Beautiful Star and Other Stories

by Andrew Swanston

  ‘And how will you land?’

  ‘In the same way. The daws tilt their wings to slow their flight and lose height. I shall do the same.’

  Eadric looked doubtful. ‘Have you any evidence that this will work or are you just guessing?’

  ‘I have studied the way in which the daws use the winds around the abbey and I have read about the flight of the Andalucian, Ibn Firnas, Father, and I believe my design closely follows his.’

  Eadric nodded. ‘I know of this man, but did he not damage himself on landing?’

  ‘He did, but he survived.’

  ‘As, if I permit this, I trust you will.’

  ‘I shall, Father.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Eadric hesitated. ‘Please leave these here. I would like to seek the advice of Brother Wregan. He has a scientific turn of mind and I would value his opinion.’

  Eilmer did not know whether to be encouraged or disappointed by the meeting. The abbot had not laughed at him or rejected his idea out of hand, but neither had he been very enthusiastic. ‘He thinks the wings are too long,’ he told Orvin, ‘and he wondered how I would land without injuring myself.’

  ‘I too wonder about that,’ replied Orvin, ‘unless you manage to land on a haystack. If you land in the river you might drown and if you land on the ground you might break all the bones in your body.’

  ‘That is why I shall fly towards St Aldhelm’s Meadow. The ground there is soft. It will be much like landing on a haystack.’

  ‘Eilmer, it will be nothing of the kind, as you know perfectly well. Wherever you land it will be dangerous. Are you sure you still want to do this?’

  ‘Quite sure. I shall pray that the abbot allows me to. If he does, shall I ask if you may assist me?’

  ‘Yes, as long as I do not have to jump off the tower with you.’

  When Eilmer was summoned to the abbot’s room, he found Wregan already there. He and Eadric were examining the model wings.

  ‘Wregan and I have discussed your request, Eilmer,’ said Eadric, ‘As it stands, I cannot agree to it.’ Eilmer’s heart sank. Another rebuff. He tried not to show his disappointment. ‘But we think that with some alterations to your design, such an attempt might be successful.’

  ‘And we won’t know unless we try,’ added Wregan.

  So sudden was Eilmer’s change of mood that he wondered if he had heard right.

  ‘So, Father, if we make the alterations, I will be permitted to attempt the flight?’

  ‘As long as you are able to satisfy Wregan and myself that everything else has been properly taken into account. The required wind strength and direction, for instance, and how you can be sure of landing safely in the meadow, which is, after all, surrounded by the river.’

  ‘I have thought of all that, Father. The tower is…’

  Eadric held up his hands. ‘Not now, Eilmer. Tomorrow at this time we will begin work.’

  ‘Yes, Father. And may I bring Orvin? He helped me make these wings.’

  ‘You may. We may need a younger pair of hands.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’

  The next day, Eilmer and Orvin presented themselves at the abbot’s room. As before, Wregan was already there.

  ‘Before we begin,’ said the abbot sternly, ‘I want to stress that this matter is to be kept confidential between us. I do not want our daily worship and work affected by foolish thoughts or idle gossip, nor do we want the townsfolk hearing about it. If they do, rumours will spread and our peace will be shattered. Let us take care not to speak of it outside this room.’

  Eilmer and Orvin nodded. ‘We understand, Father.’

  ‘Good. Then let us begin by examining the wings. Wregan and I believe that you will not be able to manage wings of eight feet in length. They will simply be too big and heavy.’

  ‘But I shall need wings big enough to lift me on the wind, Father, and even I am heavier than a daw.’

  ‘Indeed you are. But you must be able to control the wings, not they you.’

  ‘I suggest that we make wings of six feet in length,’ added Wregan. ‘We will use linen and willow for the frames as you have done. Silk would be better than linen but it is very scarce and expensive. Then we’ll be able to see whether you can manage them.’

  It was clear that if he was to be permitted to carry out his experiment, Eilmer would have to agree to Wregan and the abbot’s ideas or offer a very good reason for not doing so. For an hour they discussed the shape of the wings and the design of the frame. The less wood used the lighter they would be, but the frame must be strong enough. They discussed, too, the best way to attach the linen to the frame, deciding that silk thread should be used, and how best to fix the leather handles for Eilmer’s hands and arms.

