by Alan Lee
He stood before her, and he did not kneel in courtesy, for he was dismayed and felt that for one so lowly all gestures were in vain. At length he looked up and beheld her face and her eyes bent gravely upon him; and he was troubled and amazed, for in that moment he knew her again: the fair maid of the Green Vale, the dancer at whose feet the flowers sprang. She smiled seeing his memory, and drew towards him; and they spoke long together, for the most part without words, and he learned many things in her thought, some of which gave him joy, and others filled him with grief. Then his mind turned back retracing his life, until he came to the day of the Children’s Feast and the coming of the star, and suddenly he saw again the little dancing figure with its wand, and in shame he lowered his eyes from the Queen’s beauty.
But she laughed again as she had laughed in the Vale of Evermorn. ‘Do not be grieved for me, Starbrow,’ she said. ‘Nor too much ashamed of your own folk. Better a little doll, maybe, than no memory of Faery at all. For some the only glimpse. For some the awaking. Ever since that day you have desired in your heart to see me, and I have granted your wish. But I can give you no more. Now at farewell I will make you my messenger. If you meet the King, say to him: The time has come. Let him choose.’
‘But Lady of Faery,’ he stammered, ‘where then is the King?’ For he had asked this question many times of the people of Faery, and they had all said the same: ‘He has not told us.’
And the Queen answered: ‘If he has not told you, Star-brow, then I may not. But he makes many journeys and may be met in unlikely places. Now kneel of your courtesy.’
Then he knelt, and she stooped and laid her hand on his head, and a great stillness came upon him; and he seemed to be both in the World and in Faery, and also outside them and surveying them, so that he was at once in bereavement, and in ownership, and in peace. When after a while the stillness passed he raised his head and stood up. The dawn was in the sky and the stars were pale, and the Queen was gone. Far off he heard the echo of a trumpet in the mountains. The high field where he stood was silent and empty: and he knew that his way now led back to bereavement.
That meeting-place was now far behind him, and here he was, walking among the fallen leaves, pondering all that he had seen and learned. The footsteps came nearer. Then suddenly a voice said at his side: ‘Are you going my way, Starbrow?’
He started and came out of his thoughts, and he saw a man beside him. He was tall, and he walked lightly and quickly; he was dressed all in dark green and wore a hood that partly overshadowed his face. The smith was puzzled, for only the people of Faery called him ‘Starbrow’, but he could not remember ever having seen this man there before; and yet he felt uneasily that he should know him. ‘What way are you going then?’ he said.
‘I am going back to your village now,’ the man answered, ‘and I hope that you are also returning.’
‘I am indeed,’ said the smith. ‘Let us walk together. But now something has come back to my mind. Before I began my homeward journey a Great Lady gave me a message, but we shall soon be passing from Faery, and I do not think that I shall ever return. Will you?’
‘Yes, I shall. You may give the message to me.’
‘But the message was to the King. Do you know where to find him?’
‘I do. What was the message?’
‘The Lady only asked me to say to him: The time has come. Let him choose.’
‘I understand. Trouble yourself no further.’
They went on then side by side in silence save for the rustle of the leaves about their feet; but after a few miles while they were still within the bounds of Faery the man halted. He turned towards the smith and threw back his hood. Then the smith knew him. He was Alf the Prentice, as the smith still called him in his own mind, remembering always the day when as a youth Alf had stood in the Hall, holding the bright knife for the cutting of the Cake, and his eyes had gleamed in the light of the candles. He must be an old man now, for he had been Master Cook for many years; but here standing under the eaves of the Outer Wood he looked like the apprentice of long ago, though more masterly: there was no grey in his hair nor line on his face, and his eyes gleamed as if they reflected a light.
