The Lady of the Starry Jars

Flash-fiction - by Natalia Matolinets

People often get disappointed when they find out it’s impossible to use their empty starry jars. Empties simply can’t be stored: they melt or shrink, or shatter, or just disappear—one day suddenly, when you don’t expect it. So, it’s better to trade your empties while they’re still intact, while still looking solid and glassy-glossy. Usually, they’ll pretend to be made of glass, as if  to resemble clarity and honesty, and fragility, or whatever else can signify the feelings of the heart.

Empties usually come in starry shapes, five-pointers, although sometimes–rarely–eight or even twelve. Once, I saw a starry jar looking like a small hedgehog. 

Some clients come hoping for a refill. This isn’t how it works. I wasn’t the one who filled them in the first place. I wasn’t the one who took away the glow of their love and longing. I can only offer a modest exchange: a new moody plant, a few rose quartz crystals, a poetry book stolen from a library a century ago. 

Sometimes people just leave their starry-shaped empties by the store door, ashamed of the very idea of getting rid of something that used to be warm and glowing, and symbolizing the most loving relationships. I don’t blame them. It’s quite a job—to keep that glow. It’s quite a struggle—to acknowledge it’s gone. To move on.

If you wonder, starry empties aren’t my main trade, no. A store can’t survive by giving out useless, comforting stuff in exchange for other useless, empty stuff. So I also sell vintage dresses, unfortunately coming in one size only—mine, plenty of them. People adore vintage, if it comes with a story. Preferably—a love story, with a happy ending. 

“My granny wore this dress to the opera, where she met my grandpa, and they were inseparable since.” 

“This dress belonged to a young actress who got lucky and married a duke, can you imagine something like that?” 

“Oh, this beauty comes from Greece! There’s a legend about an ancient hero gifting this one to his lady. Sorry, it’s not for sale—the textile is too fragile.” 

So, I give people stories, and vintage dresses keep me going. And starry jars keep me anticipating. 

I start collecting empties every October, and by the end of November, starry jars are all over the place, pretending to be the most delicate decorations, made of ice and starshine. People tend to bring more empties on gloomy, dark days. Some want to save on Christmas gifts, so they hurry to part with what was once love. Some just see more clearly in the thin November air: that’s where it ends. That’s where the glow is gone. I don’t ask questions, mending those jars is enough of a job. 

I manage to keep all the stars in their pointy shapes. The key is to fill them all. The moment they grow even the slightest glow inside, their shape is secured, glass walls become unbreakable. Works every time.

The jars need to be filled by the winter solstice. The longest nights, the deepest shadows. All the walls are thinning. All the doors swing open. All the names sound louder. I cherish one name on the tip of my tongue. The one I keep to myself all the other nights but this. 

On the solstice eve, I place my starry jars outside, on the porch and by the door. On the stairs on both sides, painting a glowing pathway to the door. The biggest one goes on the rooftop, just in case. This one is always uneasy, throbbing with light, unable to calm down. Perhaps it considers my home a lighthouse of some kind. Or an airport. A gathering of light on the darkest night of the year. 

I wrap myself in a scarf and sit down on the stairs, watching a gradient of a gradually darkening view. Winter dusk melts into purple and orange pastels—each glass star glows white now, as if in response to this ethereal disappearance, when the whole world gives in and darkness falls. 

Darkness falls—and that’s when I know.

Thin walls between the worlds crumble. The calm haven of my porch lightens up, covered with stars visible from afar. Oh, they see it well. All of them. I want my scarf to turn into knight’s armor to protect me from all the whispers and claws and scales and horns and smoke and fire burning in the darkness of the other side. 

It freezes me: the tingling on the tips of my fingers, the wary silence, enhancing every sound. 

But only solstice gives an opportunity. No time to turn away or hide. No hellish creature will stop me.

“Glow.” 

My stars don’t need an extra command. I traded them, saved them from melting, and filled them with what my heart holds dear. And I placed them here, and I need the most blinding light. Right now. This moment. This very night. This only night. 

“Glow!”

I say this aloud. One word as a protective charm, as a sphere of glassy shields, growing and growing, and rising up.

And then—I whisper his name. If this light can’t lead him to me—the name should help. For names hold power over us, and we hold power over others by naming them, and calling them, and reaching out to them in the midst of the darkest night, on the very edge of crumbling worlds. 

Heartbeats follow: one, two, three…

Thud! 

I hear before I see: he tears the dark veil between the worlds, and the crack glistens with golden rays, while he steps out and waits a bit for the veil to get in place, to keep the other side where it belongs.

And then he walks towards me: steps melting snow, smile melting heart. 

“I saw you!”

The voice of his is still earth-shattering, the aura is still filled with power, as my starry jars are filled with a glow this man wakes. 

“Almost blinded me with those lanterns of yours! For the second time, if that’s even possible!”

The laugh of his is still the sweetest sound from both worlds. And the walk is confident, as if he can really see me with his once sparkling eyes.

I rise, not scared to face hellish creatures anymore. For all I see now is his face, scarred, but not scared. Not ever.

“So, you really, really saw it? Bright enough?” 

I need the answer to plan my next year: how many jars to trade, where to place them. 

He steps closer, curling a smile into something even warmer, and answers:

“Almighty gods, my lady, it’s impossible to miss the house covered with so much light!”

And he adds, pointing at his foggy eyes: 

“You know, it’s not pitch black. There’s not just darkness.”

“There’s not just darkness.” 

I savor his words. Then I take his hand—careful, steps!—and I lead him home. For even the longest night of the year is too short. I say his name aloud: for every day apart, for every moment torn. His name isn’t written down, not in a single legend, he’s one of many forgotten, left out in those stories that end in glory halls and ancient hymns. But I remember him, the hero, who saved his lady. Blinded by gods for choosing a down-to-earth girl over the most beautiful goddess. Thrown into the chaos of the other side for years, and years, and years.

So, I gather empty starry jars, for years, and years, and years. And I light them up every solstice. And I say his name out loud.

Because the lady remembers.