The Ghost in the Garden by Dan Crawford

The little village of Merodale sat high in the mountains. It was cool there, and dry, but the ground was so thin, over the rocks of the mountain, that not much food could be grown. The people of Merodale could grow only just barely enough for themselves.

Between Merodale and the three largest mountains that cast their shadows over the village, however, there was a garden. Once, long ago, everyone in Merodale knew, there had been a mighty palace there. The great person who had lived in the palace had had dirt and plants and gardeners brought in to make a beautiful place for his family. There were fruit trees and nut trees and berry bushes and little streams and ponds with fish in them.

The palace had fallen down years ago. No one in Merodale could remember ever seeing it when it wasn’t just a pile of stones. But the garden was still there, full of weeds now, and foxes. Every autumn, when the people of Merodale looked over their own tiny plants and trees, they would think about the garden, and how big it was, and how much food they could grow there.

“I wish we could go up to the garden,” they’d say. “It would be enough if we could just pick a few apples, or catch a fish in the pond.”

Some people did go up to the garden now and then. And they did get apples. They’d hear a rustle in the leaves, and bang! an apple would hit them in the forehead, or on the arm. And something nobody could see would go running off through the trees.

Or sometimes a woman would go to the pond to try to catch one of the fish. And a hand would grab hold in her hair and push her head under the water until she nearly drowned. Something she couldn’t see would laugh, and splash through the pond as she gasped for breath.

So no one went up to the garden unless they were truly hungry. “There’s something in there,” they said. “A spirit from the forest, or a demon from the mountains; don’t go in.”

It had been that way for years and years. Now and then some brave villager would sneak into the garden just to see if the spirit was still there, only to be pushed into the pond or knocked down by apples. So the people of Merodale grew what food they could on the little thin land that they had.

One day a wandering magician chanced to come upon Merodale. The people of Merodale had heard of such men but had never seen one, for few came so far north. For his own part, the magician was glad to see Merodale, for cities and even villages were rare and set far apart, so close to the mountains.

He rested in Merodale for several days, helping the people with such magic as he knew, curing a few sick pigs, bandaging broken arms, and telling them what the weather was going to do. The people gave him a share of their food for this. If he noticed that there wasn’t much food, and that it wasn’t very good, he never complained.

But he did ask, one afternoon, “Why does no one farm the land over by the trees up there? You might find it good land for growing.”

“We can’t go up there,” whispered Young Josh, the potato farmer. “There’s a ghost.”

The magician sat up and stared at the trees. “A ghost, is it?” he asked. “What sort of ghost?”

“Are there sorts of ghosts, then?” said Old Linda, the baker. “This is the only ghost we’ve ever seen.”

“I suppose he’s seen plenty of ghosts, to know what sorts they are,” laughed Vivon, the pigherd. “Aye, and gone to have dinner with them.”

The magician stood up. “I’ve talked with ghosts,” he said. “It may be I shall talk with this one.”

“Maybe,” said Vivon. “Maybe not.”

Medina, the mayor, stood up to walk over to the magician’s side. “Stranger,” she said, “if you could tell the ghost we need to use the garden, you would have our thanks forever.”

“I will not live forever,” said the magician. “But you may thank me if I come back.” He picked up his walking stick and started for the tall trees. The people followed him to the edge of town and then stood to watch until he had disappeared into the shadows.

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.”

And they did. They took away the old stones of the palace and built new paths with them. They tore out all the weeds and brambles and raked up the dead leaves. The fruit trees were given good care so that instead of small, hard apples, they had big ripe ones. The people of Merodale had enough food at last.

And they were never again troubled by the ghost. Except, now and then, when the wind blows cold off the mountains, some people say they hear a tiny, lonely voice calling, “I’m five! I am five!”

Загрузка...