Beautiful Star and Other Stories

by Andrew Swanston

  It was early April when the villagers left their homes and entered the forest. The trees were coming into leaf and the birds were building their nests. Not that the villagers noticed. Their only concern was finding a safe hiding place. They chose a clearing deep within the forest, not far from a shallow stream which meandered down towards the village. They built rough shelters in a circle around a communal fire on which the women cooked whatever the men caught in their traps or shot with their bows.

  Each day a look-out was posted at the place where they had entered the forest, ready to run back and warn them of approaching Danes. At nine years old Eilmer had to take his turn on look-out duty, although he spent most of the time looking out for birds and animals. Once his daily chores were done – finding wood for the fire or mushrooms for the pot, cutting branches to plug holes in the roofs of their shelters, or feeding the chickens and collecting their eggs – he spent hours watching rabbits and squirrels, pigeons and woodpeckers, even spiders and beetles. He learnt what each creature ate and where they found their food, where and how they built their homes, and how they protected themselves against danger. Although he was small for his age, Eilmer was strong enough to hold his own against the other village children, but he joined in their wrestling matches and archery contests only when he had to. He much preferred to be alone with the birds and animals.

  On a moonlit night, he sometimes crept out of the shelter where his parents were sleeping and made his way quietly to a small clearing where he had recognised the signs of foxes and badgers. He sat at the edge of the clearing with his back to a tree, and waited for the creatures of the night to appear. Often they did. Badger cubs played in the clearing while the sow snuffled about in the earth for grubs and berries, and foxes sloped off into the trees in search of burrows and nests where a meal might be found, usually returning with a pigeon or a rabbit in their jaws.

  A colony of bats had found a hole high in a birch at the edge of the clearing, much too high to be reached by climbing the trunk. When they returned from hunting just before dawn, Eilmer knew it was time for him to sneak back to the shelter. Better to be pretending to be asleep when his mother woke, than to tell a lie about having to relieve himself.

  The bats fascinated Eilmer. He knew when they were returning from the swoosh of their wings and their strange clicking sounds, and he knew, because his father had told him, that they spent the hours of daylight hanging upside down. He did not know how they found their way around in the dark, nor what they ate. In fact, he had never seen more than their outlines against the sky. He had never touched a bat or had the chance to examine one. To Eilmer, a creature which could fly but which was not a bird or an insect was a source of wonder and mystery, the more so as it flew at night.

  Eilmer wanted to know why it was hot in summer and cold in winter; why two sticks rubbed together made a flame; why oak wood was stronger and heavier than elm or birch; why some trees shed their leaves in autumn but others did not; and why foxes and badgers appeared at night. He asked so many questions that Leofric eventually lost patience and told him he could ask only one a day.

  It was the birds which interested Eilmer most. In amongst the trees he could not watch flights of geese and ducks in majestic flight or starlings swooping and swirling at dusk, but he could watch pigeons and robins and woodpeckers bringing food back to feed their young and he could listen to them calling out to each other. He climbed trees to look at the pigeons’ nests, taking care not to disturb the chicks, and he peered into holes in the trunks of the trees where he thought there might be a woodpecker’s nest.

  One morning after he had collected wood for the fire, Eilmer slipped off to the clearing – his favourite and most secret place – and sat quietly by an old oak. There was a pigeons’ nest high up in the branches of another oak opposite him and he knew there were chicks in the nest. He had watched their mother bringing them insects and worms and had heard them calling for her.

  As he watched, one of the chicks emerged from the nest and stood uncertainly on a branch. The pigeon must have seen the chick because she flew across the clearing and landed beside it. The chick watched her take off again and, after hesitating briefly, followed her. It flapped its wings, dropped alarmingly towards the ground, flapped harder and rose to join its mother across the clearing. Then it flew back to the nest.

