He came from Hyberborea, without a name. In his way, it's said, with long steps he stumbled on a star.
He took and take care of it: every day, he washed and rubbed it, until it's shell started to crack slowly and, while breaking, thunder and lighting flowed off it. Full of wonder and fear, the man ghater to pray and cried all night long.
In the next few days, the man praised blessings upon his house and his good fortune, silently praying every hour in the morning. Every day was a patient wait for the night, for him, as the star came back to life and it's light was heavenly.
As the time passed by, the man learned to sleep during the morning to stay awake at night: since then, he passed his evenings wandering through villages, strolling in countrysides and all of those dark, scary places for whom doesn't have a star in the pocket.
People heard him approaching, because of a certain tinkle the star did when he took it out, like and eastern bell; seeing the light flooating here and there, all of the children calmed and everyone found peace in sleep, in which they dreamed dreams beyond their imagination.
Generations passed away, centuries spent: everybody knew there was a man with a star, who brought wonder into the night. But no one knew who he was anymore.