“But when the boy leaped down the hillside shouting out the news of his victory, he found all silent among the trees. His love was lying on the ground, her flute still in her hand. The struggle between her great courage and her great fear had been more than her slight body could bear, and with the last note of music, she had died. This temple was built to the God of War to commemorate the killing of the dragon. Oh, shame that this story should be told here as something strange and out-of-the-way!” And shaking his head the old man returned to the village.

  Perhaps until then the boy had taken for granted the way things went at the temple. But now he saw everything with new eyes. Here a great deed had been enacted long ago and honoured in the building of these shrines. How wrong of the priests of to-day to allow the place to fall into disrepute! In a few years no one would come any more; the temple would be empty and ruined. Only the pine trees and the rocks of the steep mountainside would remember the young warrior’s courage; only the wind would tell of the song the maiden had played.

  Going about his tasks, the boy brooded over these things. He determined to speak to the head priest if he had the opportunity, and only a few days later the chance came. He had been ordered to clean out the pool which was overlooked by the small building where the priest invited his guests for tea. Fastening his garments high, the boy waded into the cold water with a broom of twigs, sweeping the rocks and hollows clean of the gathered silt. When all was shining he looked at his work, not quite satisfied. At last he broke off a branch of scarlet maple leaves—for it was autumn—and let it catch between two boulders.

  “I see that in spite of your rough exterior you have the soul of an artist,” said a voice behind him, and he turned to find that the head priest was standing near. “I suppose you are one of the temple servants? I think I have noticed you.”

  “The horse of the honourable War God is my especial charge,” murmured the boy, bowing.

  “You have shown a real sense of art in sweeping the pool,” said the head priest.

  This was the time to speak. Confused by his own daring, he said, almost in a whisper, “Pray forgive me. The temple, your honour must have noticed—the tiles! Ever since my insignificant arrival—how few people come! Matters grow worse and worse! So few offerings!”

  But the head priest stopped him, raising one old hand. “These matters disturb the tranquillity of my thoughts. I must suggest to you that you have behaved unsuitably in speaking to me in this manner.” And without again glancing at the boy he disappeared within the shadows of the temple.

  “Alas!” thought the other, gazing after him, “he is so old and gentle, he scarcely sees the world he lives in and cannot rouse himself to save us.” And he took his disappointment to the shrine of the white horse.

  A few nights later there arose a great storm. From behind the hill above the temple it poured. And with the wind came great torrents of rain that fell from the sky like cataracts, lit by flares of lightning, and resounding with thunder.

  Restless was the sleep of the priests that night and no one dared so much as to open a door upon the mad world outside, except the boy, who slipped away and ran through the turmoil to join the white horse.

  “I could not leave you alone,” he whispered, “when all the demons of the storm are loose.”

  But the horse did not seem frightened. He nuzzled the boy’s face, and then stood quietly, until at last the boy fell asleep, wet and cold as he was. But no sooner was he asleep than he heard a great voice calling:

  “Come hither, horse! Come hither that I may ride!” And looking up, he saw the white horse standing above him with raised head. The shrine doors had opened of themselves and outside he saw standing the dark form of the God of War himself, all in armour, the red lacquer of his face gleaming terribly in the flashes of lightning.

  Then the boy prostrated himself, but above him he heard the white horse answer:

  “And where shall we ride, O my master?”

  And the God of War answered in a voice that mingled with the thunder above the sound of the increasing cataract of the rain:

  “Against this temple of mine which has dishonoured me, shall we ride! And against this village which has forgotten me, shall we ride! And not one wall of this unworthy temple shall stand in the dawn, and not one man shall open his eyes upon the morning’s sun!”

  Then said the white horse:

  “Shall no one be spared, O my master?”

  And the War God cried:

  “Not one shall be spared.”

  Then said the white horse:

  “I will not come.”

  And at his words a silence seemed to come upon the tempest, a suspense that was broken only by the groaning of the trees.

  Then the War God cried in a voice that shook the shrine:

  “I will lash you with lightning! You shall feel the weight of my wrath like fire upon you! Once more I command you! Come forth!”

