From shining star to sea: the journey of an unlikely promise

Welcome!

Succulents are perfect for Adelaide summers

We are in the midst of a record-breaking heatwave. I am so grateful to live in the Adelaide Hills where the trees give refreshment even in scorching weather. We have seen koalas a lot more than usual as they move into the suburbs in search of water. The magpies, wattle birds and silvereyes appreciate our birdbath, which has to be topped up frequently. The garden is surviving the heat well – my deep watering approach seems to be working but it requires daily diligence as I use a sprinkler mornings and evenings in different areas of the yard. We used to have it all rigged up with automatic systems, but the garden has changed and the system has aged beyond usefulness.

In recognition of Christmas in one week’s time, here is a Christmas story with a difference. It is based on a rather odd Victorian Christmas card (c. 1880).

From shining star to sea: the journey of an unlikely promise         

Robbi lay back down on a rock near the shore, terrified, yet almost relieved that his fears were being realised. It was a fool’s journey, but what else can a mouse do? He tried to explain it to the lobsters again.

                There was much clacking of claws. It dawned on the mouse that they were laughing. He wished they would kill him and be done with it. His mission made no sense anyway.

                The last of the sunlight was swallowed by the ocean. The mouse, still wet, began to shiver. An order was given to carry him to the beach for a gathering of the clan. Robbi’s tail was pinched in a large claw and he was dragged to the sand, pressed by dozens of hard-shelled bodies.

The biggest lobster spoke at him. ‘There was an ancient promise about a message from the King of the Land. Frankly, it sounds like nonsense. But truth comes in strange packages. You might go to our King, if you’re convincing. Speak up.’

                The mouse trembled; he knew he had no powers of persuasion. His death was imminent.

                He spoke quickly, hastening the inevitable. ‘I was in a forest. A large beast was caught in a hunter’s trap, a net of thick rope binding it. When I realised it a was a lion, I knew I should have listened to my father.

                ‘The lion did not kill me with its huge paws. It asked for help. I chewed through the rope in all the places the lion told me, and expected to be eaten for my troubles.

                ‘I darted away as he wriggled free, but froze with terror as a roar shook the ground. He bellowed, “I, the King of the Land, thank you, little mouse. If you dare, come close again.”

                ‘My legs were stiff with fear, but I went close. After all, even though he’s a lion, he is my King.

                ‘"You are a brave soul,” he said. “I will need you again one day. Will you do what I ask if I call you?”

                ‘Not long afterwards a new star had appeared in the sky. Every creature began rehearsing old stories of a long-forgotten promise. The King called me. He said the time of reconciliation had begun. He sent me to the King of the Sea to say: Peace, Joy, Health and Happiness from the King of the Heavens.

                ‘I warned him I would fail. I had so many reasons why he should entrust the message to someone else, but he would not listen. He asked, “Will you go?”

                ‘What can a mouse do? I said yes. And here I am.’

                A hint of moonrise lit the underside of a cloud, making the lobsters restless. They twitched their antennae, waiting for a signal from the Boss. He was in deep silence.

                ‘Boll! I charge you with taking this mouse to the King.’

                Boll, the mouse’s former guard, stepped forward. ‘But I can’t.’

                ‘You can and you will. Go, and may the favour of the King of the Heavens follow you. Oh, you’d better take this.’ He passed it a white oilskin with some incomprehensible words written on it. Then he dismissed the young lobster with an imperious wave of a claw.

                The rest of the clan fled to the safety of the dark waters as the moon lit the winter night.

                Only Boll and Robbi remained on the beach, shifting uneasily. ‘What do you think it says?’ the mouse asked the lobster, indicating the oilskin in its claw.

                ‘How should I know?’

                ‘Oh.’ Gulping, the mouse said, ‘We’d better just go.’

                ‘Right. Er, how? You can’t swim.’

                ‘I can, if my head is above the water.’

                ‘Right. Ride on my back.’

                Robbi climbed on and slid off the other side.

                Boll clacked. ‘Better hang on to one set of my feelers. I’ll use the others.’

                They tried again, with more success, and Boll took a few steps. ‘Okay up there? Hold the message.’ It handed the oilskin to the mouse.

                ‘Okay,’ Robbi said, all his senses alert. ‘Let’s go.’

               

The Boss watched from his rock at the water’s edge. It was the strangest sight in all his long years, a mouse on the back of a small lobster, the white oilskin message hanging down from a paw. One mouthful and they’d both be gone. The skin had been in the Boss’s family for generations. But what can a lobster do? It was the King of Heaven’s problem now.

I echo the message of the King of Heaven: may you have Peace, Joy, Health and Happiness this Christmas and in the new year.

See you next time!

Claire Belberg

Arrival

                         Welcome!

Star of Bethlehem

Coming to you in almost every garden and park in Australia, the Star of Bethlehem has made the transition from its native South Africa to herald the Christmas season in Oz too. The fact that it is common should not detract from its glories – hardy, evergreen, spectacular large, long-lasting blooms in one of my favourite colours. Not to mention the joy of snails, dozens of which can be found on any one plant.

