down my quill.

“Treasure, you say?”