In a city of China lived Aladdin, the son of a poor tailor named Mustapha. Instead of learning a trade, Aladdin played in the streets. After Mustapha died, his mother spun cotton from morning until night while her son chased games through the marketplace.
One day a richly dressed stranger watched Aladdin. He was an African magician who had searched the world for a hidden lamp that only this boy could reach.
The stranger wept when he heard Mustapha was dead.
“I am your father’s long-lost brother,” he said, although Mustapha had never mentioned one.
He gave Aladdin gold, bought him fine clothes, and promised to open a shop for him. Aladdin’s mother doubted the tale, but the stranger brought food and spoke warmly about her husband. Soon the boy called him Uncle.
On the next holiday, the magician led Aladdin beyond the city gardens. They walked until the road narrowed between two mountains.
“Fetch dry sticks,” ordered the magician.
He lit a fire, threw perfume into the flames, and spoke words Aladdin did not understand. Thunder cracked. The earth opened, revealing a flat stone with a brass ring.
Aladdin tried to run, but the magician seized him.
“Under that stone lies a treasure meant for you,” he said. “Lift it by speaking your parents’ names. Cross three halls without touching their golden jars. Pass through a garden and climb fifty steps. On a terrace you will find a burning lamp. Pour out the oil and bring it to me.”
He placed a ring on Aladdin’s finger for protection.
The stone lifted at the boy’s touch. Beneath it, steps plunged into darkness.
“Come with me,” Aladdin said.
“I cannot,” said the magician. “The passage will close if anyone else enters.”
Aladdin looked at the smiling man who was not his uncle, then at the black stairway. Curiosity tugged harder than fear. He gathered his robe and descended.
Above him, the magician waited beside the fire, his friendly smile gone.