The Girl Who Stole the Stars

Mira had a window by her bed, and every night she counted the stars before she slept.

She counted them in threes, then in tens. She knew the bright one over the hill and the three in a row like a belt. On clear nights the sky was a dark bowl full of light.

Then one night the sky was empty.

Mira sat up. She pressed her nose to the cold glass. Nothing twinkled. Nothing blinked. The moon was there, pale and thin, but every star had gone.

“Mum,” she called. “The stars are missing.”

Her mother came in and looked. “Clouds, maybe.”

“There are no clouds.”

“Then they are hiding,” her mother said, and kissed her hair. “Sleep, Mira.”

But Mira could not sleep. She lay and stared at the bare black sky. It felt like a room with the lamps blown out. It felt like a song with the tune taken away.

In the morning she told her father.

“All the stars?” he said. “Every single one?”

“Every single one.”

He looked out of the kitchen window at the daylight and shook his head. “Stars do not just leave.”

“Then someone took them,” said Mira.

Her father buttered his toast. “Who would take the stars?”

“I will find out,” she said.

She packed a small bag. Bread, an apple, a blanket, and a stub of candle. She put on her coat and her boots. At the door her mother held her shoulders.

“Be careful,” her mother said. “And be home for supper.”

“I will try,” said Mira.

She walked up the lane and past the last house. The fields were grey and quiet. A rabbit watched her from a hedge, then went back to its dinner. The road went on, and Mira went with it.

By evening she came to a wood, and in the wood there was a cottage with one warm window.

***

An old woman opened the door before Mira could knock.

“You are late,” the old woman said. “I have had the kettle on since noon.”

Mira stepped inside. The room smelled of woodsmoke and ginger. A cat slept on a chair, and a pot bubbled on the stove.

“I am looking for the stars,” said Mira.

“I know,” said the old woman. She poured two cups of tea. “Everyone looks at the sky tonight and says nothing. You are the first to come knocking.”

“Do you know where they went?”

“I do.” The old woman sat down and wrapped her hands around her cup. “The North Wind took them. He blows and blows and he wanted something bright to keep. So he reached up and gathered every star into a sack.”

Mira put down her cup. “That is not fair.”

“No,” said the old woman. “It is not.”

“Where does he live?”

“North, past the dark forest, on the icy mountain.” The old woman reached into her apron and drew out a silver thread. It was thin as a hair and shone like water. “Take this. Tie it to your wrist. It will pull you the right way when the path splits.”

Mira tied it on. The thread was warm, not cold.

“Will he give them back?” she asked.

“He will not want to,” said the old woman. “But he is not cruel. He is only proud.”

“Then I will ask him nicely,” said Mira. “And if that does not work, I will ask again.”

The old woman smiled. “Sleep here tonight. The forest is no place for tired feet.”

Mira slept by the fire with the cat. In the morning the old woman gave her a second slice of bread and pointed north.

“Follow the thread,” she said. “And keep your courage warm.”

Mira walked north all morning. The silver thread stayed warm on her wrist. When the path forked, it tugged her left, then right, like a small hand leading her.

By afternoon the trees closed over her head. The dark forest was dark the way a cupboard is dark, even at noon. No birds sang. The leaves did not move.

“Hello?” Mira said, mostly to hear her own voice.

Something rustled behind a stump. A fox stepped out. It was the colour of embers, with a white tip on its tail and bright, clever eyes. It sat down and looked at her.

“You are going the wrong way,” said the fox.

Mira stopped. “You can talk.”

“I can,” said the fox. “And you can listen, which is rarer. Where are you going?”

“To the icy mountain. To ask the North Wind for the stars.”

The fox tilted its head. “He took them?”

“He gathered them into a sack.”

“That explains the dark,” said the fox. “I thought my eyes were going.” It stood and shook out its fur. “I will come with you. The forest has paths that lie, and I know which ones.”

“Why would you help me?” asked Mira.

The fox flicked its tail. “Because I miss the stars too. And because nobody has asked me a question in a long while.”

So they went on together. The fox trotted ahead, nose low, and Mira followed the warm thread. Once the path turned back on itself, and the fox growled at it until it straightened. Once a shadow reached for Mira’s sleeve, and the fox said, “Not tonight,” and the shadow went away.

By nightfall the trees thinned. Ahead, pale and huge, stood the icy mountain.