  Eilmer sat fascinated. What gave the bird the courage to jump off the branch and try to fly? Did it know what would happen if it did not fly? How did it know that it could fly? Was it just copying its mother or was there something in a bird that told it to fly? And, most importantly, what enabled it to fly? Was it having feathers? No, because bees and bats did not have feathers and they could fly. Was it because birds were light? No, a goose was a heavy bird and so was a swan.

  It could only be the wings. Flying creatures had wings, other creatures did not. But if, say, a mouse had wings, would it be able to fly? Or a goat? Now that would be something – a flying goat. There were flying beetles and flying ants, and perhaps somewhere in the world God had created other flying animals.

  When he returned to the circle of huts, Eilmer asked his daily question. He asked Leofric if he knew of any creatures that could fly but did not have wings or of any creatures which had wings but could not fly. Leofric shook his head.

  ‘Others might have seen such things, Eilmer, but I have not. Even a chicken can fly a little. And where have you been? We need more wood for the fire.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’ Eilmer hurried off to find wood. He did not want to be drawn on where he had been. The little clearing was his secret.

  Only once during the summer was there any sign of Danes. One warm afternoon after a sudden shower, the look-out ran back to say that he had seen a war party marching towards the forest. What was more, they had appeared suddenly from under a rainbow. The terrified man had not waited to see which way the Danes had gone, but had turned and fled back to the huts. The villagers gathered up a few possessions, left their huts and went deeper into the forest. Better to spend a night in the trees than be found by Danes.

  Eilmer did not sleep that night. He lay awake listening for the sound of a fox or a badger and wondering why the owl’s voice was so different from that of other birds. He thought too about wings – about their shape and strength and about the ways in which birds used them. The sparrow and the robin – small birds – flapped their wings hard, while the goose and the duck – large birds – seemed to glide through the air. Eilmer wondered why that was.

  The next morning they returned to their huts, where they found that the only intruder had been a fox which had killed three chickens. Cursing the look-out who had sounded the alarm, they cooked the remains of the chickens and vowed not to leave the huts unattended again.

  Spring turned into summer and by August all the villagers were desperate to leave the forest and go home. They wanted a proper roof over their heads and they wanted to get back to their land and their animals. Wheat would need cutting and grain must be stored for the winter. Pigs and cows, if there were any left, would have to be slaughtered and their meat salted. Ditches would need digging and hedges repairing. If they waited much longer, said Leofric, there would be nothing left to go home to. But no-one wanted to return to a village full of Danes.

  After much argument around the fire, it was agreed that one of the men would venture out of the forest on the seventh day after they felt the first chill of autumn. If he reported back that the Danes had gone, they would all go home. If not, they might have to face winter in the forest. With luck, the Danes would have taken their plunder and gone back to their ships. They too would want to spend the winter at home.

  The only person who would have been happy to stay in the forest was Eilmer. When the scout was sent out, Eilmer hoped that he would return with the news that the Danes were still about. Not that he wished ill upon anyone; it was just that birds and bats were more interesting than cows and goats.

  When the scout returned it was with unexpected
news. The Danes had visited their village and helped themselves to the livestock and anything of value that they could carry away, but they had gone. Not because they had been defeated in battle, nor because they wanted to go home, but because they had signed a treaty with King Aethelred. In return for the payment of an annual tribute, they had withdrawn to the eastern side of the country where there had been Danish settlers since the first invasions two hundred years earlier, and promised not to launch any more attacks. Time would tell whether the Danes would keep their word, but for the present there was peace. The villagers collected up their tools and weapons, their clothes and blankets, and the few chickens that were still alive, and went back to their homes.

  The scout was right. Leofric and Ayleth’s stone cottage was still standing, but inside it the Danes had left no more than a few sticks of furniture and the narrow cots on which they slept. Everything else had gone. Eilmer looked at his parents’ faces and wondered how they would cope over the coming winter. They had a bare cottage and that was all. They had no meat, no grain and only one miserable chicken.

  As it was much the same for all the villagers, Leofric called a meeting to discuss what they should do, although in truth they had little choice. It was agreed that they would contact all the neighbouring villages with a view to sharing their resources and thus somehow struggle through the winter. There was no point in moving anywhere else. The Danes would have been there too.