  When Eilmer and Orvin left the abbot’s room to prepare for Terce, they had a clear picture in their heads of how the wings would look. Each would be six feet long, in the shape of a daw’s wings, widest in the middle and tapering to a point at the end. They would be made of linen and willow with leather straps. And they would start collecting the materials the next day.

  It was hopeless trying to keep it secret. By the time Eilmer had cut willow branches and carried them from the river to the abbey, and Orvin had bought linen and leather in the market, there was not a monk who did not know that something unusual was afoot. At the next weekly meeting of the monks, Abbot Eadric was forced to make the matter public and to instruct them not to discuss it outside the abbey. This was to be a scientific experiment. They did not want the town full of gawping visitors.

  Eilmer and Orvin did all the work entailed in making the wings. They more or less took over the carpenter’s workshop and between them cut the willow into the right lengths, bent it to the shapes they wanted, tied the pieces together with leather and cut and stretched the linen over the frames. Finally, they attached the straps.

  They agreed that the courtyard would be the best place for Eilmer to try on the wings. When he and Orvin carried them there from the workshop very early one morning, they found that all the monks had already assembled there. When Eadric arrived, they stood in silence all around the yard watching Orvin lift each wing and hold it up behind Eilmer. One at a time, Eilmer slipped his arms and hands through the leather straps, stood for a moment to feel the weight of the wings and to get his balance, then gently moved his arms to flap the wings – and immediately fell on his face. There were a few stifled laughs but, undeterred, Eilmer allowed Orvin to help him to his feet to try again.

  He flapped again and immediately fell over again. Lying face down on the ground he struggled out of the straps, got up, ignored the whispers of the grinning onlookers and approached Eadric. ‘The wings are too long and cumbersome, Father.’ he said quietly. ‘We must think of another way.’

  The abbot spoke equally quietly. ‘It is you who must think of another way, Eilmer. I have more important matters to attend to, and so does Wregan. You may have one week to come up with a better design or that will be the end of the matter. God will not look kindly upon us if we ignore our duties for the sake of a hare-brained scheme.’ And with that, he turned on his heel and returned to his room.

  All the monks dispersed, leaving Eilmer and Orvin alone. One week. Not very long and they had no idea of a better design. They picked up the wings and carried them back to the workshop. Perhaps the frames and linen could be reused in a different way.

  The carpenter, however, a wiry little man named Magan, had been less than pleased at his workshop being taken over and had observed their antics in the yard. ‘It isn’t going to work,’ he told them, ‘and I need my workshop. You’ll have to find somewhere else.’ So they carried the wings to a quiet spot near the west wall and left them there while they went to pray.

  It was not until after Noneat three that afternoon that Eilmer and Orvin were able to meet in the garden to discuss what to do. By that time, Eilmer had come to the conclusion that he would never be able to flap wings of sufficient length to keep him in the air so they would hav
e to approach the problem from a different angle. ‘The daws glide on the wind,’ he told Orvin, ‘and so shall I. We will build one large wing, with a frame in the shape of a cross and linen stretched over it. I will attach my ankles to the frame with rope and hold on to another rope tied across the wing. So the wing will be rigid. No flapping.’

  Orvin looked doubtful. ‘How will you steer?’

  ‘As before, by tilting the wing, but with both hands and both feet. It should be easy. Look.’ Eilmer picked up a stick and scratched a shape in the earth. ‘From top to tail, we will make it ten feet long, and from side-to-side eight feet.’

  ‘That is much more wing area than we had before. Are you sure you will be able to manage it?’

  ‘Quite sure. The balance will be different and there will be no need for flapping.’

  ‘So you will be tied on to the wing, jump off the tower and trust in the wind to carry you down to the meadow, where you will land as gently as a butterfly.’