***

The mountain was white and blue and taller than the sky should allow. Wind came down off it in long, cold breaths.

Mira pulled her coat tight. The silver thread pointed straight up the slope.

“Here is where I stop,” said the fox. “Foxes do not climb ice.”

“You said you would come with me.”

“I said I would find the path,” said the fox. “I found it. That is the mountain. Go up.”

Mira looked at the climb. Then she looked at the fox. “Will you wait?”

“I will wait,” said the fox. “Someone should see you come back down.”

Mira climbed. Her boots slipped. The wind pushed her sideways. Twice she had to stop and hold a rock and breathe. Her hands went numb. Her nose ran. She kept climbing.

At the top the wind died all at once, as if a door had shut. There was a wide floor of ice, and on it sat a tall figure made of cold air and grey cloud. His hair streamed sideways. In one hand he held a sack that bulged and jingled with small, bright sounds.

“Those are the stars,” said Mira.

The North Wind turned. His eyes were pale and old. “They are,” he said. His voice was like a door creaking.

“You cannot keep them,” said Mira. “The whole world is dark.”

“The world is quiet,” said the North Wind. “I like it quiet.”

“People are afraid,” said Mira. “Children cannot find their way home.”

The North Wind looked at her for a long moment. The sack jingled in his hand.

“You climbed all this way,” he said. “For light?”

“For everyone,” said Mira. “Give them back.”

The North Wind smiled, and it was not a kind smile. “Perhaps,” he said. “If you are brave enough to earn them.”

“Earn them?” said Mira. Her boots crunched on the ice. “How?”

The North Wind pointed past her shoulder. Behind them, a cliff rose straight up, smooth as a window. It was glass, or ice, or something between. It went so high the top disappeared into cloud.

“Climb that,” he said. “Reach the top and I will open the sack.”

Mira looked at the glass cliff. There were no cracks. No ledges. Nothing to hold. Her fingers were still numb from the mountain.

“That is not fair,” said Fox.

“It is a test,” said the North Wind. “Fair was never promised.”

Mira walked to the cliff. Her breath made small clouds. She put one hand flat on the glass. It was colder than the air. She found a tiny chip with her thumb, no wider than a coin.

“You do not have to,” said Fox.

“I do,” said Mira. “The stars are up there.”

She pulled herself off the ground. Her boots scraped. The chip held. She found another chip above it, and another. Her arms shook. The wind tugged at her coat.

“Left,” called Fox. “There is a ridge on the left.”

Mira moved left. Her fingers found the ridge. She climbed. Her heart banged. Halfway up, her foot slipped. She hung by one hand. The glass was so clear she could see Fox below, small and orange on the white floor.

“Keep going!” he shouted.

Mira kicked, found a hold, and pulled. Her chin reached the top. She rolled onto the flat edge and lay there, gasping. Above her the cloud thinned. The North Wind stood beside her.

“You climbed,” he said.

“I did,” said Mira.

He opened the sack.

***

Light poured out. It was not one light but thousands, small and bright and eager. They rose in a stream, like bees leaving a hive. Mira sat up and watched them go.

“They are cold,” said the North Wind. “They will need someone to carry them home.”

“I will,” said Mira.

He shook his head. “You cannot carry stars in your hands. They must find their own way. But they will follow a voice that calls them.”

Mira stood. She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Come back!” she called. “The world is dark!”

The stars paused. Then they wheeled, all together, and streamed down the mountain like a river of sparks. They passed Mira’s shoulders. They passed Fox, who ducked and laughed. They spread across the sky, one by one, until the whole dark bowl above them was full.

The North Wind watched. “It is loud now,” he said. “I will miss the quiet.”

“You can visit,” said Mira. “At dawn. It is quiet at dawn.”

He nodded slowly. Then he was gone, folded into the cloud.

Fox climbed up beside her. “You did it,” he said.

“We did,” said Mira. She picked him up. He was warm and light as a loaf of bread.

Going down took no time at all. The glass cliff was gone, and the forest was only a forest. When they reached the edge of the village, the sky was full of stars. People stood in their doorways, pointing up.

Mira’s mother ran out. “Where have you been?” she said.

“Finding something,” said Mira.

Fox stayed. He slept by the stove and chased leaves in the yard. Every night Mira looked up and counted the stars, and every night there were more than she could count. She was not afraid of the dark anymore. The dark was just the place where the light waited.