The next day the clouds hung heavy, threatening rain.
The air felt cold - unseasonably cold for early September - and the wind began to pick up as Milo made his way down the street, here and there blowing so powerfully that it caused him to stumble, as though strong hands were pushing him from behind.
He quickened his pace - he had to make it home before this violent storm broke - and as he did, he passed the house with the gray stone wall.
He was startled by a sudden raucous cry, an explosion of black feathers as a large crow landed in front of him. He stopped, his heart pounding.
The crow stood before him, deep purples and greens reflecting off its shiny black feathers, as colorful and mesmerizing as an oil slick. It keyed its black eyes towards him, before letting out another jolting cry. Then it took to the air, turning towards the house and flying in through the open gate.
Though Milo had passed by the old house a hundred times before, he couldn't recall ever seeing the gate. Now the red wooden gate swung inward, as if inviting him to step through. He could see the paved stone path winding into the garden that lay beyond, as he leaned towards it to watch the flight of the crow, a sudden gust of wind swelled behind him and pushed him forward.
He stumbled, trying to catch his balance; and when he did, he realized that he stood inside the garden.
He was vaguely aware of the sound of the gate swinging shut behind him. He would have noticed it, and maybe even felt afraid, had he not been so entranced by the sight that lay before him.
On either side of the stone-paved path lay a carpet of lush green clover, studded with flowers like so many brightly-colored stars. Growing from this carpet were trees and plants unlike any that Milo had ever seen. Here was a tree with branches that twisted in strange and dreamlike shapes; here a willow dripping pale pink leaves like a hundred thousand rosy tears; here a shrub laden with golden, star-shaped berries that seemed to glow in the dim shadows of that overcast day - and all around were flowers, roses and dahlias and asters, and so many more that he couldn't have names, in hundreds of shades of dreamlike color. He walked through the garden as though in a trance, trailing his fingers along the branches and marveling at the strange plants, intoxicated by the sweet scents which wafted up from the hundreds of flowers. He was barely aware now of the cold wind, of the smell of rain on the air, of the cawing of the crow from somewhere above him.
It was only when a hand fell heavily on his shoulder that he was finally jolted from the dream.
The hand clutched his shoulder painfully, tight as a vise. Then it spun him around, as forceful as the strong wind that had led him into the garden. Now he stood facing the owner of the hand, and as he did, his shock gave way to horror.
What he saw was an old woman, but those were not the words that flashed across his mind. Instead came words from storybooks, from the old fairytales he used to pore over on lonely, rainy afternoons. Witch, hag, beldame - these words came to mind, and they were the only ones to truly describe what it was that he saw. Her face was crevassed, deep lines drawn around eyes that flashed with angry fire; her hair, long and gray, hung in unkempt wisps about her thin face, and when she snarled these words at him, she spoke through yellowed and crooked teeth,
"So I've caught you, haven't I?"
The voice was like the screech of wind through a keyhole, like the howling emptiness of some desolate place. Milo's heart galloped in his chest, and when he managed to speak, his words came out in a shaky whisper.
"I'm sorry," he said to the woman, "I didn't mean to trespass, I - "
"Trespass?" the hag spat back, giving him a shake, "Pretending you aren't a thief, eh?"
"What are you talking about? I didn't steal anyth - "
His words were cut short as her other claw-like hand struck him across the face. He stumbled back, stunned, his back pressed against the bark of one of the strange trees.
"A liar and a thief!" the hag shrieked, grabbing a fistful of his hair, "I should rip your heart from your chest right here!"
Panic flooded Milo's body as he struggled against the hag's grip; she stood so close to him now that he could feel her breath on his face - she smelled of damp, rotting things, like autumn leaves crushed into the muddy earth.
"Please," he begged, tears springing into his eyes, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry for whatever I did, please just let me go."
"As if you don't know!" she hissed back at him, "As if you've forgotten that you stole the fruit from my tree!"
The memory flashed back into his mind: the sunset-colored fruit, the taste like some half-forgotten dream. His eyes, which had been clenched shut in pain, suddenly flashed open.
"So you remember," the hag said smugly. She let go of his hair, and he fell backwards.
"Y-yes," he stammered, "I remember. I'm sorry, I didn't know it was yours."
The hag scoffed.
"Thief, liar, and fool," she said, "now I'll need to punish you three times over."
Milo threw his hands out in front of him, and pressed himself closer to the tree he was leaning against.
"Wait!" he said to the old woman, "I can pay you back, right? Can't I just pay you back?"
Now the old woman laughed; a laugh which was somehow more horrible and terrifying than any of her shrieking and rage had been.
"Pay me back?" she said, "Of course you will. You see, that tree I planted bears fruit only once. I'll need to plant another for it to grow again."
"Ok," Milo said, lowering his hands a little, "so I'll get you a new tree. Right?"
A smile spread slowly across the hag's wrinkled face.
"You will grow me a new tree, will you?" she asked, "And do you know what I planted to grow such a tree?"
Milo shook his head. A deep dread was slowly spreading through his veins, like icy water sinking into the cold ground.
"I had to plant a very special seed," she continued, her smile spreading even wider, revealing too many small yellowed teeth, "do you know what sort of seed I planted?"
Milo shook his head. He didn't want to hear the answer. He wanted to run, to break through that wooden gate and leave the strange garden behind him forever - but he stood frozen, terror holding him hostage.
The hag took a step forward, extending one bony hand. Milo shuddered as she held out one clawed finger, her long yellow nail tapping his chest.
"It was this that I planted," she said, "it was the heart of a man that became that tree."