The Keeper of the Faded Stars

Myroslava lived right under the roof of an old house, in a little room with a round window. In the daytime she wasn’t afraid of anything: not her granny’s geese in the village, not the high swings, not the grumpy dog in the next yard. But at night she was afraid of the dark.

So every evening she pulled back the curtain and looked at the sky. As long as the stars were shining above the rooftops, the dark in her room didn’t seem quite so black. Myroslava had even given the stars names. The brightest one, which hung above the town hall tower, she called Twinkle.

That evening, as always, she sat on the windowsill, hugged her knees — and froze.

The stars were going out.

One. Two. Five. As if someone were walking across the sky, blowing out candles. Twinkle flickered last — and then she was gone too.

The town went as black as the inside of a closed chest. Myroslava shrank back from the window. Her heart began to pound — thump-thump-thump — so hard she could hear it in her ears.

"Mommy…" she whispered, but so quietly that she barely heard it herself.

Then someone tapped on the glass. Tap. Tap-tap.

Myroslava clutched her blanket. Behind the glass, a tiny blue flame swayed. And in its light there was a long nose, a gray beard and a hat with a wide brim.

"Begging your pardon, miss," said someone outside the window, a little hoarse and very polite. "Might you have a little time to spare? And a pair of sharp eyes?"

Myroslava hesitated for one more moment. Then she opened the window.

On the ledge stood a tall, thin old man in a long blue cloak with copper buttons. In one hand he held a pole with a hook on the end, and in the other a small copper lantern. The flame inside trembled like a leaf in the wind.

"Who are you?" asked Myroslava.

"The Keeper of the Faded Stars," the old man said with a bow. "But you can just call me Omelko. Every night I walk the rooftops and light the stars that have grown tired. But tonight…" He sighed guiltily. "Tonight I was tired myself. I sat down on a chimney for a minute, closed my eyes — and meanwhile the wind played with my lantern. One star went out, and then all the others followed. They hold on to each other, you see, like children in a ring dance: when one stumbles, they all fall down."

"So what now?"

"Now this little flame has to be carried up to the spire of the town hall. There’s an iron star up there. From it, the light will run across the whole sky. Only…" Omelko shaded his eyes with his hand. "I’m old now. Without the stars, I can’t see where to step. And the flame is so weak it barely lights up my own boots."

Myroslava looked into the blackness outside. The blackness looked back at her.

"I’m afraid of the dark," she said honestly.

"I know," the keeper nodded. "I see who sits on this windowsill every evening. But you know these rooftops better than I do. You’ve looked at them hundreds of times."

It was true. Myroslava knew every roof: there was the red one with two chimneys, there was the green one with a little weathercock on its spire, there was the bakery, which smelled of fresh buns every morning. She could have drawn them with her eyes closed.

With trembling hands, she wrapped her granny’s yellow scarf around her neck, slipped on her slippers — and climbed out onto the ledge.

The roof tiles under her feet were cold and rough. Clink — one tile shifted. Myroslava grabbed the keeper’s sleeve.

"Which way?" asked Omelko.

Myroslava closed her eyes. It was even easier that way: the dark behind her eyelids was ordinary, her very own. She pictured the rooftops the way she saw them every evening at sunset, pink and warm.

"Straight to the red roof. Then left, along the gutter. The bakery’s there."

Off they went. One step. Another step. The flame barely lit the tiles, and every shadow looked like a hole.

On the red roof, by the chimney, something glinted. Two green lights. Two eyes. They were staring straight at Myroslava — and they didn’t blink.

Myroslava froze. Her legs turned to jelly. "It’s a monster," she thought. "It sits here every night, waiting."

"Who’s there?" she squeaked.

"Meow," said the monster.

Omelko raised his lantern. On the chimney sat a black cat with a white bib, lashing his tail indignantly.

"Why, it’s Cinder, the baker’s cat!" laughed Myroslava. Her laugh came out a little shaky, but it was real. "I see him in the daytime. He always sleeps on the bakery windowsill."

"Prrr," Cinder agreed. Hop, down from the chimney — and he pattered after them, as if he had some business at the town hall too.

Past the bakery, the rooftops came to an end. Down below lay the street — narrow, but as deep as a well. Across it, from the bakery to the old apothecary, stretched a little plank bridge that chimney sweeps had laid there long ago. Instead of a railing, there was a taut rope.

"I’ll go first," said Omelko, and stepped onto the planks. Creak. Creak. He walked slowly, because his knees crunched and the flame in his lantern swung from side to side.

Myroslava was left alone at the edge. Below her was blackness. Behind her too. Even Cinder had wandered off somewhere.

She stood there and couldn’t move. "I can’t do it," she thought. "Brave people don’t tremble. And I’m trembling all over, from my slippers to my braid."

"Myroslava," the keeper called softly from the other side. "I’m here. Hold on to the rope and count your steps."

She took hold of the rope. It was rough and still warm from the old man’s hand. One. Two. Her knees were shaking. Three. Four. A tear rolled down onto her scarf. Five. Six. Seven.

On the eighth step, a dry, warm hand caught hers.

"There you go," said Omelko. "Eight steps."

"I was trembling the whole time," whispered Myroslava.

"I saw," the keeper smiled. "And you kept walking anyway."

Myroslava wanted to say something back, but just then, from behind the apothecary — whoooooo! — the wind came rushing in.