‘I should like to speak to you, Smith Smithson, before we go back to your country,’ he said. The smith wondered at that, for he himself had often wished to talk to Alf, but had never been able to do so. Alf had always greeted him kindly and had looked at him with friendly eyes, but had seemed to avoid talking to him alone. He was looking now at the smith with friendly eyes; but he lifted his hand and with his forefinger touched the star on his brow. The gleam left his eyes, and then the smith knew that it had come from the star, and that it must have been shining brightly but now was dimmed. He was surprised and drew away angrily.
‘Do you not think, Master Smith,’ said Alf, ‘that it is time for you to give this thing up?’
‘What is that to you, Master Cook?’ he answered. ‘And why should I do so? Isn’t it mine? It came to me, and may a man not keep things that come to him so, at the least as a remembrance?’
‘Some things. Those that are free gifts and given for remembrance. But others are not so given. They cannot belong to a man for ever, nor be treasured as heirlooms. They are lent. You have not thought, perhaps, that someone else may need this thing. But it is so. Time is pressing.’
Then the smith was troubled, for he was a generous man, and he remembered with gratitude all that the star had brought to him. ‘Then what should I do?’ he asked. ‘Should I give it to one of the Great in Faery? Should I give it to the King?’ And as he said this a hope sprang in his heart that on such an errand he might once more enter Faery.
‘You could give it to me,’ said Alf, ‘but you might find that too hard. Will you come with me to my storeroom and put it back in the box where your grandfather laid it?’
‘I did not know that,’ said the smith.
‘No one knew but me. I was the only one with him.’
‘Then I suppose that you know how he came by the star, and why he put it in the box?’
‘He brought it from Faery: that you know without asking,’ Alf answered. ‘He left it behind in the hope that it might come to you, his only grandchild. So he told me, for he thought that I could arrange that. He was your mother’s father. I do not know whether she told you much about him, if indeed she knew much to tell. Rider was his name, and he was a great traveller: he had seen many things and could do many things before he settled down and became Master Cook. But he went away when you were only two years old—and they could find no one better to follow him than Nokes, poor man. Still, as we expected, I became Master in time. This year I shall make another Great Cake: the only Cook, as far as is remembered, ever to make a second one. I wish to put the star in it.’
‘Very well, you shall have it,’ said the smith. He looked at Alf as if he was trying to read his thought. ‘Do you know who will find it?’
‘What is that to you, Master Smith?’
‘I should like to know, if you do, Master Cook. It might make it easier for me to part with a thing so dear to me. My daughter’s child is too young.’
‘It might and it might not. We shall see,’ said Alf.
They said no more, and they went on their way until they passed out of Faery and came back at last to the village. Then they walked to the Hall; and in the world the sun was now setting and a red light was in the windows. The gilded carvings on the great door glowed, and strange faces of many colours looked down from the water-sprouts under the roof. Not long ago the Hall had been re-glazed and re-painted, and there had been much debate on the Council about it. Some disliked it and called it ‘new-fangled’, but some with more knowledge knew that it was a return to old custom. Still, since it had cost no one a penny and the Master Cook must have paid for it himself, he was allowed to have his own way. But the smith had not seen it in such a light before, and he stood and looked at the Hall in wonder, forgetting his errand.
He felt a touch on
his arm, and Alf led him round to a small door at the back. He opened it and led the smith down a dark passage into the store-room. There he lit a tall candle, and unlocking a cupboard he took down from a shelf the black box. It was polished now and adorned with silver scrolls.
He raised the lid and showed it to the smith. One small compartment was empty; the others were now filled with spices, fresh and pungent, and the smith’s eyes began to water. He put his hand to his forehead, and the star came away readily, but he felt a sudden stab of pain, and tears ran down his face. Though the star shone brightly again as it lay in his hand, he could not see it, except as a blurred dazzle of light that seemed far away.
‘I cannot see clearly,’ he said. ‘You must put it in for me.’ He held out his hand, and Alf took the star and laid it in its place, and it went dark.
The smith turned away without another word and groped his way to the door. On the threshold he found that his sight had cleared again. It was evening and the Even-star was shining in a luminous sky close to the Moon. As he stood for a moment looking at their beauty, he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned.
