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

It wasn’t an easy walk. Where there used to be paths, weeds were grown up and tangled. The magician pushed some aside with his walking stick. He came to the heaps of stones that had been a palace once and looked around. There was nothing to see but stones.

He passed under a stone arch and stood in the garden. He could see where the garden paths used to be, but they were dusty with crumbled leaves from years of autumn. Stooping under a vine, he marched toward the pond, scaring a rabbit that had been hiding under a broken bench.

“Are you all that lives here, Bunny?” asked the magician.

Something whistled, and he turned around. His stick was in his hand, and when he saw the apple coming at him, he swung at it and knocked it away.

“Ha!” said someone or something. “Ha ha! Ha ha ha!”

The apple was a hard one and flew across the garden. As the magician watched, it stopped and hung just a few feet from the ground.

“Hee hee!” squealed a voice from over by the apple. The apple bounced in the air and then came flying back at the magician.

He waited for it, brought his stick around, and knocked it away again.

It sailed over to the pond and landed with a splash. “Oh ho ho!” said the voice. Eight little splashes rippled the pond, going out toward the apple. There was a moment of silence, and then, with another splash, the dripping apple rose into the air again.

“I’m glad you came!” said a voice in the pond. The apple flew up in the air and dropped for whatever it was to catch it. “You’re the only person who ever stayed to play!”

“Ah,” said the magician. He sat down on the edge of the broken bench. “And who are you?”

The apple came toward the edge of the pool with little splashes moving along underneath it. “Oh, I’m Than,” said the voice.

The magician nodded. “Are you a ghost?”

“Of course not!” said the voice. “I’m a boy!” The apple floated over dry land. Beneath it now was a double line of little footprints.

The magician nodded again. “You have been here many years.”

“I have not!” said Than. “I will be only six on my next birthday.”

“When is that?” said the magician.

“I don’t remember,” said Than.

The magician crossed his legs. A big wet splotch appeared on the ground before him, as though someone wet had sat down. “Where’s your father?” the magician asked.

“My father was a soldier,” said Than. “He died in the wars.” The apple came to rest in a little pile of leaves.

“How old was he?” asked the magician.

“Oh, he was really old,” Than said. The apple rolled down the pile of leaves and then back up. “Almost thirty, I think.”

“Who was your mother?” the magician asked.

The apple bounced up into the air, where Than caught it with invisible hands. “My mother was the daughter of the king. She died when the soldiers came through the palace.”

“How old was she?” asked the magician.

“She was very pretty,” said Than.

The magician nodded. “But how old was she?”

“I don’t know,” said Than.

“Was she thirty, too?”

The apple bounced into the air and was caught higher, as though Than was standing up again. “Maybe,” said Than. “Let’s play.”

“In a minute,” said the magician. “Do you remember the king’s name?”

“Our king?” said Than. “Of course I remember. Our king was Simon of the Mighty Heart.”

“Simon of the Mighty Heart?” said the magician. “King Simon died three hundred years ago.”

“I knew that he died,” said Than.

The magician leaned forward and pointed his stick at the apple. “If Simon was your king, then you are not five years old,” he said. “You are three hundred and five.”

“I’m not,” Than told the magician. “I am five. You want to come see the fish?”

“You died three hundred years ago when the soldiers came through the palace,” said the magician.

Than threw the apple at him, but missed. “I did not! I’m not dead!”

The magician stood up and said, “You are older now than your parents ever were. You are dead and you must go to heaven.”

“I am not!” said Than, running back toward the pond. “I’m five! And I wouldn’t know the way to heaven!”

“You are three hundred and five,” said the magician, “and you have been dead for three hundred years. Go! Heaven lies above the mountains.”

“I don’t know the way,” said Than. His footprints stopped at the very edge of the pond. “I shall get lost. They never let me go into the mountains. They said I could when I was older, and I’m not older. I’m five!”

“You are three hundred and five and you must go,” said the magician. He pointed his walking stick at the high peaks of the mountains. “Now go! I order you to go!”

There was a whistle and a wail as something stirred the dust and leaves by Than’s footprints. The magician put his hands over his head and closed his eyes. Sticks and dirt flew past his head, and a cold wind screamed.

Then the garden was quiet. The magician opened his eyes. “Than?” he called. “Are you there?”

Nobody laughed or threw an apple. The magician picked up his stick and walked down to Merodale.

“You may go up to the garden,” he told the people. “No one will bother you.”