My name is Ben, and this is my pen. I write mostly fiction, mostly fantasy/magical realism with some poetry thrown in because why not. And sometimes I will write things that are not either of those even slightly. I will usually be attempting to make you laugh. So please bear that in mind!
This week, I have written the second and final part of y short story ‘The Wanderer’s Star’. If you missed the first part, please start here:
If, like Aerosmith, you don’t want to miss a thing, please do:
The Wanderer’s Star - Part 2
Malcolm put a lot of faith in the restorative power of a decent cup of tea, but on this occasion it didn’t seem to be doing the trick. He closed his eyes and took a great long gulp of his brew. Boiling hot water, over a Tetley’s bag, steeped for three minutes, dash of semi-skimmed and half a sugar for a bit of a lift (down from two full sugars because the doctor said so, what with Malcolm’s age).
That sacred recipe had seen Malcolm through some rough times. When a burst pipe flooded the ground floor one Christmas morning; first things first, tea. Awaiting the birth of his only grandchild, tea. When he got home from the hospital after his Sarah died, tea. But this time, it failed him. When he opened his eyes, there was still an elf princess in his kitchen.
At this rate, he was going to have to get hold of the Christmas whisky from the cupboard under the stairs. Malcolm exhaled and decided the best course of action was to re-establish the facts.
“You’re searching for a priceless jewel, something of great significance to your… people. And you think that it is here, in my house somewhere."
Sunduriel considered Malcolm carefully. She was certain that he was no physical threat, but she’d met more than enough foes on her quests to make the mistake of underestimating anyone based on their appearance. Still…
“You are correct Malcolm. The Wanderer’s Star, precious treasure of my people, lost for ages rendered countless in your lifetimes. That is my task. I must find it and restore it to my mother-Queen. I am so close. Please, help me.”
Malcolm resolved that the best way of dealing with this was to not fight it. Instead he was going to lean in, and hope that brought an end to things before it spoiled his appetite.
“I’d love to help dear,” he started, “I really would. And if you think this magic jewel is chirping to you from somewhere in my house, then I’ll help you look. But I wouldn’t know where to start if I am honest. I don’t think my Sarah had anything like what you’re talking about.”
Sunduriel allowed a smile to spread across her face, although she felt a tug in her heart as Malcolm mentioned his wife’s name. She followed his unconscious glance over her shoulder to the photo on the windowsill.
“This is Sarah?” she asked, stepping towards the photo.
“Please don’t touch that.” Malcolm wasn’t threatening, he was pleading. “That’s my Sarah, yes. Please, don’t touch it.”
Sunduriel stopped and faced Malcolm, her face unsmiling, set entirely neutral. She understood completely. She nodded and they understood each other.
“Right-o.” Malcolm picked his voice up with extreme effort. “Let’s start looking for this treasure of yours. Like I say, I am not convinced, but you’re welcome to look as clearly it’s very important.”
“It is.” Sunduriel bowed low.
Malcolm led her through the dining room, towards the stairs as the sound of a giant horse lapping up pond water floated in through the window. The neighbourhood cats and curtain twitchers watched on with suspicion.
“I’ve not got rid of anything, so all of the jewellery is in the box in the top draw there.” Malcolm pointed Sunduriel to the chest of draws in the upstairs back room, which Sarah had used as a dressing and storage room after their daughter had moved out.
Sunduriel looked sceptical, but didn’t want to discourage his helpful mood. Carefully she removed the box from the draw. It was covered with cracked padded blue leather, made pale having been set out in the sun for too long. There was a floral pattern in gold filigree on the top of the box which had started peeling and a simple catch on the front.
It was clear that nothing inside was of interest to her. She could still hear the Wanderer’s Star calling her and it wasn’t from within this box of trinkets.
Malcolm stood in the doorway and could tell from the look on the elf’s face that nothing in the jewellery box was of any significance to her. He was ashamed, but he felt relieved. He had not wanted to consider letting any of Sarah’s things leave the house.
“Well, ok then. I have to say, I am little glad. I wouldn’t feel right letting my Sarah’s jewellery go.” Malcolm tried to use his words to draw a line under proceedings.
“You loved her deeply didn’t you?” Sunduriel didn’t look at him.
“I love her very much, yes.” The shock of the question hit Maclolm like a cold shower, but he didn’t miss the opportunity to subtly correct the elf. She nodded, still not meeting his eye, although he could see that her mind was working behind her eyes.
