22 December.
It was midnight.
Berwald couldn't tell from the sky, but the forest had a particular feeling to it: the feeling that it was alive, and breathing, and watching his every step. He couldn't tell if he was walking in a straight line anymore; he was hungry, and had only eaten a handful of his food for fear of running out. And he was beginning to tire, but he knew that to sleep in this weather would mean a certain death.
To keep himself awake, he hummed a soft tune to himself.
To keep himself from freezing.
Gläns över sjö och strand,
stjärna ur fjärran,
du, som i Österland,
tändes av Herran...*
It was nearing Christmas, and he had no family to speak of anymore.
He kept singing as he went along, only stopping briefly to catch his breath as the winds picked up and the snowflakes struck his face like daggers.
...stjärnan från Betlehem
leder ej bort, men hem!
Barnen och herdarne
följa dig gärna,
strålande stjärna,
strålande stjärna...
Forced to take a pause once more, the boy attempted to tighten the scarf around his neck in retaliation against the weather. He also took more of the food, and washed it down with a handful of snow. Regaining some energy, he pushed himself deeper into the forest, figuring he would have been at the edge already, had he headed directly southbound.
He had no idea where he was headed anymore; all he knew was that he had to get away from the place he no longer could call home.
His heavy breaths made puffs in the air, miniature clouds that were close enough to touch, and yet one could never learn what they felt like.
This Swedish winter.
It was why he loved his land, but it was also why he hated it.
Such beauty and grace mixed with such brutal and furious haste, as the snowflakes and ice clusters rained down like frigid teardrops.
He was still walking.
Walking, and hardly aware of it. His vision was replaced by strange fantasies of the things that never happened, but his legs continued to move in a mechanical fashion as his lips mouthed silent words.
...strålande stjärna,
strålande stjärna...
Awake.
Awake.
Berwald caught himself sleepwalking, his dazed pattern of footsteps leaving a zigzag trail in the snow before it was wiped clean by the new layers of white.
He had to remind himself to stay alert, not to doze off for a single moment.
Because, in that moment, he could die.
And despite his hardships, he didn't want to die. He wanted to live to see a new morning rise, somewhere beyond the northern horizon. He wanted to see it all begin anew, to find a place to call his own.
To find someone who would love him back.
That was his will to live.
Shouldn't he be nearing the perimeter of the woods by now?
Yes—there was a clearing!
He pressed closer and closer, his spirits rising and his steps growing quicker and more confident as he arrived at the rim.
And there was light.
Winter surrounded him in every direction, but he could see a faint glow in the distance if he squinted hard enough.
Like a moth to a flame, he felt himself drawn to the faint signal of warmth. He gravitated toward it, already imagining a roaring hearth with a vivid flame leaping high into the chimney where the smoke would billow out in fat, grey clouds. A cozy little house, with a laughing family to spend the holidays with. A place to sit and warm his numb hands and feet, to listen to the stories he'd grown up hearing about the elves and the reindeer. To hear an unfamiliar voice telling such a familiar tale.
The village lay silently amongst the snowy dunes.
The teen advanced, his tired, cold eyes tinged with hope.
Little rows of scattered houses, just like his own village. Small houses, painted red or yellow or brown, or even green, their roofs piled high with snow.
As he approached the nearest one, he raised a hand to the door, then hesitated.
Was it right?
Would he be disturbing them?
It was already the wee hours of the morning, and unlikely that anyone would still be up. Only the advent candles glowed in the windowsill of the house, with a seven-pointed star in all its glory strung above the lights. There was no indication that the residents would be awake.
Perhaps they would see through him to exactly who he was, and reject him.
Even worse, they might chase him out with sticks and stones.
His fears crept around until they had a full grip on him, and he backed away from the door and returned to the snow-coated street in the middle of the houses.
The stars shone brightly.
The sky was clouded over, and not a single speck of light could be glimpsed. But the paper advent stars in each window radiated with light, lifting Berwald's spirits. He finally went over to a snow-covered bench and set down his sack, and cleared some of the snow off it. Then, he lay his head down on his sack as a makeshift pillow and curled up as tightly as he could without falling off the edge of the bench, and closed his eyes. Sleep could wait no longer.
Cold.
