‘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-spouts 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