  ‘Exactly. We know the tower is eighty feet high and the meadow might be another sixty feet lower than its base. So I shall have a drop of one hundred and forty feet in which to glide about twelve hundred feet. If I descend at a rate of one foot for every eight and a half feet travelled, I shall land in the meadow. If necessary, I shall adjust my speed and direction by tipping the wing up and down or from side to side. I don’t know why I ever thought I would need two wings. This is much simpler.’

  ‘If you say so, Eilmer. But will the abbot agree?’

  ‘We shall have to persuade him.’

  That evening after Vespers, Eilmer went to the library where he sat at the scribes’ writing table with a duck-feather quill and a pot of oak-apple ink. Very carefully, he drew his design on a sheet of parchment. When he was satisfied with the drawing, he dried it with sand and took it back to his room. He and Orvin would show it to the abbot the next day. That night Eilmer prayed as hard as he had ever prayed. If Eadric did not give his permission the next day, he would never fly. It was his last chance.

  When they knocked nervously on Eadric’s door, the drawing under Eilmer’s arm, they found the abbot in a surprisingly receptive mood. He seemed to have got over the fiasco in the courtyard and studied the new design with interest.

  ‘I can see how this might work, Eilmer,’ he said, ‘as long as you choose a day when the wind is just right.’

  ‘Yes, Father. This is the time of the year for a northerly wind. I will wait for one which is strong enough to carry me.’

  The abbot turned to Orvin. ‘And you, Orvin, what part will you play in this?’

  ‘I shall help Eilmer construct the wing and will tie him to it at the top of the tower, Father.’ He grinned, ‘I shall make sure he is tied securely.’

  ‘That would be sensible. Very well, you have my permission to make this wing. Inform me when it is ready so that I may inspect it. And do try not to disrupt our community; I do not want a repeat of the last episode.’

  Eilmer and Orvin were able to reuse some of the willow and leather from the wings they had put by the wall, but they had to acquire new linen. When Orvin returned from the market with it, he looked shaken. ‘I don’t know how, but everyone in Malmesbury seems to know about the flight. They are even wagering on the outcome.’

  Eilmer laughed. ‘How far do they think I shall get?’

  ‘About ten feet along and eighty feet down. They think you are mad.’

  ‘Then we must show them how wrong they are.’

  ‘And hope that the abbot does not hear of it. He might change his mind if he does.’

  ‘We’d better get on with it, then.’

  Over the next two days, they used every minute they could to finish the wing. When they had, it was just as Eilmer had drawn it – eight feet across and ten feet from tip to tail, in the shape of a cross. They tested the leather straps and silk stitching and found them to be sound and they practised tying Eilmer into place. On the third day, Eadric inspected it and gave them his blessing. He instructed them to inform him when the day came so that he might assemble the monks and ask for God to smile upon their endeavour. To Eilmer’s relief, he made no mention of spectators or gamblers.

  They did not have to wait long. On the third day after Eadric had given his permission, a good stiff wind was blowing from the north as they made their way to Prime.

  ‘God has sent us our wind,’ whispered Eilmer. Orvin smiled. Today Eilmer would fly.

  Eadric must also have realised that the day had come because at the end of the daily meeting he looked inquiringly at Eilmer, who smiled and nodded. ‘Today, Brothers,’ he announced, ‘Eilmer will attempt his flight from the tower. We will assemble now in the courtyard to pray for his safety and for the success of his experiment.’

  Eilmer sensed a mood of excitement among the monks. At last he would show them that a man’s flight was possible.

  After prayers had been said, Eilmer and Orvin carried the wing to the base of the tower and attached to it a light rope with which to haul it up to the top. Knowing the wing was too big to be manhandled up the narrow stairs, they had procured the rope and tied it to the parapet as soon as Eadric had consented to the flight. They left Wregan in charge of it while they climbed the stairs, and then heaved the wing up. Although it was light, the wind by now was blowing strongly and they had to take care not to damage it against the tower. Watched by their brother monks, they pulled the rope as smoothly as they could, lifted the wing over the parapet, and checked that it was undamaged.