  Not all the villages had suffered as much as theirs, and they were able to scrape together enough for most to survive – a few pigs and sheep, a little wheat and barley, apples, nuts and berries. Some of the old and infirm died, but then they died every winter.

  Eilmer wanted to know why God had made the world as he had and why it worked as it did. It never crossed his mind to question God’s purpose; he just wanted to know what that purpose was. And since they had returned from the forest, his mind was such a jumble of thoughts and questions that he worried it might burst like an over-filled sack of grain.

  Most days, Eilmer was sent out to trap rabbits and hedgehogs and to collect herbs and fungi. Although he did not like killing animals, he was skilled at it and seldom came home with an empty bag. As the winter went on, he withdrew more and more into himself. When he thought about the future, he saw only a life of toiling on the land, eking out a meagre living as his parents did, and hoping the Danes kept their promise. He was ten years old. For all he knew, he had fifty more years of this to look forward to. Even to Leofric and Ayleth he spoke only when he had to, he ate less than his share and became thinner and weaker each day. He did not know why he felt as he did, or what would make him feel differently, only that he could do nothing about it.

  By the spring Leofric and Ayleth were worried. Eilmer’s cheeks were hollow and his arms and legs like sticks. He could not work and did not eat. Worse, he had almost stopped speaking altogether. He answered their questions with nods and grunts and, whenever he could, hid himself away on his own.

  It was Ayleth who decided that something had to be done about the boy. ‘What was the point of our protecting him from the Danes, if he is going to starve himself to death?’ she asked Leofric. ‘What are we going to do about him?’

  ‘We must find a way to make the boy talk to us,’ replied Leofric. ‘We must find out what thoughts are in his head. Then we might be able to help him.’

  That evening, the three of them sat, as usual, in front of their hearth. ‘Eilmer,’ said Leofric gently, ‘can you tell us what is troubling you?’

  Eilmer shook his head and stared at the fire. ‘We are your parents,’ said Ayleth. ‘It is disrespectful not to speak to us.’ Still Eilmer said nothing. ‘We have survived the Danes and we have survived the winter. Can you not be happy now that spring is here?’

  Eilmer could not be happy because the life he had to look forward to was not the life he wanted. But he lacked the words to say so without giving offence. So he remained silent. Ayleth’s patience had run out. ‘For the love of God, child,’ she shouted at him, ‘be thankful for what you have. It is more than most.’

  Eilmer knew that. But a man’s thirst is not slaked by being told that another man’s thirst is greater. He rose from his chair and went outside. Although it was dark, he made his way slowly to an old oak at the edge of the village. He sat under the tree and tried to make sense of his feelings. For an hour he sat there, then another hour, before returning to the cottage. He had made little progress. He knew what he did not want, but not what he did want.

  Two days later, Leofric spoke to Eilmer again. ‘Your mother and I have been talking. We would like to take you to the abbey at Malmesbury.’

  In Eilmer’s mind, something stirred, and he managed to speak. ‘Why, Father?’

  ‘Now that the threat from the Danes has receded and you are old enough, the abbot might be willing to take you as an oblate.’

  ‘What is an oblate?’

  ‘He is a young man who joins the abbey to learn its ways and to receive an education.’

  Suddenly Eilmer knew what he wanted. He wanted to learn. He wanted to acquire knowledge. He wanted to read and write. He wanted to be a scholar.

  ‘When shall we go?’

  ‘If you wish it, tomorrow.’

  ‘So soon.’ It was a big step. Eilmer knew very little about the abbey or the monks who lived there. His enthusiasm was tempered by a fear of the unknown.

  ‘You cannot stay here as you are. You are no help to us, nor we to you. We shall pray that the monks can help you. Your mother and I will take you to Malmesbury tomorrow.’

