Deep in the northern forests of a land that may or may not be mythical, there exists a tribe that has forgotten the art of dying. Occasionally, one of the more foolish or unfortunate of their number would fall out of a tree, or drown, or even get themselves eaten by wolves or bears. But, apart from these rare instances, death eluded them.

The climate was temperate, never too hot or cold. Rainfall kept the streams full and the trees plump and green, yet the sun still shone on most days. They were a happy people, a simple people with a simple God. Early each morning, before days business began, they would gather and offer their one prayer- That today, of all days, would not be the day that they rediscovered death.

Not even the elders could recall when they’d forgotten how to die, it...

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