“You speak of love like one that knows of sorrows not meant for your kind. I can feel it in your words. I see it in you heart.”
“What are you doing?” he watched as Sunduriel closed the lid of the jewellery box having given everything a cursory glance - more theatre than anything else. She sat still as the house itself and her eyes were closed. Slowly she opened them back up and looked towards Malcolm. No, not towards him, past and above him.
“There.” She pointed to the ceiling above Malcolm’s shoulder, where the loft hatch stayed closed other than twice a year for Christmas decorations.
“The loft?” Malcolm almost laughed, but for the determined stare from Sunduriel. “It’s just old coats, and some photo albums up there. And the decorations for the Christmas tree.”
Sunduriel was on her feet, Malcolm backed up as she strode forward. They were both on the landing under the hatch.
“May I?” Sundurial asked as she reached up the latch.
“Please.” Malcolm couldn’t reach the latch himself without the ladder from the shed and he didn’t fancy the prospect of getting past the horse un-nibbled.
Sunduriel opened the hatch to the loft. Unbeknownst to Maclolm, a silver light crashed out of the hatch and filled the landing. The elf shielded her eyes before vaulting up in a single leap.
“Hang on, I’ll grab the ladder!” Malcolm panicked and almost fell down the stairs.
“No need. I have it.” Sunduriel lowered herself back down to the landing, with not a cobweb spoiling the fall of her cloak. She held out her hand, and showed Malcolm the star from their Christmas tree. At this point, Malcolm couldn’t help himself chuckling.
“We got that from the charity shop on the high street. It’s closed now. Must have been, twenty… maybe twenty-five years ago. Are, are you really sure that’s your Wanderer’s Star?”
“Oh yes.” Sunduriel didn’t elaborate, but the tears that flowed down her pale cheeks spoke for her. She held open her hands and Malcolm looked at the cheap, flimsy star that had sat on the top of their Christmas tree, scraping tiny marks on the ceiling for the last couple of decades.
In the long fingers of the elf-princess, the star somehow looked right. The jewel in the middle looked brighter and deeper, oval in shape and cleaner - less dusty than Malcolm remembered it. The wire frame that he always assumed had been covered in silver foil held the jewel in place and the bent and curved its way into the shape of a star.
Sunduriel faced Malcolm, unashamed of her tears and smiled so deeply that Malcolm couldn’t help but return the same.
“Malcolm. The words of men can not tell how much this means to me, or what this will mean to my queen and kinsfolk. So far I have travelled, so long have I dreamt of this. To hold the treasure of my people to my heart. Thank you Malcolm. The blessings of my people upon you. How can I ever repay you?”
Sunduriel stared deep into Malcolm’s eyes and he met her gaze. He tried to reply, he wanted to say that he didn’t feel any payment was necessary. But her gaze stopped him. They just stared in silence for a minute.
Sunduriel nodded. “Yes. I can give you that.”
Back downstairs Malcolm sat in the comfy chair in the corner of the dining room. Sunduriel reached into her cloak and pulled out a small glass vial, deep blue in colour. She handed the vial to Malcolm. She regarded him with solemnity, but with understanding. She whispered a short incantation in her own language. Malcolm - who considered french to be extremely foreign - did not understand the words, but he would have told you it was the saddest thing anyone had ever said out loud.
“Could you please, bring me the photo from the kicthen windowsill?” Malcolm asked the elf as he took the vial.
Sunduriel nodded.
A few minutes later she led her horse Lithlow back round the front of the house, closing the gate behind her. She took a minute to cast a firm glare at the curtain twitching from Ivy’s window as Lithlow took one last munch of the flower bed.
The next day, the paramedics found Malcolm in his chair. He was cold and his cheeks and shirt collar were damp. But he was smiling. Clutched to his chest was a photo of a smiling woman on a beach wearing a broad hat.
This is the second and final part of my short story ‘The Wanderer’s Star’. As I said at the end of Part 1 if you want to read what I am attempting here done properly, try searching out Chivalry, by Neil Gailman, a short story in his Smoke and Mirrors collection.
If you enjoyed this, please check out the whole range of Sword and Saturday contributions from the many talented writers on the substack platform.
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Awwwww! 😭 Sorry it took me so long to read this! What a delightful story! You threaded the needle between humor and pathos so well!
Loved this story. Funny and sweet, and then the ending... brings a tear to the eye!