Kids' Book Club

Out of hunger, and in fear of the plague that stalked the bazaars of old Damascus, the thief Hassan was driven to a reckless act. Climbing by way of vine and gutter to the heights of the Roman bathhouse, and avoiding the most perilously ruined sections of the wall, he ran like a rat along the topmost parapet, swung himself into the boughs of the nearby cedar, and by scrambling amidst the grey-green shadows, drew close to the only open window in the tower of the magician.
    Far below Hassan the midday sun lay on the road. No one was visible; silence beat strongly in his ear. He crouched on the branch, concealed amid the foliage, and studied the smooth, bright stonework of the tower. It was built by demons, so the story went, back in his grandfather’s time. One day, there’d been nothing here but rubble and the tree; the next, up rose the completed tower: narrow, featureless, angular as a tooth.
    The magician, it was said, lived there in splendour, his vaults filled with gold, wearing robes of silk from Samarkand, eating banquets placed upon his table by his host of demon slaves. It was this last luxuriance that interested Hassan. The idea of it had made his knotted stomach twist for weeks, until at last he overcame his fear.  
    He was a small youth that starvation had made smaller, his shoulder blades jutting like axe heads beneath the fabric of his tunic. His hair was thick, his oval face pinched and shrunken. His eyes were bright and watchful, with that extra sheen that comes with illness, before the light goes out. When he moved he had the soft tread of the cats that thronged the city, and a similar delight in high places and narrow holes, and in hunting things weaker than himself. Now he crouched on the branch with a cat’s patience, staring at the window just a three-foot jump away.
    All was quiet, all was still. Hassan took his dagger from his belt. Then he shifted his weight, rocked backwards, sprang out across the gulf – and landed, silent, on the sill.
    Sunlight shone hot against his back, but the interior of the tower was dim. His eyes adjusted. What did he see? A little boy sitting on a pile of cushions in the centre of an empty room, reading from a book.
The boy glanced up at Hassan, smiled peaceably, and continued reading.
    Hassan studied the child. He was small and scrawny, the magician’s apprentice perhaps. He wore a golden bracelet on his arm.
    “Where is the magician?” Hassan said at last.

“He has gone,” the child replied. “Now there is only me.” He studied the book. His fingers played with the bracelet on his wrist.
    “What is that you wear?” Hassan asked. The thing looked valuable. If he took it from the child, he could sell it at the bazaar.
    “This is a wishing charm,” the child said. “It grants the desires of whoever wears it. If you like―” It smiled at him with bright, white teeth― “You can borrow it for a while.”
    Hassan hung back, crouching at the window. Was it a trap? There was something odd about the child: his confidence, his eerie calm.
    “You could wish yourself a meal,” the child advised. “It looks as though you need it.”
    The pain in Hassan’s belly decided him. He hopped down off the ledge. “Very well.”
    The child eased the bracelet off his narrow wrist and held it out, glinting in the dimness of the room. Hassan took it and slipped it on, skin crawling, waiting for some terrible result, but the gold felt cool and pleasant on his arm.
    “Just wish,” the child said. “Wish for whatever you want.”
    Hassan said: “I wish for cake.” In a twinkling a silver platter appeared before him, piled with seed-cakes glistening with honeyed fruit. Hassan could not resist. He fell upon the seed-cakes with delight, and they were just as delicious as they looked. He ate for a long time. “Have some yourself,” he said, with his mouth full.
    “Oh, I’m not hungry,” the child said. “I’ve eaten recently.”
    When Hassan got his breath back, he wished for bread and meat and wine, and all these things were brought to him as well. He ate until he could eat no more.

The child had been watching him the while. “May I have the band back now?”
    Hassan hesitated. He thought of his life down in the dusty alleys, of its hunger and its many hardships. He looked at the wretched rags he wore. Anger filled him; his heart beat fast. He came to an abrupt decision. He said: “I wish that this child’s head be cut from his body, and his corpse removed, and that I be made master of this tower.”
    As he spoke it, so it was done.
    Laughing, Hassan went about the tower and found it empty. He wished for carpets and tapestries, and treasures from a dozen lands. He wished for a mirror, and clothed himself in jewels and silken robes. Now he was a thief no more, but a great magician of wealth and power.
    The months passed. Hassan grew plump and lazy. He flew about the city on a carpet, buying luxuries with coins that dropped sparkling from the air. His enemies he killed, kings cowered before him. Everything he desired was brought to him by way of the magic charm.
    Only two things spoiled his contentment. The first: he could not remove the bracelet. He could spin it, shift it, even scratch beneath it, but never slip it off his wrist.
    The second was more unsettling. Something was following him at the margins of his vision. It hung far back amid the clamour of the city streets, a small grey shape, tremulous and indistinct, like a shadow abandoned in the sun. To begin with Hassan dismissed it as a product of his fancy; as time went on, and the shape grew slowly nearer, it preyed upon his mind.
    Wishing did not get rid of it. In fact, every time he used the charm the shape moved closer, little by little, then in ever bigger jumps. He began to make out certain details: wide, empty eyes, a whitely smiling mouth. It rather resembled the figure of a little child, only scooped out and hollow, as if made of mist or cloud…

Perhaps, if Hassan had stopped using the wishing charm, his story might have had a better end. At first, he tried. He spent the gold stored in his coffers. When this ran out, he sold several of his treasures to buy more food. But as his supplies grew limited, so he became hungry, restless and impatient. And soon he was once again wishing for this and wishing for that… until the night when, returning to his tower, he looked up to see the ghost-child hovering inside his door.
    Hassan gave a wild cry. He fled up through the tower, stumbling on stairs, tripping on carpets, never daring to look behind him. He reached the topmost room, slammed the door and locked it fast. He walked stiffly to his chair. He sat in it, alone amid his gold and riches, his eyes tight closed.
    Everything was silent. Hassan opened his eyes. He looked back over his shoulder…
    There was the ghost-child waiting by the wall.
    Hassan hid his face. His throat was dry. “Wine,” he croaked. “I wish for wine!”
    In a twinkling a glass appeared before him, filled with blood-red wine. But as Hassan reached out to take it, he found the ghost-child floating right beside him, smiling its hollow smile. 
    “One more,” it whispered in his ear. “You have one more wish remaining.”
    Hassan fell to his knees. “No!” he cried. “No! Take the bracelet back! Please, just take it back!”
    “Thank you. Your wish is granted,” the ghost-child said. And leapt upon him.

Next morning, dawn light shone through the open window in the tower. What did it find? Just a well-fed child sat reading on a pile of cushions, toying with a golden bracelet on its arm.