GOLDEN APPLE
"He did not wish to die," the girl said, and smiled, twirling the flower. "Death must be a curious thing. Nothing ever dies here except those from outside."
"And what," demanded Argyle, "do they die of?"
"They die of the Snake," the girl told him thoughtfully, and looked down at the yellow flower. "The Sorceror put it here when he built the world. I think he meant it to keep out everyone but himself and me. But now. . . ." She sighed. "It does seem lonely here sometimes. The world is so small, and no one lives here any more except the Snake and the little creatures and me."
■ "Who was the Sorceror?" Argyle asked, fascinated. The girl put out her hand and took his in her smooth, cool fingers.
"Come up to the castle with me. The Sorceror has forgotten us long ago. He must be dead by now. Or has time gone by outside? There is no time here, you know. He wanted it that way. He dreaded old age. . . . So here it is always Now. But once you step outside, through the Shaking Land—you forget. It has something to do with time. It was only by accident the Sorceror found the way to come back, and after that—" She glanced up at him again, her small mouth quirking. "Shall I tell you, how he found the way back? Not yet, I think. Or perhaps I shall "Her smile promised that she would. Her fingers tightened on his.
"What about the Snake?" Argyle asked, his eyes searching the trees.
"Oh, I think it must be asleep now. It would have come for you sooner than this if it knew you were here at all. Perhaps in the castle I can hide you for a while." She said it unconcernedly. Death meant nothing to her, nor the passage of time. And Argyle could do nothing but walk beside her over the flowery grass, the unfamiliar tunic stiff against his knees as he moved.
All this was not a dream. It was vividly real, but he felt no terror yet of the danger he knew must come for him soon. The girl's fingers were warm in his, and her small, sad face enchanted him, smiling up as they walked through the sunny silence toward the castle.
He knew presently what she meant when she said that it must always be Now in this nameless world. For time had no meaning. They might have been hours approaching the castle gate, or only seconds. The vague, unfocussed thoughts of the little beings who peopled the world drifted idly through the air. Now and then a flash of murderous brilliance slashed across them and was gone. The Snake, perhaps, in its dreams. . . . But the girl's sidelong eyes were eloquent upon his, and her twining fingers soft, and the sad little face touched his heart with its loneliness and its strangeness.
"Presently you will go," she said, after a while. "And I shall be alone again. If I tell you the secret of the way back—would you come? I should like you to come."
"Tell me," he said. "I promise. I'll come back."
And so she told him. It was very simple. She led him by the hand into the castle hall and through it into a round, paneled room with a desk in its center and a quill pen sitting in a little carved box of sand. There was parchment paper on the desk, and a well of purple ink.
"These are the Sorcerer's," said the girl. "But I think he must be dead. . . . You can only come back if you remember, so you must write down the way and the secret of the pomander, and write down what lies inside the Shaking Land, so you will know your promise again, and remember me. . . . Sit down and write, John Argyle, and may you never forget as the others did. Please, John Argyle, remember me!"
So he wrote, with that plaintive little voice ringing in his mind. "Please remember me!" Its poignancy disturbed him as he scratched the quill of the long dead Sorceror over the Sorceror's parchment sheets, putting down the girl's beauty and her loneliness so that he could not forget them again, putting down the strange beauty of this world, and the menace of
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