  And the boy felt the horse trembling above him, but once more he said:

  “I will not come, O my master.”

  Then the boy heard the rattle of the War God’s armour, as he moved his arm, and he shrank waiting for what was to come. But instead of the consuming flame he expected, one more question pierced the storm:

  “Why do you defy me?”

  And the white horse answered:

  “O my master, I defy you for the sake of love. There is one here who has served me since first we met, putting my need always before his own. It is for his sake that I have presumed to disobey you, and for his sake I yield up the life I have forfeited.”

  The night grew heavy with consideration, but at last the voice of the War God came:

  “Obedience is a virtue. Gratitude is also a virtue. For this one time I will not demand that you choose between them. And for your sake I will spare this temple and this village, though I shall return unless they mend their ways, and as a proof I leave my mark upon their door.”

  And with that came a last crash and blaze of thunder and lightning outside, and afterwards the storm died away, and even the wind was silent and only the heavy rain-drops dripping from the trees remained to show what a flood had poured over them.

  Then having embraced the knees of the white horse, the boy ran through the darkness and roused the priests, whom he found huddled together. He told them what he had seen and heard, and some were filled with awe and some scoffed and said he had been dreaming. But at dawn they found that the door of the temple itself had been struck by lightning, and the marvel was that there remained upon it a white scar shaped exactly like an arrow.

  And seeing this, no one doubted the boy’s story any longer. The old head priest resigned his office and retired into a life of contemplation, and the other priests set about repairing the temple they had so long neglected, and through all Japan the story spread until pilgrimages were made from the furthest provinces to behold the wonderful white horse who had turned the War God from his purpose, and the arrowshaped mark of the lightning upon the temple door.

  So between the offerings made by the pilgrims and the busy lives of the priests, the temple became more beautiful than it had ever been. In time the boy rose to be head priest, governing the affairs of the temple prudently and humbly, and never forgetting the love that bound him to the white horse, with whom he still spent long hours that made the days pass happily for them both.

  Virginia Hamilton

  THE YEAR HALLOWEEN

  HAPPENED ONE DAY EARLY

  The scariest night of the year? That’s Halloween. Halloween’s the last day—the thirty-first—of October. But in 1938 for Willie Bea, her family, and six million other people, it happened one day early.

  THERE WAS A commotion downstairs. For a minute Willie Bea couldn’t tell what was going on.

  Everybody was talking at the same time. She could hear her father moving fast from the door to the couch. Then something heavy fell on the couch and pushed the couch up against the wall. Whoever had fallen was quick to get up again because the springs of the couch squeaked the way they would when someone got up from them fast after sitting down on them hard. Willie Bea could tell that was what happened. It sounded like somebody was hurt bad or something, moaning and crying. It was a woman, sounding scared to death.

  “What’s the matter, what’s happened?” they heard Willie Bea’s mama say.

  “You have an accident with the car?” they heard her papa ask.

  “It’s awe-fel! It’s jus’ aw-awe-fel!” they could hear the woman cry, in bitter anguish.

  “What?” whispered Willie Bea.

  The moaning, crying voice sounded familiar.

  “What?” whispered Bay Sister.

  “Shhhh!” said Willie Bea. Carefully, she crept farther down the stairs. She had Bay Sister by the hand and she knew Bay Sister would take Bay Brother’s hand without her having to tell her. Someone always took Bay’s hand on the dark staircase. It was a closed staircase, steep and without a banister. Going down, a person had to touch one of the walls or lean on one for balance. Willie Bea was leaning her shoulder into the wall on her right. They crept down the stairs and stopped again, hidden from sight behind the wall. Willie Bea stood on the final stair before the open landing, listening.

  She decided whoever was upset in the living room would feel better once she saw their wonderful costumes—two ghosts and one hobo . . .

  “It’s the end of ev-ree-thing!” the woman cried. “Oh, my lord in heaven, it’s awe-fel, it’s aw-awe-fel!” . . .

  Willie Bea eased them down onto the landing. The landing was lighted by the glow from the living-room lamps. She pulled Bay Sister, who pulled Bay Brother, behind her. She wanted the three of them in their costumes to just sort of flow into view. Just to appear there, like Halloween phantoms.

