Beautiful Star and Other Stories

by Andrew Swanston

  The abbot cleared his throat. ‘The life of a monk in this abbey is one of work and prayer. It is the same for an oblate, even one of this boy’s age. It is not a life for the weak or infirm. What is your name, boy?’

  ‘Eilmer, Father.’

  ‘And why do you wish to join our order, Eilmer?’

  ‘I want to study, Father. I want to read and write and to learn from books.’

  Beorthelm smiled. ‘That is good. Since it was founded more than three hundred years ago, our community has embraced the study of science and nature as well as that of the Gospels and the Rule of St Benedict. Malmesbury Abbey is now a noted seat of learning. And thanks to King Athelstan our library contains many beautiful and sacred books. Is there anything in particular that you wish to study?’

  ‘I would like to study birds, Father.’

  ‘Birds? How unusual. I do hope you will not be trying to fly.’ Eilmer said nothing, sensing that this was not the moment to speak of such a thing. ‘Do you have any Latin, Eilmer?’

  ‘No, Father.’

  ‘Then you will not know that oblate is a Latin word. It means “bring before” or “offer one’s services to”. If you were to join our order as an oblate you would be offering yourself to God. Do you understand that?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘We are a God-fearing family, Father,’ said Leofric. ‘Eilmer has been brought up as a good Christian.’

  ‘Indeed. I am pleased to hear it.’ The abbot stroked his chin. ‘We already have two young oblates residing in the abbey. I do not know if we should take in another one.’ Again he peered at Eilmer. ‘Especially one as young and frail as Eilmer. Are you sure that he is ten? We cannot take him if he is not.’

  ‘Quite sure, Father.’

  ‘In that case, please wait in the garden while I consider the matter. I will find you when I have made my decision.’

  In the garden, they sat on the log and watched a monk at work on the beehives and another hoeing the bed of lavender and sage. Both men worked steadily, neither rushing nor resting. Eilmer wondered if one day he would be collecting honey or cutting lavender in this garden. When Abbot Beorthelm came into the garden, he had beside him the young man who had brought their food earlier. He introduced the young man as Orvin.

  ‘I have asked for guidance,’ said the abbot, ‘and believe that our community would benefit from having Eilmer as one of its members. Are you still sure that this is what you want, Eilmer?’

  Eilmer beamed. ‘Quite sure, Father.’

  ‘I thought so. In that case, say farewell to your father. Orvin will show you where you will sleep and pray and will teach you our ways. He too is an oblate.’ He turned to Leofric. ‘While Eilmer is an oblate, he may leave us at any time if he wishes and, except during Lent, you may visit him as often as you like. We do not admit visitors while we are fasting.’

  ‘My wife Ayleth is outside,’ said Leofric. ‘May Eilmer say goodbye to her?’

  ‘Of course.’

  They found Ayleth still sitting on the bank and told her what the abbot had said. Eilmer kissed her and hugged his father. Then Orvin led him back into the abbey.

  Very early one morning in June, when Eilmer had been at the abbey for eleven years, before the office of Prime, Eilmer and Orvin climbed the spiral stairs which led to the top of the tower on the south-west corner of the abbey church. In one hand Eilmer carried a bunch of feathers collected from the dovecot and the ground under the daws’ nests.

  As the abbey stood on a steep hill overlooking Malmesbury, the top of the tower was the highest point for miles around. From there, they could see the rivers circling the town, the town itself and for several miles in every direction. To the south lay St Aldhelm’s Meadow and, to the west, the road to the small town of Bristol.

  On top of the tower there was only just enough room for the two of them. They held on to each other to steady themselves against the blustery wind which could easily blow a man off balance and over the low parapet which was all that protected them from a long drop to the ground. ‘This is an uncomfortable place, Eilmer,’ said Orvin, gripping Eilmer’s arm. ‘I would rather be asleep in my bed. What exactly are we going to do?’

  ‘We are going to observe the flight of these feathers,’ replied Eilmer. ‘I want to know how the wind affects them and where they fall to ground.’

