Star of Light Read online

  Half an hour later, having finished their task, they returned to the house. The wind roared against the rocks behind the town, and the rain beat up the streets in cold gusts. Hamid said good-bye on the step.

  “But where are you going to sleep?” asked the nurse doubtfully.

  “In the mosque,” answered the little boy.

  “Have you any blankets there?”

  “No.”

  “Isn’t it very cold?”

  “Tonight I shall be warm in my new sweater.”

  “Well, you can come in tonight and sleep on the floor. The fire is still burning.”

  So she left him lying comfortably on the mat, covered with a blanket, staring into the glow of the dying charcoal and thinking over the events of the evening. He had learned something that night that he would never forget all his life. Sitting up suddenly, he held out his hands and whispered the words of a simple hymn he had learned by heart, asking God to give him a clean heart, forgive the bad things he had done, and lead him to heaven.

  Christmas

  Hamid and Ayashi crept shivering from the mosque one morning to find the olive groves and mountains above the town white with snow. The winter season had come to stay.

  One week was particularly cold and bleak, and on a night of drizzling rain, the children arrived at the door as usual and knocked impatiently, for the wind seemed to be cutting them in two and their sodden, fluttering rags clung to their bodies. The door was opened at once, and they tumbled over the threshold, eager to reach the warmth of the fireside. But once inside the passage they stopped suddenly and stared, the cold and the rain forgotten.

  For instead of the bright glare of the electric light, they found themselves facing the soft blaze of candles set in a circle on a little table in the middle of the room, with olive branches wreathed around them. On the floor, arranged like a picnic on a colored cloth, a feast was spread. There were nuts, almonds, raisins, sweets, oranges, bananas, sugar biscuits, and honey cakes; and on a tray in the corner was a shining teapot and a collection of little glasses. A kettle sang merrily on the glowing charcoal, and the room seemed warm and welcoming. Even Kinza had stayed up for the feast. She sat on a cushion, holding a big red-and-white rubber ball, her face lifted expectantly.

  “It’s the feast of the Christians today,” explained the nurse to the wide-eyed little boys, “so I thought we would celebrate it together. It is the feast of the birth of Jesus Christ. He was the greatest gift God ever gave, so at His feast we all give presents to each other. That is why Kinza has a rubber ball, and I’ve bought you all sweets and oranges and bananas.”

  The children sat down to their feast, shyly at first because of the strangeness of it all. But gradually their tongues loosened, their toes and fingers thawed, and their cheeks flushed. They talked and ate merrily, tucking away their fruit and sweets in their rags to eat later, and sipping glass after glass of hot, sweet mint tea.

  Hamid could not take his eyes off Kinza. She was dressed in her very best blue frock, and her curls were brushed out like a halo. How round and sturdy she had grown! He suddenly remembered the white-faced, ragged little sister of past winters, the mud in the village, and the poverty and wretchedness. All that seemed shut out now; they seemed to be cut off from the bleak world outside, sitting in a warm, kind circle of candlelight. The children were talking about feasts in general, and he began to talk too. He told them about the sheep feast in his own village. The nurse, watching his eager face, felt glad. He, too, had changed—since the night he took the eggs. He was no longer a shy, fearful little stranger but took his place confidently every night. She sat watching him, longing to know what had happened in his child heart, until her attention was suddenly taken by something that was happening beside her.

  Kinza had risen to her feet, and there was a look on her face the nurse had never seen before, as if she had remembered something—some dearly loved sound. Groping forward uncertainly, feeling her way with touch and hearing, she moved toward the speaker and stood beside him, wondering what to do.

  At any other time, Hamid would have been frightened at his secret being discovered and would probably have pushed Kinza away. But there was an atmosphere in the room that night that took away fear and suspicion, and Hamid, forgetting everyone else, put his arm around his little sister and drew her to him. She nestled up to him, remembering the voice she loved, and laid her shining head comfortably against his wet rags.

  And the nurse, watching in amazement, suddenly noticed how alike they were. Little memories flashed into her mind. The two children had arrived at the same time from nowhere. Hamid had asked to see Kinza asleep, and she had noticed how he secretly watched her in the street. She suddenly felt quite sure that they were brother and sister, but even if she was right, it would make no difference. Hamid was unlikely to tell his secret, and she certainly would not part with Kinza. She could only wonder what sad story had brought them to the city and be glad that they had been led to her door.

  The other children stared too. She knows his voice, they thought wonderingly, and they glanced at each other with surprise. But they could not speak their thoughts in front of the nurse and soon forgot about it as they drank more glasses of mint tea. Then, when the feast was ended, the nurse asked them to turn around and look at a white sheet hung on the wall. She blew out the flickering candles, and pictures appeared on the sheet. The boys thought it was magic, and watched wide-eyed and openmouthed.

  It started with a picture of a girl and a man knocking at the door of an inn, but they had to go away because there was no room. Hamid felt sorry for them because he, too, on his first night in town, had stood and gazed into the inn, longing for shelter. He had had no money, so he had slept on the rubbish heap. But the couple had gone into the stable, and the next picture showed them inside with the cattle. Then a wonderful thing had happened. She gave birth to a baby Son and wrapped Him in a cloth and laid Him in the manger. Hamid remembered how his mother had wrapped up Kinza, and she had slept in a wooden cradle. This baby was the child of very poor people, no doubt.

