It had been another quiet night in Brightdown. Popski stood beside the large village gate his lantern swinging in his hand. He waited until the last rays of the sun had begun to disappear below the hills before turning to slowly close the gate. In the old days it had been locked with a large iron key but now it was merely closed at night. This was mainly because the Shire was such a quiet safe place to live that folks rarely locked even their own front doors, but it was also because the key had been lost by a drunken Gate Keeper many years before.
In the old days anyone arriving late, usually from the Green Dragon on a Friday night, would have to ring a bell and wait to be let in but now it was just a matter of heaving it open a little and remembering to close it behind you.
As the solid oak door slid into place Popski picked up is lantern and turned to walk back to his burrow. He was just about to walk up the garden path when he heard the sound of beating wings overhead. The sound was not the erratic flapping that the Thrushes and Sparrows made as they roosted in the boughs of the old Oak tree; this was loud, slow, rhythmic beating of large wings.
Popski held up the lantern as high as he could and peered up into the cloudy night sky. Between the clouds and lit by the last dim rays of the sun Popski could make out a flock of swans flying overhead. He had often seen the large white birds travelling down the river back in Frogmorton but he had never seen such large swans as these. All of the swans were flying westwards in small groups and as Popski looked up at one particularly low group it almost looked as though one of them looked back down at Popski.
As Popski stood open mouthed a feather fell from the swan and began to spiral downwards spinning and turning in the breeze. Popski almost dropped his lantern in his hurry to catch the feather, for some reason he thought it should not be allowed to land on the dirty wet cobbles. His fingers managed to grasp the feather lightly and he brought it closer to the light of the lantern.
It was a very long feather, almost as long as his arm and although he expected it to be white he was not expecting it to be such a pure brilliant white. It almost glowed in the flickering light. Popski carried the feather back to his burrow in an almost reverential manner. Once inside he placed the feather carefully on the small shelf, pushing some of the other Mathoms to the back of a draw to make room.
Popski stood and looked at the feather for a long time after that, he had received many Mathoms over the years but he had never received one as beautiful as this.