  Orvin sighed. ‘I need hardly ask why, but please do not try following the feathers while I am up here. I do not wish to see you fall on your head.’

  ‘Do not concern yourself, my friend. I shall not be flying today. There is more to learn before I do that. Now, take these feathers and throw them as high as you can into the air.’ Eilmer handed Orvin three feathers, which he launched off the tower with a flick of his wrist. At first the feathers swirled about above their heads, blown this way and that as if not quite sure in which direction they should be going. But when a gust of wind met the hill upon which the abbey stood, it rose sharply upwards and sent the feathers soaring into the sky. The two monks watched as they climbed higher and higher before disappearing into the distance.

  ‘There. Just like the daws. It’s the wind which the birds use to soar along the hill. It comes up the valley from the south-west, meets the hill and the tower, rises up and carries the daws with it. The daws use their wings to ride the wind in the direction they want to go.’

  As if they had been listening, half-a-dozen daws left their nests in the tower and rose effortlessly on the wind before swooping down towards the river. With no more than tiny movements of their wings, they adjusted the direction of their flight along the ridge of the hill before turning back over the town towards the abbey.

  ‘It is wonderful to watch God’s creatures,’ said Orvin, ‘but I am not sure that I want to watch you trying to copy them, Eilmer. Even you are much heavier than a bird. Won’t you simply plummet to the ground and kill yourself?’

  ‘I might. But when a bird leaves its nest for the first time does it not have the same fear? Yet a bird must learn to fly and that means overcoming its fear. One day a man will learn to fly like a bird, just as he has learnt to swim like a fish. Why should it not be me?’

  For some time Orvin stood looking out over the town. Then he said, ‘You will need help.’

  ‘I shall. Will you help me?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Orvin. ‘As long as I do not have to fly too.’

  Eilmer laughed. ‘Have no fear, Orvin. I will do the flying.’

  The monks had very little time to themselves between saying the nine daily offices and their work in the abbey or among the poor and sick of the town. What free time they had they were expected to spend in sleep or prayer. For nearly twelve months Eilmer and Orvin snatched whatever minutes they could to work on a design for the wings Eilmer would need for his flight. Eilmer had begged parchment and ink from the scribes in the library and together they pored over their drawings, often by no more than the light of a single, evil-smelling tallow candle.

  They agreed that the wings should be as long and as wide as possible, given that they would have to be carried up the narrow stairs to the top of the tower before being attached to Eilmer. As there was no protection from the wind up there, fixing the wings would be difficult and dangerous. If they were too large to be easily managed, they might lose control of them and be blown off the tower. They also agreed that they should make the wings out of the lightest materials they could find. At first Eilmer suggested parchment, fixed to frames of ash. But they soon realised that parchment would not be strong enough and might tear, and turned instead to linen. And the ash was replaced by willow, which grew abundantly around the town and which they found to be lighter and more flexible. It was Orvin’s idea to make a model. ‘You will have to seek the abbot’s permission,’ he told Eilmer, ‘and that will be easier if you can show him how you plan to do it.’

  They cut thin strips of willow which they fashioned to make the frames of two wings shaped like those of a bat, and sewed pieces of linen over
the frames. Then they attached leather straps to the underside of the wings. Eilmer would hold on to the straps and flap the wings with his arms. Each wing of the model was two feet long – about a quarter of the size the real wings would be.

  When Abbot Beorthelm had died five years earlier, Abbot Beorhtwold had taken his place. One day in the summer of 1003, after the meeting which followed the saying of Prime, Eilmer and Orwin approached the abbot and requested permission to speak to him. Although this was unusual, the abbot agreed and told them to come to his quarters after the office of Sext at noon.

  Beorhtwold was not a man who often smiled. His long face was invariably cast in the sternest of frowns, his forehead creased and his gaze fixed somewhere in the distance as if he were contemplating some difficult theological problem. When Eilmer and Orvin entered his room, each bearing a model wing, the frown deepened and his eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘And what is this that you bring me?’ he asked them.

  They held up the wings for the abbot to see. ‘These are models of a pair of wings that we seek your permission to make and try,’ replied Eilmer.

