Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 35, No. 10, October 1990

The concealed Tartars, familiar with many Slavic dialects, understood the gist of his words, and their wonder grew. The sorcerer talked to the beasts; they seemed to know what his commands were, and obeyed them. Obviously, the leopard had waited for permission before daring to play with the little dog. A natural predator, fierce and untamable, taking orders from a frail old man; this was magic of a high sort, and undoubtedly the farmer was not what he seemed but a powerful demon in disguise — but why the feeble body, unless it was to trap observers into rush action which could be met with terrible consequences for the sorcerer’s amusement?

Right now the two animals were frolicking like puppies. The mongrel would charge the leopard, barking in mock ferocity; the big cat, back humped, whiskers bristling, spat and snarled as if actually intimidated. Then one broad paw, its claws carefully retracted, shot out in a streaking motion too fast for most of its prey to counter. The little dog was gently flattened into helplessness. For a moment the snow leopard pressed its captive against the ground, unable to move; then Blackberry whimpered his submission and rather reluctantly was freed. Immediately the game began again, with variations.

The scouts continued to watch, their astonishment growing. It was well known to all that a leopard’s favorite food was dog. Many of the camp’s mongrels had been taken whenever the Horde passed near the higher ranges. Yet here were mortal enemies playing together; only sorcery could account for it, and their fear of the pseudo-farmer increased.

Meanwhile the old man, weary and aching, retreated to the shade of the lean-to and sat down, his back against the side of the structure. He watched his two pets with a benevolent, almost foolish, expression. His rheumy eyelids drooped, and he drooled a little.

It was time, the Tartars felt, either to withdraw or reveal themselves. Surely the magician was aware of their presence; no concealment could deceive such a master. If they lingered, without doing him honor, he might well blast them; his kind were touchy. So, after a hasty whispered exchange, they decided to go forward and do him homage.

As they approached the old man, their belief in this power grew, for instead of fear and flight, the normal reaction of civilians to their appearance, he just sat there, waiting for them, and the naive smile on his wrinkled face deepened.

“Welcome, brothers,” he greeted them in a cracked, wavering voice. “I have little to offer visitors, but there are wheatcakes in the hut, some fermented milk.” The pair, still gorged on beef from the ravaged farm, were not interested in such poor fare. Instead Tugai Bey pointed to the animals, which, after pausing briefly to appraise the strangers, were again frolicking.

“You must be a mighty sorcerer,” the scout said in his vile but comprehensible Slavic, “to converse with such a beast as the leopard and give it orders so that it sports with its natural prey instead of devouring it.”

The old farmer smiled. “It is the simplest magic of all,” he said. “Anybody can practice it, but alas, few do, preferring hate and conflict. The magic of love. I love them, and they love each other. Nothing more is needed.”

Baffled, the scouts eyed him, expecting some elaboration of that bizarre statement.

“I do not understand that,” Tugai Bey grunted. “Love is not sorcery. A man may love his father, his brother, maybe his chief, or perhaps, for a time, a woman, but that is natural, not magic.”

“Yes, it is,” the old man persisted. “Because of it you see a ferocious beast, a born blood-drinker, playing joyously, in all innocence, with a small, helpless thing he could smash with a single blow and eat with relish. Love is the sorcerer here, not I. Even when I am dead — which will soon be the case, since I am very old and tired, these two would be as brothers from the same litter. Some day,” he added, “this same magic will make all men live together in peace and harmony.” He was silent then, recalling muzzily the tiny leopard cub he had found years ago and reared with the black pup.

“I fear, nephew,” Tugai Bey whispered, “that this old sorcerer is unwilling to share any of his knowledge with us. Instead he speaks in riddles, and shows his contempt. Well, since he is not mortal, and holds great power, there is nothing we can do about it; it would be very dangerous to offend him.” He spoke in their own guttural tongue, and the farmer, still lost in the past, let his eyelids sag once more.

“Surely an arrow through the heart can kill even a magician,” Burlai Khan said.