It was cold and fierce, like a dog that has broken off its chain. It tugged at Omelko’s hat, whistled in the chimneys and grabbed at the lantern. The flame crouched low, turned blue and almost vanished.

"Oh no, oh no!" cried the keeper. "Hold on to it!"

Myroslava didn’t think for a second. She pulled her granny’s scarf from her neck, wrapped the lantern in it and pressed it to her chest like a kitten. Both hands around the glass. Back to the wind.

The wind roared, pulled at her braid, tugged at her pajamas. But under the scarf, right next to her heart, something was quietly growing warm.

"Don’t go out," Myroslava whispered. "Please, don’t go out. I’m scared too, but I’m holding you."

At last the wind ran out of breath, grumbled something in the gutters and went off, away across the river.

Myroslava carefully unwrapped the scarf. The flame was alive. It was small, but steady, and now it shone a little brighter than before.

"It remembers you now," said Omelko. "Little flames remember who kept them warm."

And there was the town hall. Its tower stood over the town like a giant in a hood. Inside, a steep spiral staircase led up. Omelko clambered up it, holding on to the wall, and rested at every turn.

"Oh, my poor old bones," he grumbled. "A hundred years ago I flew up here like a sparrow."

At last they came out onto a wooden platform right under the spire. From here, only a narrow iron ladder led to the very top. And up there, ever so faintly, the iron star creaked in the wind.

Omelko put his foot on the first rung — and winced.

"I can’t," he sighed. "My knee won’t bend. Myroslava… it will have to be you."

Myroslava looked up. The ladder disappeared into dark so thick that it seemed there was nothing up there at all — no spire, no star, no sky. Only the same darkness she had been afraid of all her life.

"What if I get scared up there?" she asked.

"Then you’ll be scared," the keeper said simply. "Fear doesn’t weigh much. You can take it with you."

He hung the lantern around her neck, on the yellow scarf, so her hands would be free.

Myroslava began to climb. One rung. Another. The iron was icy. Below her, Omelko, the platform and the tower all disappeared. There was only her, the ladder and the little flame by her heart.

To make it less scary, she softly sang her granny’s lullaby — the one about Sleep, who walks past the windows at night. Her voice trembled. Her hands trembled. But her feet kept climbing higher and higher.

And suddenly her fingers touched something cold, with sharp points. The star!

In its middle was a tiny cup. Myroslava opened the little door of the lantern and carefully carried the flame across on her palm, leaving a tiny blue spark behind in the lantern. The flame didn’t burn at all; it tickled, like a feather.

Poof!

The iron star blazed up gold. The light ran along its points, leapt off them and raced upward, straight into the black sky. There, one star lit up. Then from it a second, a third, a tenth. They passed the light from one to the next, like children in a ring dance, and in a minute the whole sky was scattered over the town once more.

And last of all, right above the spire, Twinkle began to shine. Myroslava thought she saw her wink.

Now Myroslava could see everything: the red and green roofs, the silver ribbon of the river, the bakery, with Cinder sitting on its chimney again. And the small round window under the roof of her own house.

She climbed down — and the rungs no longer felt quite so icy.

"Well?" asked Omelko. His eyes were shining like two new stars.

"I was scared," said Myroslava. "The whole time. From the first rung to the last."

"And I’m a little bit scared every night," the keeper admitted. "Have been for a hundred years. That’s why I carry a lantern."

Myroslava looked at him in surprise, and then she laughed. For the first time that night, she felt completely light.

They walked back slowly. The stars shone so brightly that you could see every single tile. Cinder walked them as far as the bakery and curled up on the warm chimney. And the little bridge underfoot no longer creaked scarily — it almost seemed to hum a tune.

By the round window, Omelko stopped. Myroslava climbed back onto her windowsill.

"Thank you, Miss Myroslava," said the keeper, taking off his hat. "Without you, the sky would have stayed empty tonight."

She took the lantern from around her neck and held it out to him. But Omelko put his hands behind his back.

"Keep it."

"What do you mean? What about you?"

"Tonight I dozed off on a chimney," the keeper said quietly. "A hundred years without a doze, and tonight I dozed off. That means it’s time. I’ve been looking for someone to give my lantern to for a long while. Every evening I walk the rooftops and watch: who’s sitting on a windowsill, who’s keeping an eye on the stars."

"But I’m afraid of the dark!"

"That’s just it," Omelko smiled. "Someone who isn’t afraid of the dark wouldn’t even notice that the stars had gone out. But you noticed."

Myroslava looked at the lantern. The blue spark inside fluttered, as if it recognized her.

"And where will you go?"

"I’ll finally look at the stars from below, like everybody else," said the keeper. "For a hundred years I’ve seen them up close, but never once from below."

He put on his hat, bowed — and walked off across the rooftops, without a lantern now. After a few steps, the darkness hid his long cloak, and only somewhere far away did a roof tile creak one more time.

Myroslava never saw him on the rooftops again.

She sat on the windowsill for a long time, with the lantern in her hands. Above the town hall tower, Twinkle was shining, and Myroslava’s heart was still going thump-thump. The dark outside the window hadn’t gone anywhere. And neither had the fear.

But now, if the stars above the town ever go out again, some child on some windowsill will see a little blue light on the rooftops. And that child won’t know it’s being carried by a girl who is afraid of the dark too.