  “The Gobble-uns are here!” Willie Bea announced, in as good a voice as the announcer Don Ameche or that Harry Von Zell announcer . . . They stood there, the three of them, as dressed up, as frightening as they could be.

  No one heard Willie Bea. No one was listening. For the living room was a crazy, mixed-up scene . . .

  This tall, very good-looking man stood in the middle of the living room. Not her father. The man had on a great coat of dark wool. He’d unbuttoned the coat and flung it open. He had on a dark felt hat that matched the coat. Its crown was dented from front to back, with a stiff brim turned up slightly on the sides. Willie Bea glimpsed a gorgeous tuxedo suit of clothes under the man’s coat. Suit jacket with satin lapels. A white dress shirt with gold-like buttons. There was a satin bow tie. The man had on a handsome gold chain draped across his chest. Willie Bea knew there would be a watch in the man’s watch fob. The gent’s shoes were white, and black on the shiny top front and the sides of the heels.

  “Mr. Hollis, do sit down, won’t you?” Willie Bea’s mama was saying.

  But the man, Mr. Hollis, couldn’t sit down. For hanging on his shoulder, being held in an almost standing position, was wonderful Aunt Leah . . . What in the world is she doing here? wondered Willie Bea.

  Aunt Leah had on a full-length, to-the-floor, silky black, honest-to-goodness evening gown. It was the kind of evening dress that daringly bared the neck and the shoulders. It was the first evening gown Willie Bea had ever seen on anybody outside of the ladies in the movies. Aunt Leah had on a necklace of glistening pearls that came down to her waist and were tied in a pearly knot halfway down. She had on gold, low-cut dress shoes with very high heels. She wore a three-quarter-length, Norfolk-type, precious Persian fur coat that must have cost a fortune . . .

  Aunt Leah’s hair was piled high on her head, with curls that cascaded down on each side at her temples. There was a black velvet bow ribbon pinned to her hair in the center, just above her forehead. A cluster of pearls decorated her earlobes. Her face was rouged and powdered to perfection. Willie Bea didn’t know how any one person could be so perfectly beautiful in so many different ways as was Aunt Leah.

  But now Aunt Leah was crying and moaning. Mr. Hollis supported her with one strong arm around her waist, inside that fabulous coat. There were no tears in Aunt Leah’s eyes, although Willie Bea could see she was crying. But it was natural that Aunt Leah would dry-sob. It would never do to spoil that perfect, made-up face with real, salty tears.

  Mr. Hollis half-carried Aunt Leah across to the radio. He rapidly turned the dial, trying to find something. You could hear garbled voices going in and out of hearing very quickly. Mr. Hollis took his fist and pounded the top of the radio.

  “Now, here, don’t do that!” said Willie Bea’s father. He looked shocked. “That won’t help anything. Tell me what you are looking for.”

  Mr. Hollis gave a glance around and down at Willie Bea’s papa. He was that much taller. Willie Bea could tell he wasn’t the kind of gent that took much direction or said quite a lot. There was mostly static on the radio now, after his pounding of it.

  “Leah, sit down,” Marva Mills said. “Won’t you both sit down and tell us what is the matter?” She took her sister by the shoulder. But that made Aunt Leah hold on to Mr. Hollis all the more tightly.

  “Oh, my lord above!” cried Aunt Leah.

  “Leah, Mr. Hollis,” said Willie Bea’s papa, “please get hold. Do tell us.”

  “It’s the world,” said Mr. Hollis in a thin, tenor voice. “She call me after she heard it, but I already left to come for her.”

  Willie Bea was disappointed in the sound of Mr. Hollis. A gent his size should have a deep voice, rolling like thunder, she thought. What’d he say about the world?

  “What?” Willie Bea’s papa was saying. “The world? You mean there is war? It’s the Nazis?”

  “The world,” murmured poor Aunt Leah. She clung to Mr. Hollis, eyes tightly closed. Her silk-stockinged legs seemed weak and trembly. “It’s all over,” she cried. “Heard it on the radio. The world. The-world-is-coming-to-an-end!”