The original Star was not, of course, common but its heralding of the birth of Christ, the God-man, spread the news with the same joyous abandon as the agapanthus. That one-off event in human history has generated millions who now celebrate His arrival, God entering the arena of human affairs as one of us. That’s a mind-blowing thought, worthy of a second glance.

I have here a story of another arrival, a far lesser one but perhaps one which many of us can identify with – the beginning of a new phase of life.

Arrival

The imposing arch of the massive front gate loomed over Marise. Here was a new world, a place to live and learn which was as different from the home she had known as anything perhaps could be.

Her boots scrunched on the gravel path leading to the double wooden front doors. Every sense was alert – the silence loud, the garden fragrance pungent, and the height of the red brick and sandstone building towering.

The left hand leaf of the front doors to the orphanage slid open, silent and seemingly aware of her approach. It was as if she were being drawn in without human knowledge or her own will, sucked into this entity which was foreign and yet would absorb her individuality and make her an indistinguishable part of the mass.

She shook her head slightly. Enough of these fancies! Her mama had been right – her imagination gave reality no chance.

She stepped up to the desk and asked for Sister Joseph. The nun's eyes narrowed as she tried to assess this new addition to the Orphanage family.  Apparently she passed the test. The nun smiled, and Marise breathed again. What might the alternative outcome have been? She crushed that thought mercilessly.

Marise had only a moment to look around the room before the presence of Sister Joseph pre-empted her actual entry to the waiting room.

"Welcome!" barked the nun and pointed the way Marise should walk. "I had forgotten that you would be arriving today, but all's well! We will have your place sorted out shortly! In the meantime, I will show you around, let you get your bearings before we launch you among the troops!" The nun hustled her through doorways, up and down stairs and along corridors that looked exactly like one another.

Get my bearings! thought Marise, pushing back the bite of bitter panic.

Sister Joseph beckoned for her to follow into a cavernous room filled with wooden tables and benches. At one end was the kitchen, with all the clatter of pots and pans signalling preparations for lunch already under way.

"This is where you will eat all your meals, although today you may eat in your room. They tell me that it's a bit overwhelming on the first day to confront all the new faces and the din of mealtimes in here. Though it will be just as cacophonous on your second day – it's up to you."  The nun gave Marise a look which seemed to say, "We'll see by your choice whether you've got the guts you'll need here." And Marise knew she had to find the courage somehow to eat her first lunch with the crowd.

She was grateful to leave the dining room for more of the endless corridors. After what seemed the circuit of the three-sided building, Marise found herself being shown a classroom.

"This is where you will begin your lessons each day. I'm sure one of the children will explain the system to you," Sister Joseph commented as she saw Marise's bewilderment at the many lists on the blackboard. That, it seemed, was as much prior instruction as Marise was going to get. Her mind reeled at the number and detail of the new things she would have to adjust to. It seemed that no amount of experience at other schools had prepared her enough for this one.

"I think you'll find the children at the Orphanage here, for the most part, very friendly and obedient. You need not worry, you will fit in in no time." Sister Joseph's attempt to erase the anxiety from Marise's face was met with a wan smile and an inward groan. Marise had not meant to show her feelings so obviously. She knew the value of a poker face, and she steeled herself to contain her desolate emotions.

"Ah, I think they have assigned you a bed now, so let's park those suitcases before I show you the library." Sister Joseph glanced at her watch and strode off with renewed energy, and a piece of luggage. Marise's shoulders ached with the weight of the other, and she wished for a moment that she had the nun's bulk which seemed to carry the case as if it were featherweight.

She peered into her assigned bedroom, and breathed a sigh of relief. She had not been sure how many others she would have to share a room with, but there was only one other bed. Only one person whose habits and foibles she would have to become familiar with, only one person who would know hers. She fervently hoped her roommate was a discreet person.

Sister Joseph looked again at her watch. It was large and masculine, much like her, though not unattractive. She sighed. "I'm sorry, I'm going to have to leave you to your own devices in the library. I have another newcomer to greet, but Sister Michael, our librarian, will be able to look after you better than I." Sister Joseph smilingly waved her to a door at the foot of a stairwell, and bustled off, Marise presumed, towards the reception.

Books. Wall to wall, floor to ceiling, books in serried ranks met Marise's eyes and her heart swelled with joy. Here, at last, was a place where she could feel at home. Her suitcase forgotten, Marise began to read the spines. She worked out the shelving system, wandering through the canyons of book-crammed shelves, her eyes lighting up as she recognised favourite authors. Time disappeared. 

She felt jolted awake by the awareness of a small dimpled nun standing at the end of the row.

"Another booklover, I see!" Her eyes twinkled and Sister Michael moved forward with outstretched hands to introduce herself. Marise relaxed after her first shock of reawakening to the real world.  Perhaps the Orphanage would have its compensations, even joys, after all, she thought.  Shaking off the dark fears and forebodings she had felt ever since she had known she would be sent here, she put her hands hesitantly into the nun's.

Marise found her voice.

"Thank you, Sister Michael. With a library like this, I think I will actually enjoy teaching here at the Orphanage."

And the two women, nun and novice, made their way to the dining room.

May you find this Christmas season full of extraordinary and common joys.

Until next week…

Claire Belberg