  They set off at dawn and despite walking slowly, were outside Malmesbury before midday. It was a fine, clear day and the road was dry. They passed through the town gate and climbed the hill upon which the three abbey churches had been built. They were old churches, built by Aldhelm three hundred years before, and now restored for the use of the monks who lived by the rules of St Benedict. The abbey was also surrounded by a wall. Leofric and Eilmer left Ayleth sitting on a grassy bank outside it, and made their way to the abbey gate. A monk answered Leofric’s knock and, on being told their business, let them into the abbey grounds. The monk introduced himself as Halig.

  Eilmer stood in the middle of a cobbled courtyard and looked around in amazement. He had never imagined such buildings. Three separate churches, each a rectangle of solid stone, and each with a high tower at its western end; monks’ quarters around the courtyard and, at the eastern end, an archway through which he could see part of a garden.

  They were led by Halig around the Church of St Michael to the abbot’s quarters. ‘Abbot Beorthelm will be preparing for the office of Sext,’ Halig told them. ‘After that he will eat and rest until None. I will ask him if he will see you after he has eaten.’

  The monk knocked on the abbot’s door – a narrow piece of dark oak with sturdy iron fixings – and entered. Eilmer and his father waited nervously outside. If the abbot could not see them or if he would not take Eilmer in as an oblate, they would have had a wasted trip and the problem of Eilmer’s future would remain unresolved. If they had to return home with their son, Ayleth, with a mother’s intuition, doubted if he would be alive to see another spring. Eilmer himself, during a sleepless night, had realised with absolute certainty that a life in the Abbey of Malmesbury was exactly the life he wanted. He could not bear the thought of returning, disappointed and without hope, to the village.

  Halig soon appeared again. ‘The abbot will see you after he has eaten. Until then you are welcome to walk or sit in our garden,’ he said, pointing through the arch. ‘Have you eaten today?’

  ‘We have not,’ replied Leofric. ‘Nor has my wife. She waits outside the abbey gate.’

  ‘In that case, I will arrange for food to be brought to you and taken to her and I will find you when the abbot is ready to see you. Now I too must go to Sext.’ He nodded to them and went to join a line of brother monks entering the Church of St Michael.

  Leofric put his arm around
Eilmer’s shoulders and led him through the arch into the garden. As it was a time of prayer, the garden was deserted, but Eilmer was enthralled by it. A carefully tended bed of lavender and sage ran the length of the garden, and alongside it another of garlic and thyme. Apple and pear trees had been trained against the wall on their left which faced the midday sun, while on their right stood a line of wooden beehives. In the corner of the far wall was a dovecot on a tall pole. There were more beds, some home to hard-pruned roses not yet showing their new shoots, others packed with herbs and flowers that Eilmer did not recognise.

  After they walked slowly around the garden, admiring its order and variety, they sat on a thick log, set just inside the archway for that purpose. ‘Would you be happy here, Eilmer?’ asked Leofric.

  Eilmer turned to him and smiled. ‘I would.’ He could think of nothing more to say.

  They ate the bread and cheese brought to them by a young man dressed in the black habit of the Benedictines, but without a monk’s tonsure, and waited to be summoned to meet the abbot.

  After about an hour, Halig appeared and told them the abbot was ready to see them. He took them back to the narrow door, knocked and led them into a small, plain room, furnished only by a single chair, a writing table with ink, quills and parchment, and a simple altar on which stood a silver cross. An elderly man, tonsured and wearing the black habit, his hands clasped at his chest, rose stiffly from the chair to greet them.

  ‘I am Abbot Beorthelm,’ he said in a deep, musical voice. ‘Brother Halig tells me that you wish to speak to me.’

  ‘I am Leofric,’ replied Eilmer’s father. ‘I wish to speak to you about my son becoming an oblate.’

  The abbot peered doubtfully at Eilmer. ‘How old is the boy?’

  ‘He is ten, father,’ replied Leofric.

  ‘He is small for his age. Has he been sick?’

  ‘We have all suffered since the Danes came. He will grow strong again.’