‘You gave me the star freely,’ said Alf. ‘If you still wish to know to which child it will go, I will tell you.’
‘I do indeed.’
‘It shall go to any one that you appoint.’
The smith was taken aback and did not answer at once. ‘Well,’ he said hesitating, ‘I wonder what you may think of my choice. I believe you have little reason to love the name of Nokes, but, well, his little great-grandson, Nokes of Townsend’s Tim, is coming to the Feast. Nokes of Townsend is quite different.’
‘I have observed that,’ said Alf. ‘He had a wise mother.’
‘Yes, my Nell’s sister. But apart from the kinship I love little Tim. Though he’s not an obvious choice.’
Alf smiled. ‘Neither were you,’ he said. ‘But I agree. Indeed I had already chosen Tim.’
‘Then why did you ask me to choose?’
‘The Queen wished me to do so. If you had chosen differently I should have given way.’
The smith looked long at Alf. Then suddenly he bowed low. ‘I understand at last, sir,’ he said. ‘You have done us too much honour.’
‘I have been repaid,’ said Alf. ‘Go home now in peace!’
When the smith reached his own house on the western outskirts of the village he found his son by the door of the forge. He had just locked it, for the day’s work was done, and now he stood looking up the white road by which his father used to return from his journeys. Hearing footsteps, he turned in surprise to see him coming from the village, and he ran forward to meet him. He put his arms about him in loving welcome.
‘I’ve been hoping for you since yesterday, Dad,’ he said. Then looking into his father’s face he said anxiously: ‘How tired you look! You have walked far, maybe?’
‘Very far indeed, my son. All the way from Daybreak to Evening.’
They went into the house together, and it was dark except for the fire flickering on the hearth. His son lit candles, and for a while they sat by the fire without speaking; for a great weariness and bereavement was on the smith. At last he looked round, as if coming to himself, and he said: ‘Why are we alone?’
His son looked hard at him. ‘Why? Mother’s over at Minor, at Nan’s. It’s the little lad’s second birthday. They hoped you would be there too.’
‘Ah yes. I ought to have been. I should have been, Ned, but I was delayed; and I have had matters to think of that put all else out of mind for a time. But I did not forget Tomling.’
He put his hand in his breast and drew out a little wallet of soft leather. ‘I have brought him something. A trinket old Nokes maybe would call it—but it comes out of Faery, Ned.’ Out of the wallet he took a little thing of silver. It was like the smooth stem of a tiny lily from the top of which came three delicate flowers, bending down like shapely bells. And bells they were, for when he shook them gently each flower rang with a small clear note. At the sweet sound the candles flickered and then for a moment shone with a white light.
Ned’s eyes were wide with wonder. ‘May I look at it, Dad?’ he said. He took it with careful fingers and peered into the flowers. ‘The work is a marvel!’ he said. ‘And, Dad, there is a scent in the bells: a scent that reminds me of, reminds me, well of something I’ve forgotten.’
‘Yes, the scent comes for a little while after the bells have rung. But don’t fear to handle it, Ned. It was made for a babe to play with. He can do it no harm, and he’ll take none from it.’
The smith put the gift back in the wallet and stowed it away. ‘I’ll take it over to Wootton Minor myself tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Nan and her Tom, and Mother, will forgive me, maybe. As for Tomling, his time has not yet come for the counting of days…and of weeks, and of months, and of years.’
‘That’s right. You go, Dad. I’d be glad to go with you; but it will be some time before I can get over to Minor. I couldn’t have gone today, even if I hadn’t waited here for you. There’s a lot of work in hand, and more coming in.’
‘No, no, Smith’s son! Make it a holiday! The name of grandfather hasn’t weakened my arms yet a while. Let the work come! There’ll be two pairs of hands to tackle it now, all working days. I shall not be going on journeys again, Ned: not on long ones, if you understand me.’
