Golden Star

L. M. Affrossman

The faerie child was alone in the forest. He had been there many days, amongst the great black oaks and whispering pines, amongst the poison berries and the cobwebs, amongst the toadstool rings and the soft rotting leaves that covered his bare feet.  Alone, always alone.

He had walked and walked, never coming to the forest’s end, driven by hunger and fear, his green skin growing dull and the light fading in his huge dark eyes. He had walked so long that he had forgotten why he was there or where he was going. 

In his hand was clutched his golden star. It was his secret, part of his magic, and must never be shown to anyone who was not a faerie, because to do so meant certain death, and, young as he was, he had been taught the ways of the world. The folks who lived in the villages, and beyond that in the towns, and beyond that in the cities, were afraid of the Faerie. If they spied one they would cross themselves and mutter words to ward off evil. But they were also jealous of the Faerie, and told each other stories of faerie gold hidden away where honest men did not dare venture.

Night fell, and the faerie child was left alone in the darkness with the cries of owls and the laughter of wolves filling the air so that he was too afraid to sleep and blundered on, tearing his green skin on sharp holly and tangled bramble. And once a hawthorn reached down and opened a red seam along his cheek making him howl and dance backwards until he lost his footing and tumbled down a slope into the murky depths of the forest.

When he awoke the dawn had broken and beams of pale light hung between the trees. Up ahead was a clearing, towards which the faerie child took an eager step, and would have taken another, had not an awful sense of loss overcome him. Hardly daring to do so, he opened up his small fist and found that his golden star was gone. His fingers wriggled and stretched, like the glittering points of his missing star, but his magic was lost. He fell to his knees, snuffling about the leaves, like a little creature searching for grubs. But it was no use, and he began to weep because it was terrible to be small and alone in the forest. He had lost the most precious thing he owned, and without it, he could never find his people, could never go with them to the other side of the world, to the land of milk and honey where the sun always shone.

Still weeping he began to make his way towards the clearing. But, there in the centre, rising from the mists, he saw for the first time, the green chapel, and the sight of it made him stop weeping and stand, staring up at the moss-covered walls, the trailing ivy, the silver lichen that grew in constellations over the broken pillars within the nave.

The chapel had no roof or spires and the walls were barely taller than the height of a man, but he knew at once that this was a forbidden place. Clearly it was not the work of faerie folk, but he crept a little closer, drawn by the green strangeness and the silence, which was not like the fearful silence of the forest, but warm and welcoming.

At the door he hesitated and looked back over his shoulder. In his heart he knew that a faerie should not cross this threshold, that everything would be changed if he did so. But he had lost his magic, and the sun had settled so invitingly in amongst the ferns and the soft bracken covering the floor, that he was drawn across the nave, and settling down behind the remains of the high altar, fell into a deep tranquil sleep.

The voice of the enchantress woke him at noon.  ‘Tomek! Tomek. What we have here,’

He opened his eyes to see a woman in a peasant’s headscarf, with a sweet open face, bending over him. A man, carrying a basket of winter mushrooms was looking over her shoulder.  ‘Tomek, look. Is it a changeling? Might God have answered my prayers?’

Tomek frowned.  ‘Anna, you know what child this must be. They were all rounded up last week, even the ones who had thrown away their yellow stars and were hiding out as Poles.’  He bent down and stroked the child’s thick black hair.  ‘This one must have escaped somehow. He must have been wandering for days. Look how his skin is covered with green sap.’

‘He’s so little and lost.’  Anna bent over and gathered the faerie child up and held him to her. She was crying, and her tears smudged the sap and washed it away.

‘What is your name?’  Tomek asked. But the child had been in the forest too long and couldn’t remember.

‘We will keep him,’  Anna said in a firm voice.  ‘We will say that he is my cousin’s child, sent from the city for his safety.

‘It is too dangerous. What if we were found out?’

But Anna looked up at Tomek through her tears.  ‘Don’t you want a son? I cannot give you a son so God has listened to our prayers and guided us here where a little boy awaits.’

There was a long silence then Tomek nodded. He took the boy from Anna’s arms and set him on his feet, and, together, the three of them walked out of the green chapel, hand in hand.

And so the faerie child grew up amongst the villagers, and in time became a fine young man, who was respected and loved by all. But sometimes, he would climb a tall hill and stand looking up at the sky, and he would wonder about his faerie mother and father and what he would have become if he had stayed with them. But in his heart he would know that the difference between those, who were faerie folk and those who were not, was small and insignificant, and that a single golden star hangs over us all.