Shephard Of The Sky
Flash Fiction
You have asked why I am always smiling. How could someone at my age, with my condition, always be happy? I think you misunderstand what “smiling” means, brothers! Do you not smile to receive a letter from your family and friends, even without knowing whether the letter contains news for good or ill? Why do you smile to receive a letter you have not read? It is the same smile. Nevertheless! You have been asking patiently, and Brother Superior has instructed me to tell this story. Out of obedience do I write this now, for love of God, love of our Brother Superior, and love of you.
I’ve always loved looking at the stars. Even before I entered the monastery. It was my first love. When I was working on my parent’s farm as a child, I would always relish the winters when night came swiftly: I would count the constellations as my friends. Orion was the first I learned, my oldest friend, along with those two stars which book-end the constellation, Betelgeuse and Rigel.
When I was older, my love of the stars helped me learn to love God. Who else but God could have painted the heavens? Who else but we humans could observe daily His brush strokes across the sky, yet fail to recognize the signature of the Divine Artist?
Even when I was young, I felt the call to a monastic life. It was God’s call, and as soon as I was old enough to listen, it was the song I heard. In my years of formation and preparation, even when finally taking my vows, my love of the stars remained. My love of the stars was rather enhanced by my love of Him who placed them in the sky! While I was in formation, a friend asked me if I would regret never seeing another patch of sky, other than that which may be seen above our meager courtyard. I told him “no”: I would get to know this one patch intimately well, and I looked forward to doing so.
Life in the monastery proved to be laborious. Yes, how could I have been surprised! Yet I knew if I could steal away to the courtyard on as many clear nights as I could—even if it was as rarely as once a month—over the course of my life I would achieve that intimate familiarity with the dance of the heavenly bodies (God grant that I may live yet longer in prayer and service to Him). Even so, I knew before I began this endeavor that I could count on my friend Orion, with Betelgeuse on his hand and Rigel on his foot.
At first it was slow going. I knew a few popular constellations, in addition to my old friend: the Pleiades, Cassiopeia, the Dippers. Finding them was how I would orient myself. They were my stellar compass, my guides. Oh, there are so many stars! I resolved to learn all of them. I certainly had a lifetime to look forward to studying this small square of sky above our courtyard, this one pasture of night. I felt that God had entrusted it to me. These stars were my sheep and I was their shepherd. I ought to know them all by name.
After some months even the more obscure constellations became my close companions. I could easily spot Leo, Cepheus, Virgo, Hydra. It took considerably longer for me to learn the names of each of the stars which composed them. Canis Minoris, the little dog, the simplest of constellations with it’s two stars Procyon and Gomeisa. Nearby were the heads of the Gemini Twins, Castor and Pollux. Each of them had a name, a neighborhood, a path across the sky.
When I had been at the monastery for many years, I began to even recognize the dance of the planets across the sky. Jupiter, Saturn, Mercury, Venus, Mars, and some of the fainter more distant planets if conditions were right.
I was a shepherd and these were my sheep. At long last, I felt I knew them all by name.
Many of you sometimes would ask me if I had a favorite star. How could one choose between one’s children? How could a shepherd choose a favorite among his sheep? Even so, across the years I found myself befriending certain stars at certain seasons of my life. Every winter I looked forward to my old friend Orion coming into view. The sheep that made up this constellation were some of the most clearly visible and interesting, and I found myself particularly fond of the bookends, Betelgeuse and Rigel. I came to refer to them as sibling stars: they fought, so I imagined, as only siblings do.
It was one such winter when I found myself providentially with plenty of time to stargaze, which was unusual with all the work which typically needed to be done. One day as Betelgeuse came into view I knew immediately that he was unhappy. Flickering, colors shifting rapidly between red, orange, and yellow—something wasn’t right. If I hadn’t been watching for so long I might have mistaken it for atmospheric turbulence. But a shepherd knows his sheep, and something was definitely wrong.
I watched with apprehension over the next few days. As I concluded my tasks, I would ask leave to go to the courtyard after Compline. I would check on my poor Betelgeuse, my unwell sheep.
Very late one night—Matins had just ended—I snuck out to the little square courtyard to see my little square patch of sky. I lay on the ground and watched. Poor Betelgeuse. I prayed—I don’t want to see this sheep suffer. I asked the Lord to help me accept His will for this little, troubled star.
Suddenly, there was a bright flash as the sky turned blue like it was midday! I gasped, and threw my hands over my face.
When you learned what happened, you told me that Betelgeuse had gone supernova. An afterglow in the sky lasted for weeks, a new nebula was born in Orion, and poor Rigel was now alone in that constellation of sheep. You told me these things because I could not see them: I was blinded by the death throes of my Betelgeuse. I did ask not to see this sheep suffer, and I never shall see another.
I relay all of this because you have asked me why I always have a smile on my face. It’s because now—now I can spend all day looking at my stars, my sheep, in their dance across the heavens. A little patch of night just for me, even in the daytime, even while I am working. I can always keep watch. A shepherd knows his sheep.
This story was started in December, when I was in the throes of my Therese of Lisieux phase. The story stalled out, but a recent flash of inspiration helped me think of a way to conclude it. If you enjoyed this story, kindly consider some of my others, which can be found in The Volume section?
Thank you for reading!
AJPM
I know almost nothing about astronomy, but I started furiously reading about Betelgeuse after reading this story!
A lovely story of a man's love for the stars!