His own shivering awoke him. It must have been morning, and who knew how long he'd slept. But someone had draped a blanket over Berwald throughout the course of the night, and he was beyond grateful for the act of kindness from someone he might never meet.
He stood to brush the remainder of snow from himself, and saw that it had stopped snowing sometime while he had been slumbering. The streetlamps lent a friendly orange glow to the layers on the ground, casting shadows around the smooth blanket dinted only by the footprints of a rabbit.
From not far off, he heard the sound of a door opening and closing. An overexcited dog soon darted by, galumphing through the snow and spraying it every which way. The owner crossly stalked behind the dog, calling for it to come back.
Food.
Reminding himself he needed something to eat, he picked up the blanket and folded it carefully into his sack before resuming his walk through the village.
He saw a small store where he could buy food, and entered hastily to warm himself up.
There was only a single cashier, and a queue of perhaps three people, not more. All stood in line with tea and wine and cookies. Berwald made his way carefully to the back of the small store where he thought nobody would be watching him, and stood amongst the shelves simply trying to wiggle his fingers and toes to make sure they were all still there.
Thankfully, they were.
Warmth.
He simply stood there, regaining the heat he'd lost from being outside. In fact, he felt a bit stupid. Deciding that he should make it look as if he were buying something, he wandered around quietly, idly browsing as he went around slowly. Occasionally, he even paused to read some of the labels.
After seeing Berwald circle through the store twice, the clerk called out to him, asking if he could help the boy with anything.
Berwald stopped in his tracks.
He took off a mitten to reach into his pocket, hoping he would have enough to buy something.
Fifty öre.**
Not enough to afford more than a piece of candy, he figured. Not enough to buy food.
But the clerk saw it in his eyes, and held out a few slices of fresh bread and indicated toward Berwald's pitiful sum as he shook his head.
Bread.
Longing and hunger shone in the boy's eyes.
Was it right?
But the kind clerk continued to hold out the bread, and nodded his head as if to answer the silent question. And Berwald reached out to take the bread gratefully.
God jul, he heard the clerk bid him, and then the man disappeared into the recesses of the back storeroom. Merry Christmas.
Berwald deposited his handful of coins on the counter with a solemn clink and left.
The rest of the day was spent conserving his precious food, although Berwald ravenously devoured one of the slices immediately upon setting foot outside again. He lingered for a while around the small village as the people went about their activities; and all the while he secretly hoped someone would invite him inside. He was too ashamed to ask.
He wandered over to an isolated area behind the houses to relieve himself, pondering and musing and worrying as he tugged down his trousers.
But he convinced himself to quit fretting—all would solve itself if he only continued. He would let his heart guide him to a place he belonged, he decided, and with this in mind, he pulled up his trousers and resumed walking—this time, away from the quaint little village he might have otherwise called home.
Small children kicked a ball of twine around in a snowy clearing, shrieking and laughing as if it were the best form of entertainment the world had to offer. The teen stopped to watch them, a faint smile teasing at the corners of his mouth. One of the children accidentally kicked the ball toward Berwald, who caught it with his foot and held it in place as they stared wide-eyed at this newcomer, this older boy who didn't belong in this village.
But he flashed them a shy smile and kicked it lightly back into the field, where they giggled and jumped and resumed their little game.
Innocence.
They didn't know any better. They didn't know who he was.
Perhaps even he didn't know who he was.
And then he left, trailing his footprints in the snow as a soft tune escaped from between his lips.
Strålande stjärna,
strålande stjärna…
And the darkness seemed to grow a little warmer.
*Note: The song Berwald is singing/humming is called Gläns över sjö och strand ("Shine over sea and shore"), an old Swedish poem by Viktor Rydberg first published in 1891. It was set to music by Alice Tegnér in 1893 and retitled Betlehems stjärna ("Bethlehem's star"). Note that the Swedish word sjö actually means "lake"; however, when used in a poetic sense, it can mean "sea". (Source: Wikipedia and my own knowledge)
**Note: 0,50 SEK, or 50 öre, is worth half a Swedish crown (krona) and no longer in use. When paying at a store, prices are often listed in both kronor and öre, but are rounded up or down to the full krona, depending on whether it's over or under 50 öre. For the price of 50 öre nowadays, you can send a text message. Nothing else is charged in öre other than phone bills, electricity bills, etc. (Source: my own knowledge)