The Swan & the Star

Photo by Antonio Ristallo on Unsplash

Seven swans flew down from heaven each evening at sunset. They flew to the stubbled cornfield to eat, and each swan had a silver star on its forehead. One day, the youngest swan took off her star and hung it on a tall stalk of corn, or was it on the branch of a reaching oak tree?, or did she just lay it gently in the cool grass for a moment because it did so blind her eyes? Anyway, she set it down… and when the time came to leave and fly back up into the sky with the others, she could not find it again. They honked at her and flapped their wings, but already she did not understand them. And when that seventh swan looked down at herself she saw she was not a swan any longer but a human girl covered with a cape of snow white feathers.

The other swans honked and flew up and back and called and called and searched for her star, but at last the dawn was due to come and they had to turn and pin up the heavens to let the sun shine through. Or– was that their job? The girl couldn't remember– and then, as the swans became smaller and smaller darts of white, she wondered if it was all a dream and she had never been a swan at all but only and always a girl. And by the time the night was gathered up and pinned away, or whatever it was that let the dawn through, she had forgotten all about them, indeed, all about everything save that it was chilly so early on a fall morning and she was tired, for she had not slept all night.

So she wrapped her warm cloak tighter around herself and curled up small at the base of the oak tree, and she slept. And if she dreamed she wept and grieved over the loss of her star, she did not remember it upon waking. She woke to the world shaking around her– no, to a hand shaking her shoulder. “Girl! Girl! Wake up, if you're alive!” She opened her eyes and saw a rosy-faced, though somewhat vexed woman. “She lives! Well, that's a mercy!” Then the girl saw the woman was not alone but that two small children were underfoot– as close as they could be, the little boy and the little girl– for they were fascinated by her feather cloak and nearly fell over each other to touch the hem and run their tiny hands over the feathers. “You stop,” said the mother, "she's not a goose– you can't make a pet of her.” But the swan maiden stretched out the wings of her cloak so that they tickled the children's cheeks, and the children gasped and laughed and rushed to her.

So that was how the woman, who baked bread by way of eking out a living, that was how she ended up taking on one more mouth to feed. For as she put it to her friends and neighbors as much as to herself, “The twins have never been so contented nor given me a moment's peace before that girl arrived– and anyway, who could leave an innocent thing like that out for foxes or wolves to find?” So the swan girl lived with the little family and tended to the children. And over time she learned to turn yeast and flour to dough, to knead it and let it rest and rise, to bake bread– and many other useful things. “She's a clever thing, a model for the little ‘uns,” said the woman, “save for sundown and the odd sunrise– then she'll leave the hearth, leave the door wide open and go outside and stare and stare at the sky. But who among us on god’s salted earth is perfect, eh? And the twins is gettin’ big enough to mind her now and then.”

It was true that as the twins grew they learned to tend to her in those strange moments. She was most comforted by their company and they spent many starry hours on either side of her, snuggled up to her feather cloak.

Now, one day, a king came riding through the land, and he spied her searching for something at the foot of the old oak tree. Because he was a young king and not yet pressed by worries of state, he halted the carriage to watch, and then, to his steward's protestation, got out and walked over to where she carried on her search. He could not say why, only that she was so strange and wild, somehow, and he longed to help her if he could.

She was looking for acorns, she told him, without thinking to curtsy. Acorns there were aplenty, though still green this time of year. “I shall help you gather them,” said the young king. “And, if ever you need more, there are many oak trees on my estate.” The swan maiden seemed to finally see him, and blushed a little, and they filled her basket full.

He drove her home. And he called often. It was inadvisable, the officials said. It was strange enough to court a peasant, but stranger still to court one who was so strange herself.

But he was kind and good, and made her laugh sometimes in surprise. For her part, she always made the young king feel he had spent all day riding, flying across the open countryside. So they married, young and unfledged as they were. And everyone agreed there was no evil in her– a distractedness, perhaps, unbecoming for a queen, but forgivable and sure to fade with time.

They married. They made their vows to one another– and then, oh!– he placed her crown upon her head, and she gave a start that brought her to her feet! The mother, dressed in rich velvet and brocade but still smelling as she always did of hearty bread, wrinkled her brow in worry. The twins stepped forward as if they could not help themselves– it was just the same as when they sat with their dear helpmate in the fields at night.

“Oh!” cried the maiden, “oh! My star! My star!” And she pressed her palm against her forehead.

“Yes,” said her bridegroom, “a farmer found it in the very field where I first met you. His plow hit something silvery and bright, and it was brought at once to me– I knew it must adorn your crown.”

“Oh– oh, dear husband!” said the maiden, and she shivered so the cloak of feathers, brought out for the occasion, shook– “Dear, dear man, forgive me.” Then she flapped and flapped and all who bore witness swore it to be true– one moment she was woman-shaped, the next she was a swan, one silver star atop her forehead. Then she was gone, out the open windows and off into the sky, smaller and smaller until she disappeared into the light

Did she never return? Did the king never remarry? Did she live half in the heavens and half on the sweet and solid earth? Did she fetch a star for her beloved so he could fly with her, too?

I know the children grew up, and that they were good and thoughtful, and cared well for their mother when her joints began to ache with age. I know the oak tree was always thick with acorns, and that wild swans could eat their fill without fear of hunters. And I know the heavens shone more brightly and the curtain of the night did not sag so– that it was once more as the old folks remembered in their childhoods.

It is well when Earth and Heaven reach, bend to meet each other. Every night, when the veil is drawn and the sky is close enough to touch, to hold, to embrace, who can say the lovers are not reunited? Who can say anything that loves is parted at all?

“Not I,” says the mother. “And I've seen many a strange and marvelous thing in my long life.”

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an original folktale by Rose Arrowsmith, 2025