‘It’s that way is it, Dad? I wondered what had become of the star. That’s hard.’ He took his father’s hand. ‘I’m grieved for you; but there’s good in it too, for this house. Do you know, Master Smith, there is much you can teach me yet, if you have the time. And I do not mean only the working of iron.’
They had supper together, and long after they had finished they still sat at the table, while the smith told his son of his last journey in Faery, and of other things that came to his mind—but about the choice of the next holder of the star he said nothing.
At last his son looked at him, and ‘Father,’ he said, ‘do you remember the day when you came back with the Flower? And I said that you looked like a giant by your shadow. The shadow was the truth. So it was the Queen herself that you danced with. Yet you have given up the star. I hope it may go to someone as worthy. The child should be grateful.’
‘The child won’t know,’ said the smith. ‘That’s the way with such gifts. Well, there it is. I have handed it on and come back to hammer and tongs.’
It is a strange thing, but old Nokes, who had scoffed at his apprentice, had never been able to put out of his mind the disappearance of the star in the Cake, although that event had happened so many years ago. He had grown fat and lazy, and retired from his office when he was sixty (no great age in the village). He was now near the end of his eighties, and was of enormous bulk, for he still ate heavily and doted on sugar. Most of his days, when not at table, he spent in a big chair by the window of his cottage, or by the door if it was fine weather. He liked talking, since he still had many opinions to air; but lately his talk mostly turned to the one Great Cake that he had made (as he was now firmly convinced), for whenever he fell asleep it came into his dreams. Prentice sometimes stopped for a word or two. So the old cook still called him, and he expected himself to be called Master. That Prentice was careful to do; which was a point in his favour, though there were others that Nokes was more fond of.
One afternoon Nokes was nodding in his chair by the door after his dinner. He woke with a start to find Prentice standing by and looking down at him. ‘Hullo!’ he said. ‘I’m glad to see you, for that cake’s been on my mind again. I was thinking of it just now in fact. It was the best cake I ever made, and that’s saying something. But perhaps you have forgotten it.’
‘No, Master. I remember it very well. But what is troubling you? It was a good cake, and it was enjoyed and praised.’
‘Of course. I made it. But that doesn’t trouble me. It’s the little trinket, the star. I cannot make up my mind what became of it. Of course it wouldn’t melt. I only said that to stop the children from being fri
ghtened. I have wondered if one of them did not swallow it. But is that likely? You might swallow one of those little coins and not notice it, but not that star. It was small but it had sharp points.’
‘Yes, Master. But do you really know what the star was made of? Don’t trouble your mind about it. Someone swallowed it, I assure you.’
‘Then who? Well, I’ve a long memory, and that day sticks in it somehow. I can recall all the children’s names. Let me think. It must have been Miller’s Molly! She was greedy and bolted her food. She’s as fat as a sack now.’
‘Yes, there are some folk who get like that, Master. But Molly did not bolt her cake. She found two trinkets in her slice.’
‘Oh, did she? Well, it was Cooper’s Harry then. A barrel of a boy with a big mouth like a frog’s.’
‘I should have said, Master, that he was a nice boy with a large friendly grin. Anyway he was so careful that he took his slice to pieces before he ate it. He found nothing but cake.’
‘Then it must have been that little pale girl, Draper’s Lily. She used to swallow pins as a baby and came to no harm.’
‘Not Lily, Master. She only ate the paste and the sugar, and gave the inside to the boy that sat next to her.’
‘Then I give up. Who was it? You seem to have been watching very closely. If you’re not making it all up.’
‘It was the Smith’s son, Master; and I think it was good for him.’
‘Go on!’ laughed old Nokes. ‘I ought to have known you were having a game with me. Don’t be ridiculous! Smith was a quiet slow boy then. He makes more noise now: a bit of a songster, I hear; but he’s cautious. No risks for him. Chews twice before he swallows, and always did, if you take my meaning.’