  But what was the nurse saying? The baby in the manger was Jesus Christ, whose birth all Christians celebrated. He was God’s great gift, and He had come willingly. The stable in the picture looked rather dark, lit only by one small lantern, but the home of the Son of God in heaven was bright with the light of glory and love. Why had He left it?

  The nurse was telling them, “Though He was rich, yet for your sakes He became poor. He left the light and came into the dark, a homeless child, so He could lead people to the shelter and love of His Father, God.”

  And then there was a third picture. There were shepherds on the hillside, keeping watch over their flocks by night. Hamid thought of his own goats and the days he had spent with them on the mountain. Another picture appeared, of an angel appearing to the shepherds, who were afraid. “Fear not—unto you is born a Savior,” said the angel. The sheep grazed on contentedly—there was peace in heaven and goodwill on earth.

  Then the last picture flashed on the screen. The shepherds were kneeling, barefoot, in their rough fleece coats, worshipping the King of heaven who had become a homeless child, lying in a manger among the cattle.

  It was over. The nurse switched on the lights, and the pictures faded. There was nothing left of the feast except the burnt-out candles, sweets papers, orange peels, and banana skins. But the thought of a love that gave, and of a love that became poor, stayed with Hamid as he stepped thoughtfully out into the wet street. Kinza stood in the doorway, waving as they went, and as he passed he put out a shy hand and touched her hair.

  The other boys had gone on ahead, but Hamid loitered, the pictures still bright in his head, not noticing the drizzling rain.

  As he passed under a streetlamp, a sharp little mewing caught his ears. Looking down he saw a skeletonlike kitten, very small and wet, trying to shelter behind a drain pipe.

  In his eleven years of life, he had seen many starving kittens dying in the street a
nd had never given them two seconds’ thought. But tonight it was somehow different. He could not possibly have explained, but the first seeds of gentleness had been sown in his heart. He found to his surprise that he cared about the starving little creature, and he picked it up and held it against him. It was so thin that its skin seemed to be stretched tightly over its bones, and he could feel its heart beating rapidly.

  What should he do with it? He had no doubts at all. There was one open door where it would certainly be welcome, and Kinza would probably love it. It would be his Christmas gift to her.

  He pattered back over the cobbles and knocked at the nurse’s door. When she opened it, he held out the shivering, wretched creature with perfect confidence.

  “It’s for Kinza,” he explained, “a gift of the feast. It is very hungry and cold, so I brought it to you.”

  The nurse hesitated. The last thing she really wanted just then was a half-dead ginger kitten, covered with sores and fleas, but she could not refuse, because she knew why he had given it. With a sigh of joy, she realized that her evening’s work had not been in vain. One little boy at least understood and entered into the spirit of Christmas. He had wanted to give, and he had been gentle and kind to an outcast kitten. It was the first time she had ever seen a local child care about the sufferings of an animal.

  So she accepted it gratefully and joyfully, and then holding it at arm’s length she carried it to a box near the fire and sprinkled it all over with disinfectant powder. Then she gave it a saucer of milk, and it twitched its tail at a cheeky angle and lapped it up— a tough, brave little kitten that deserved to be saved!

  As she sat watching it, a funny picture came into her mind that left her laughing. She imagined all the Christmas love gifts before the manger—the gold, frankincense, and myrrh—and perched on top of the glittering pile, precious in the eyes of the One to whom it was given, was a thin, flea-ridden, ginger kitten with its tail sticking up in the air—the sign of a little boy’s love and care.

  Jenny

  Many, many miles away, there was a different Christmas party taking place. The children here were also feeling very happy and carefree, like the ones in the nurse’s home.

  But it was a quite different kind of party. Instead of oranges and nuts and sweets, there were jellies and trifles and chocolate biscuits, and a big Christmas cake. Instead of black, wet rags there were brightly colored dresses and sweaters, and the girls had bright ribbons in their hair. It should have been a perfect party, and yet when the tea and games were over, and the joyful children gathered by the Christmas tree to sing carols, the grown-up visitors all felt sad, and one small visitor, aged nine, felt saddest of all.

  For this was a blind school, and the little singers with their bright faces could not see the tree or the candles or the toys they had been given. They had eaten their meal excitedly and danced merrily up and down to the sound of music, and now they were singing with all their hearts. Jenny, sitting in the audience with her parents, felt very sad. If she always had to live in the dark, she was quite certain she would never be happy again. She shut her eyes for a moment and tried to imagine what it would be like to be blind, but it was really too dreadful even to think about, so she opened them again quickly and watched the children.

  They were singing a carol that Jenny herself had learned at school:

  “Star of wonder, star of light,

  Star with royal beauty bright,

  Westward leading, still proceeding,

  Guide us to thy perfect Light.”

  Jenny wondered why they had been taught such words. What was the good of singing about perfect light when they were doomed to spend all their days in darkness? Yet, as she watched them, she had to admit to herself that not one little singer looked unhappy.

