SPRING was in the air and the garden was such a wonderful sight to behold, with flowers in riotous bloom and the birds flirting around in a beauty of their own. Aryan watched his little sister from the top verandah of the huge colonial house, as she skipped around the garden with her little basket filling it with fallen flowers from the English thistle and frangipani trees. His eyes wandered to the huge flamboyant tree, its branches spreading like giant arms as though protecting what stood at its roots, a white church-like tomb, a masterly architectural piece of the colonial era. From the very first day Aryan moved into the house with his family, he had felt a strange fascination towards the tomb, as it stood there in the garden, an interesting emblem of the past, cloaked in mystery.

Legend had it that over a century ago, the master’s little son had fallen ill and even though doctors who sailed the seas tried to save him, he died and was buried in the garden, for the master and his wife could not bear to part with their only son. The following night, when the moon hid behind the clouds and darkness enveloped the garden, a doctor from the far east who had heard of the sick boy and the master’s desperation to save his child arrived on a dark horse, but he was too late, for the sword he had brought had magical powers to save the sick and dying. The master and his wife thought that maybe it wasn’t too late, that maybe the magical powers of the sword could bring back their little boy. So they had opened the crypt, but the powers of the sword could not bring him back to life, it could only preserve his body. The doctor was sent away with a bag of gold pieces and the sword was left in the tomb. Once each year, on the night of his son’s death, when darkness blanketed the garden, the master would open the tomb to look at his son’s cherubic little face as he lay in peaceful sleep, the magic sword at his side. Years later, at the death of the master and his wife, the tomb was sealed forever. The story goes on that anyone who, over the decades, tried to open the crypt, met with a tragic end, So it stayed untouched and intriguing to this day.
Aryan did not believe too much in legend and fairy tales. He was more of a boy with a scientific mind and his first thought would have been to excavate the tomb to look for buried treasures, But the story intrigued him. The old gardener lady did not too like his deep interest in the crypt and she said to Aryan’s mother,
“Missus, don’t leh de boy trouble de tomb or the master will get angry, he comes every dark night on his horse.”
No one heeded her warnings, they thought she was too superstitious. But when Aryan started having dreams of a little white boy playing in the garden, with a sword that glinted like diamonds, he thought,“Could this really be true?”
One night he walked down the long winding steps to the garden and looking around to make sure no one was around, he said in a whispered tone, “Are you there, for real. Can I see you or is this just a fairy tale?”
Later that night, he laid in bed listening to the hooting of the owl outside his window and his eyes closed in sleep, thinking of the little white boy and the magic sword. Aryan wasn’t sure if it was a dream or it was real, but he heard voices, strange voices and following the sound, he went downstairs into the garden and stared in speechless awe at the boy playing with his sword that created waves of dancing stars, illuminating the night. The master sat on a white horse watching his son play, a smile on his face. The boy ran up to Aryan and put the sword to his neck, demanding,
“Who are you?”
“I’m Aryan.”
“What are you doing in our house?”
“I live here, now.”
“Are you here to steal my sword?”
“No, I just want to know if the legend is true, if you are real.”
“A legend, I’m a legend?”
“It’s been a long time.” Aryan said
The boy turned to look at his father, who nodded his head. He withdrew the sword from Aryan`s neck and said,
“You wouldn’t want to be my friend, would you?”
“Sure.”
Aryan wasn’t scared at all, nor did he think it strange to become friends with a boy who died over a century ago and as the night slept, two little boys of the present and the past played with each other and there began a great friendship. One night, the white boy handed the sword to Aryan and said, “I want you to feel its power, for you can have its use.”
“How can I use it?”
“Once you believe in its power and want to use it for good deeds, it will come to you when you wish.”
Aryan took the sword and a strong shudder passed through his body. He felt a mixture of awe and fear.
“Do not be afraid,” the boy said. “It has unique powers for it’s something precious of the past and it will help you when you wish, for you are my friend.”
The boy threw the sword in the air and fireworks lit the sky, then it vanished. Aryan closed his eyes and wished and in a wink, the sword appeared in his hand.
“Awesome,” he laughed.
The little white boy and Aryan smiled at each other, for the strange and wonderful friendship they shared and a magic sword.