Star of Light (9 page)

H
amid 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 and 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

M
any, 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:

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.