A Legacy of Embers - 2002

Part of the writing portfolio submitted to the NCTE.

The night was cold and drippy. Shadows flickered between the trees, at home in the darkness too deep for human eyes. The small girl’s spine trembled at the crunch of dry leaves under her feet and she scampered forward to the comfort of her companion.

A warm, creased hand folded itself around her cold fingers; every hand was now occupied with the other’s or with the burlap sacks they both carried. A glint of a smile flashed above her. “Hush now, Pumpkin, or you might scare him off, and we’d have to hunt him down again,” the old man said.

The girl nodded; her toes were numb from the stone of the mountainside. She trotted more quickly to stay warm and safe. She had to take two steps for each of the old man’s, and moonlight gave the mists above her an eerie glow. The sack clutched in her hand was rough and dusty.

A glimmer of warm light intruded on the misty blues and halted the pair. “There he is now, he’s starting,” the old man said, kneeling in the path. His eyes were caught in unwavering concentration. “We’re here just in time; with the woods this dry, he could take down the whole village if we don’t watch him.” The girl mimicked the actions of the adult, staring at the hint of orange in the trees although she did not comprehend the danger.

Between the trees the golden reflection shifted and grew into a dancing red flower. “Now,” the old man said, rising, and they walked forward, forcing their way through the undergrowth. The brambles birthed them into a clearing and the two blinked like newborns in the light of the roaring flames. Now the girl knew what to do: she focused with a child’s intensity on the task she had repeated a thousand times, and ran forward with her sack to beat the flames back from the trees. They reached forward in hungry waves, and she had to catch them.

ehind her, the man ripped a dry vine from a trunk as the base ignited, throwing the twining fuse away from the tree. It caught like kindling in the heart of the flames.

The fire hissed and roared at this outrage and leaped higher, straining to fly over the walls of its prison. It climbed an invisible pole, filling the clearing with raging heat. The girl turned her head away and tried to ignore the uncomfortable warmth on her back.

There was a crashing noise and a bird’s cry; the girl turned back. The fire had sighed itself back to earth in resignation and the man was flapping his sack in the air, shouting, “Don’t let him land yet! He’s not quite out!”

Brightest of the dancing embers, the newborn bird shook his wings in the thermals. The girl flapped her arms at him valiantly, knowing that the fires creeping on the ground were less important than this flying flame. It a few anxious seconds it was over; the last sparks died and the phoenix came to rest on a tree, regarding the pair with eyes that held the curiosity of the young and the wisdom of the ancients. He ducked his head under his wing in a bird’s vain preening as the girl helped the man beat out the last of the dancing colors. They smothered the embers with dirt.

“ We’re done,” the man said, resting a hand on the girl’s head. She raised heavy eyes towards the red bird and watched the delicate beak slip around another ashy feather. “You’ve done well. He’ll be the last of this year’s migration. Shall we go home?”

“ Will I help you next year, Grandpa?” the girl asked sleepily. Her head was light with the smell of night woodland.

“ I hope so, Pumpkin. And the year after that, and after that. Even after I’m gone, someone must watch for the fires.” He picked up the tired girl, lifting her to his shoulder, where she blinked and yawned and fell into a limp sleep.

The wild phoenix watched them vanish between the trees.

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