  ‘Wings, Brother Eilmer? How exactly do you propose to try them, and why?’

  ‘I have studied the flights of the daws which nest in the church tower, Father, and I believe that, with the right design of wings, a man might copy them. I wish to put my theory to the test.’

  Beorhtwold’s expression did not change. ‘And you, Brother Orvin, what part do you play in this?’

  ‘I shall assist Eilmer in the construction of the wings, Father, and in fitting them to him at the top of the tower.’

  ‘So you will jump from the tower, Eilmer? And how far do you expect to fly?’

  ‘I aim to land in St Aldhelm’s Meadow, Father.’

  ‘That is a considerable distance. A thousand yards or more. What if you do not reach the meadow?’

  ‘Then we shall at least have learnt that my ideas are wrong. A small but valuable contribution to the abbey’s store of knowledge.’

  The abbot’s frown returned. ‘And a high price to pay for it if you lose your life. Please show me a wing.’

  Eilmer handed him a wing and together he and Orvin explained how it was made and how it would work.

  ‘I have no idea if these will work as you think,’ said the abbot when they had finished, ‘and I need time to consider the matter. The Lord will guide my thoughts, as he always does. I will let you know when I have made my decision.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’ said Eilmer and Orvin together. They took the wings, bowed their heads and left.

  Outside, Orvin asked Eilmer how he thought it had gone. ‘Better than I had feared,’ said Eilmer. ‘He listened and he did not refuse us. Let us hope that he does not take too long to decide.’

  For seven days Eilmer went about his business, attending the offices, working in the garden and tending the abbey’s chickens. He tried to concentrate on his prayers and on his work. Worrying about it would not change Beorhtwold’s decision or make him reach it any the sooner. But it was a long seven days. He sat in his room and held the model wings in his hands. They would work. He knew it. A man could fly and he would prove it. He just needed the chance.

  After Prime on the eighth day after he and Orvin had been to see him, Beorhtwold sent for them. When they entered his room, he was on his knees in prayer. He rose stiffly and turned to face them. ‘I have prayed for guidance and I have discussed your request with some of the older monks. It is true that our abbey is a noted seat of learning and that we value knowledge above everything but our faith, but I cannot grant you permission to do as you wish. It is too dangerous and I would be at fault if you were killed or injured. That is my decision.’

  Eilmer felt his face redden. ‘But, Father…’

  Beorhtwold held up his hands. ‘That is my decision, Brother Eilmer. Let there be no more talk of the matter. It is not God’s purpose that we should fly. Destroy the wings and return to your duties. I shall pray that your minds are swiftly turned to more godly things.’

  There was nothing for it but to accept the abbot’s decision. Eilmer and Orvin bowed their heads and left. This time they did not stop to speak outside but walked in silence straight to Eilmer’s room. There Eilmer handed the model wings to Orvin. ‘Please destroy them as the abbot instructed,’ he said. ‘I will dispose of everything else.’ Orvin took the wings and Eilmer gathered up the strips of wood, linen, needles, thread and leather that lay about his room. He carried them to a place just inside the north wall of the abbey where a large hole for rubbish had been dug. He threw them in and returned to his room.

  There would be no flight. Eilmer would just have to make do with his dreams.

  Try as he might, Eilmer could never quite put the idea of flying out of his mind. He spoke to no-one about it, not even Orvin, and lived strictly by the rule of St Benedict. He spent the little free time he had in the library and in the garden where he studied the plants and animals, and sitting by the abbey walls gazing up at the swooping daws. If he could not fly himself, at least he could watch the daws.

  In the autumn of the year 1009, Abbot Beorhtwold had died. His replacement, Eadric, was a scholarly man, a mathematician and linguist, who had studied in Rome and Paris. Eadric immediately set about adding to the abbey’s library and encouraging scientific research of all kinds. He asked the gardeners, Eilmer among them, to experiment with different plants, the beekeepers to study more closely the behaviour of their charges and the almoners to try new remedies such as mandrake roots and arnica when they visited the sick of the town. Eadric was a man who embraced new ideas and wanted to enhance the abbey’s reputation as a seat of learning.