  In the narrow confines of the top of the tower, tying Eilmer into the wing was the most difficult part of the operation. While Orvin held the wing up, struggling to keep it steady, Eilmer backed into it and held on to the ropes. Then Orvin squeezed around him and knelt down to secure his ankles and to loop a rope attached to the cross-piece around his stomach. The north wind had strengthened further and more than once Eilmer thought he might be blown off the tower before he was ready. Holding an eight-foot-wide wing up there was a different matter from holding it on the ground.

  Eilmer looked up. The daws were circling above as if they too had come to watch, floating on the wind and rising high when they caught an upward draught. Exactly what he hoped to do. Orvin touched him on the shoulder and pointed in the direction of the town. A crowd of spectators had gathered below the King’s Wall and along the east bank of the river. There must have been five hundred or more. The moment had come.

  Eilmer stepped on to the parapet, wobbled, and jumped. The wind immediately caught the wing and sent him flying over the heads of the watching monks and towards the abbey wall. When he felt himself falling, he pushed his hands back and his feet forwards until he was almost vertical. The wind lifted him again and he sailed over the wall in the direction of the meadow. Eilmer laughed out loud. By the grace of God, he was flying.

  He shook his head to clear the tears from his eyes. To his left he saw the streets and houses of the town, to his right the river and the trees and fields that stretched away towards the west. It was a view seen every day by the daws but never before by a man. He was right. Man could fly.

  Eilmer was about forty feet above the ground and could hear the cheers of the townsfolk as he flew over them when there was a slight change in the direction of the wind and he veered to the west, away from the King’s Wall and over a place where the ground sloped sharply down to the river. He tried to counteract the wind by tipping the wing back to the east. It made no difference. The wind dropped and he quickly lost height. He tried to rise by tipping the wing upwards. That too made no difference. He was falling and there was nothing he could do but hang on and hope. In a matter of seconds he hit the ground. The wing frame snapped and he tumbled down the slope, coming to a halt a few yards from the river.

  Eilmer knew at once that his legs were broken. Both of them were twisted unnaturally below the knee and the pain was fierce. He sat on the ground and waited for help. The nearest townsfolk were with him very quickly, followed by a handful of monks, i
ncluding the almoner, who ordered him to be carried gently to the abbey.

  By the time he was laid on a cot in the infirmary, Eilmer had passed out. The almoner moved fast. While two oblates held Eilmer down by the shoulders, the almoner straightened his left leg and bound it tightly with a linen bandage. Eimer briefly opened his eyes before closing them tight against the pain and silently mouthing a prayer. Then the almoner did the same with his right leg. When the legs were set, he helped Eilmer sip a cup of water mixed with St John’s wort and valerian root and told him to lie quite still. Eilmer knew he had been lucky. Such a fall might easily have killed him, and, although there was still a risk of fatal infection, he had flown and lived to tell the tale.

  When Eilmer next opened his eyes, Orvin was sitting beside the bed. He took Eilmer’s hand and squeezed it. ‘I am much relieved to see you alive, my friend,’ he said, ‘and have prayed for your recovery.’

  Eilmer smiled weakly. ‘I am in God’s hands. How far did I fly?’

  ‘We think it was about six hundred feet. Was it the wind that turned you towards the river?’

  ‘It was. I could not fight it. We should have fashioned a tail. Next time, I’ll have a tail to help me steer.’

  ‘Eilmer, even if you live to be a hundred, there must be no next time. You have flown. Whether you live or die now, let that be enough.’

  Eilmer closed his eyes and slept.

  1066 AD

  The monk stood in the abbey garden and watched the comet crossing the night sky. He was frail and old – more than eighty years old – and lame; he used two stout sticks when he walked. He had lived in the abbey for almost all of his long life and had known six abbots and more monks than he could remember. He was revered in the community for his age and wisdom and for his feat of daring over fifty years earlier. Everyone in and around Malmesbury knew him as the monk Eilmer, who had leapt from the abbey tower and flown like a bird.

  Eilmer was the only man in Malmesbury who had seen the comet before. When he was a small boy, he had stood outside his parents’ cottage and watched it. Leofric, his father, had feared then that it foretold impending disaster, and had been proved right the following year when Danes appeared from the east and laid waste the countryside, plundering villages, killing the men and raping their women. Now the comet had come again and Eilmer feared that England was once more in danger.