  Aunt Leah’s legs buckled completely. Mr. Hollis lifted her off her feet and swung her tenderly up in his arms. It was then that Aunt Leah fainted dead away . . .

  There was silence in the living room, and a strong fragrance of roses. Just the sound of the radio, down very low with its static and its whistling. Willie Bea’s papa had stopped fiddling with it. Not one station would come in clearly. Maybe it was just the Halloween night and witches messing up radios, Willie Bea thought fleetingly. But her better sense told her it was Mr. Hollis’ pounding. Even she knew that something as magical as a radio with what they call its sound waves couldn’t take that kind of battering. Shake everything up. Her father ran his hand rapidly through his hair a couple of times. Then he gave up on the radio, which he knew to have a weak tube, and turned back to the women on the couch. He stood there, lost in thought, staring at them.

  “She comin’ to now,” Mr. Hollis said in his odd, high voice. He glanced from Aunt Leah to Willie Bea’s papa. He was talking to Willie Bea’s papa, the man of the house. “She’ll tell you now. She comin’ to.”

  A moment ago, Willie Bea and Bay and Bay Sister had crept into the room. All three of them squeezed into the overstuffed easy chair facing the couch, surrounded by the heady scent of roses. That was the fragrance of the smelling’ salts mixture in the bottle that Willie Bea’s mama waved under Aunt Leah’s nose.

  “Uh-nuh, uh-nuh,” moaned Aunt Leah with each pass of the bottle. She came to in stages. Willie Bea watched each stage, her eyes fixed on Aunt Leah’s perfectly made-up face . . .

  The first stage of coming to was an anguished look that contorted Aunt Leah’s face. Willie Bea’s mama had her arm around her sister. And when she saw Leah’s strained expression, she gently massaged her shoulder.

  After the look had passed and her features relaxed, Leah’s eyebrows knitted together. Her lips parted and her fingers clutched at her evening gown. Willie Bea’s mama put down the bottle of smelling salts and clasped one of Leah’s hands in hers.

  Aunt Leah’s eyes fluttered wide open. She didn’t look around, she looked straight into Willie Bea’s face. She squeezed her sister’s hand so hard that Willie Bea’s mama winced.

  “They’ve come. They landed,” Aunt Leah said, straight at Willie Bea.

  “What, Leah?” said Willie Bea’s mama.

  “Oh, it’s awful!” said Aunt Leah, and she began to cry. Now real tears fell and marred the rouge on her cheeks. “Martians!” she said. “From the planet Mars! Landed right there in the state of New Jersey!”

  “Now, Leah!” said Willie Bea’s mother. She looked alarmed, but very doubtful.

  “I’m tellin’ you, I heard it on the radio,” said Aunt Leah. “It was on the radio!”

  They were silent at that. All of them. For if it came over the radio, if it was one of those sudden news bulletins, like urgent messages from on high, then it had to be true.

  “Leah, are you sure?” said Willie Bea’s papa. He stood before the couch, his hands deep in his pants pockets.

  “Listen here,” Aunt Leah said. She took her hand from her sister’s and began to shape the air in front of her as she spoke. “This radio announcer,” she began, “starts out sayin’ that, incredible as it seems, some strange beings has landed in the New Jersey farmlands. And that they are the first of an invading army from the planet Mars!” Aunt Leah looked around at all of them.

  They were speechless—Willie Bea’s mama and her good papa. Staring at Aunt Leah, tongue-tied. It was too much tor Leah to be making up, their looks seemed to say.

  Willie Bea felt her heart leap into her mouth.

  “Now a battle was fought,” Aunt Leah continued. “The government sent our army of seven thousand men to fight this monster machine full of invaders out of Mars.

  “Our army had rifles. They had machine guns!” Aunt Leah cried silently now, and when she could, she spoke again. “One hundred and twenty of our army soldiers survived. One hundred and twenty, that’s all! And the rest, fallen all over the battlefield, some place called Grover Mill or somethin’. They were crushed and trampled by the monster. Burned to a cinder by the heat ray.”