  Eilmer was hoeing a vegetable bed when he saw Abbot Eadric approaching. Despite the winter cold, he wore only his habit and sandals – the monks of Malmesbury were expected to bear all seasons alike. Eilmer bowed his head to the abbot and continued his work. It would not do to speak to the abbot unless he was invited to. Eadric stood and watched Eilmer working away at the soil, worrying out the weeds, and putting them in his basket ready to be added to the heap of garden and kitchen refuse which he would dig into the soil the following autumn.

  ‘What will you plant here?’ asked Eadric

  ‘Leeks and carrots, Father,’ replied Eilmer.

  Eadric nodded. ‘God is bountiful.’

  ‘He is, Father.’

  Eadric bent to pull out a weed and dropped it in the basket. ‘St Benedict recognised that although idle coversation is to be avoided, there are times when it is necessary to talk, Brother Eilmer, and it is my duty as Abbot to know about my fellow monks in the abbey. Please tell me how you came to Malmesbury.’

  Eilmer put down his hoe and turned to face the abbot. The request had taken him by surprise and he thought for a minute before answering. He told Eadric about his parents and about the arrival of the Danes in the village and their hiding in the forest, and how he had come to realise that life on a farm was not what he wanted. He explained how, when Leofric had suggested he come to Malmesbury, he had known what sort of life he did want. He had joined as an oblate and had been content in the abbey for nearly twenty years.

  ‘And what was it about our life that made you think it was what you wanted?’ asked Eadric.

  ‘The order and discipline of the abbey, Father, and also the opportunity to learn. In our village I would have learnt how to survive and little else.’

  ‘And what have you learnt here, Brother Eilmer?’

  ‘I have learnt to read and write and about the rule of St Benedict, Father, and also about this garden and the animals we keep. Most of all, I have studied the birds,’ replied Eilmer, thinking that he might have said too much.

  ‘That is good.’ Eadric smiled and wandered off down the garden, leaving Eilmer to his hoeing.

  That evening, Eilmer did something he had not done for many years. He climbed the stairs to the top of the tower and looked out on the countryside below. The sun was low over green pastures, the rive
r glinted as it twisted its way around the town and the chattering daws circled above him. He thought of the fledgling pigeon that day in the forest. It had watched its mother, hesitated a while, then launched itself off the branch and into the air. It was that, more than anything, which had brought Eilmer to the abbey.

  Orvin was feeding the chickens when Eilmer approached him. He told his friend about his brief conversation with the abbot and about climbing the tower. Orvin looked up in surprise.

  ‘Are you thinking of trying again, Eilmer?’ he asked.

  ‘Perhaps. I think Abbot Eadric might be more amenable to the idea than Beorhtwold.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Just a feeling.’

  Orvin scattered the last of his scraps around the chicken run and, together, they walked back down the garden to the abbey. ‘Come with me, Eilmer,’ he said. ‘I have something for you.’

  Eilmer followed Orvin to his room. Inside, Orvin reached under his narrow cot and pulled out something wrapped in an ancient piece of cloth. He handed it to Eilmer.

  ‘There. You might need this.’ Eilmer carefully unwrapped the cloth. Inside were the model wings they had made to show to Beorhtwold. Orvin had not destroyed them, as Eilmer had asked him to, and they were quite intact.

  ‘I knew you would need them again one day.’ said Orvin with a grin.

  Eilmer gripped his arm. ‘Thank you, Orvin. This is the sign I needed. I shall speak to the abbot tomorrow after Prime.’

  ‘And how long do you intend to make these wings?’ inquired Eadric with a twinkle in his eye. If he had been surprised by the arrival at his door of Eilmer bearing two objects in the shape of wings made of willow, linen and leather, he had not shown it. ‘They will have to be strong enough to support you.’

  ‘Yes, Father. I plan to make each one eight feet long.’

  ‘Eight feet? Surely that would make them too heavy for you to flap like a bird. And how do you propose to steer?’

  ‘As the daws do, Father. I shall tilt the wings according to the direction I wish to go in.’