  Jenny knew the story of that carol, for they had made a beautiful wall picture of it to decorate the classroom for their Christmas party. Their teacher had stuck on the brightly colored figures—three lurching camels; three wise men with long white beards and their treasures of gold, frankincense, and myrrh; a shining star beaming down on a humble little house where a poor woman sat playing with her baby boy.

  Jenny’s mother touched her, and she stopped dreaming and started clapping very loudly so that the blind children would hear how pleased she was. And then it was over, and the children crowded around to say good-bye, touching and feeling and chattering, and the smallest ones were carried away happy and sleepy to bed. But the bigger ones stayed around the doorway to wave and shout to the sound of cars driving away, and that was the last Jenny saw of them.

  She was very quiet on the way home and her mother, thinking she was tired, hurried her up to her room, lit her gas fire, and hustled her into bed. Jenny had been ill, and this had been her first real outing in three months. Her mother had wondered whether she ought to go, but Jenny had insisted, and as usual had her way. Her father had recently joined the council of the blind school, and they had all been invited to the Christmas party.

  Jenny nestled down under her pink comforter and looked at all her Christmas presents—the books, the games, the cozy new dressing gown, the little gold wristwatch, and the travelling case. It had been a good Christmas, and the best present of all—a pony of her own—was down in the stable. For the first time in her rather self-centered life, Jenny suddenly realized that she was really a very fortunate child. She thought of the blind children with the toys they could not see, and the children in Morocco who had no toys at all and often no food. Her Aunt Rosemary looked after some of them, and had written her an early Christmas letter all about them, and Jenny had been thrilled. It had been like a new, exciting story, giving her a peep into a world she knew nothing about, a world where children like herself went about in rags and earned their own living and slept by themselves out-of-doors—a world where little babies got ill because they didn’t have enough to eat. Jenny adored babies, but the only ones she had ever met had nannies who took care of them, and she had not been allowed to hold them in her arms as she had longed to do. These other babies were probably too poor to have nannies, and perhaps she would be allowed to pick them up.

  The wonderful thing was that in a very short time Jenny would actually see the children that Aunt Rosemary had written about. Only six weeks after Christmas, she and her parents were going by car on a long journey to visit her and her beggar children in the mountains of North Africa.

  The doctor had said that Jenny needed sunshine. She had had plenty of medicines, creams, tonics, and drives out in the car, but she could not get warm sunshine in England in January, so they were going southward to a land of blue skies and yellow beaches and calm seas where she would grow strong and brown and healthy.

  She sleepily wondered how her father would know the way, and supposed they would just follow the sun, as the wise men had followed the star. When her mother returned with a drink and biscuits on a tray, she found her little daughter fast asleep. She stood looking down on the flushed face and tumbled hair for a moment, then put out the light, opened the big window, and slipped away, leaving Jenny to dream of stars, sunshine, and Christmas trees.

  The Holiday Begins

  Very early one morning in March, the English nurse woke, got out of bed at once, and ran up to her flat roof to look at the weather. It was going to be a fine day, she decided happily, and this was just as it should be, for this was the day she had looked forward to for so long. Her cousin from England was arriving to stay in the hotel for two weeks. Her husband was coming with her, and they were bringing Jenny.

  It was the thought of Jenny that made the English nurse very happy. She woke Kinza, who was lying in a ball on a mattress on the floor, her ginger kitten close beside her. The first thing she always did on waking was to stretch out her hand and make sure that the kitten was there, and if it had gone for a walk she made a terrible fuss. But this morning all was well.

  Hand in hand, the English nurse and Kinza climbed the stairs onto the flat roof and sat down at a low round
table, eating breakfast together under a blue spring sky.

  “The little girl is coming today,” announced the nurse, as she tidied up and tried not to trip over Kinza and the kitten, who were playing on the floor with a ball. “We are going to take a holiday. We will go to the market together and buy nice things to eat, and then we’ll make a feast for the little girl.”

  “A feast! A feast!” shouted Kinza, jumping about like a clumsy goat kid, and falling over the wastepaper basket. “I will carry the basket for you. Let’s go now.”

  “Yes, let’s,” said the nurse, and off they went into the sunshine hand in hand. The nurse had not had a weekday holiday for a long time. She usually stayed inside in the morning. But today she had told the people not to come. She was going to be free to get ready for Jenny. Now, while it was still early, she was going to climb up the hillside behind the town and pick flowers.

  It was too far for Kinza, so when they had finished their shopping, she left her on the step of the doughnut shop in the charge of Hamid. She often did this when she was busy, for she felt quite sure that the two children were probably brother and sister and should spend some time together. Kinza was always perfectly safe and happy when Hamid looked after her, although she sometimes ended up rather greasy and not very keen on her dinner. She was very fond of doughnuts and would eat all that were offered her.

  Once by herself, the nurse almost ran up the steep, cobbled streets, past the tumbledown shacks on the outskirts of the town, and out through the gate in the ruined wall that led on to the hillside. She suddenly forgot that she would soon be middle-aged and felt very young indeed. She began picking the flowers that were growing all around her.