by Laura Bickle
She flipped on the radio for news about the fire. It was still within the park, but seemed to be pushing toward its borders, sweeping south and east. Depending on the way the wind moved, it could push toward Temperance, the reservation, or the Rutherford Ranch . . . The weathercaster was unwilling to make any predictions. Never mind trying to guess at the motives of a phoenix.
She gripped the wheel tightly as she dropped off the paved road onto gravel when she crossed into the reservation, transmitting her frustration to the pleather steering wheel cover. Because guessing the motives of a phoenix was exactly what she needed to do. Once she figured that out, maybe then she would have the mental space to figure out what was best for her father. At least, he was well out of harm’s way on the other side of the county.
Maria’s house soon came into view, bathed in sultry summer. The cheerful white cottage house shone like its own sun under a dim sky. Ripe tomatoes cascaded from cages in the garden, and squash vines snaked up to the porch, where a grey and white cat sat behind a pot of marigolds.
Petra parked in front of the house and opened the door. Sig scrambled through the open window and ran to the cat.
“Sig!” she scolded.
Sig stopped right before the cat, leaned over, and gave her a slurp on the top of her head that bent one grey feline ear backward. Pearl gave Sig a murderous look and stiffly walked away with as much dignity as she could muster with her ear turned back and dripping coyote spit. Petra swore that Sig smirked as she retreated.
Petra stepped up on the porch and knocked at the screen door. It opened almost immediately, and Maria beckoned her inside. Her friend, a social worker, had the day off. Instead of her usual business casual gear, she was dressed in a blue sundress with her dark hair loose over her shoulders.
Indoors felt immeasurably cooler than outside. All the lights were off, the drapes were drawn, and a ceiling fan spun lazily overhead. The bright colors of the quilts and afghans piled on the furniture inside seemed muted somehow, as if some somber spell had been cast inside.
Maria grasped Petra’s elbow and hissed in her ear. “Nine came home late last night and shut herself in her room. She keeps saying that something’s coming, and that she has to talk to you. She won’t say anything else.”
As Maria was speaking, Sig trotted past Petra and down the hallway. Gently pulling away from Maria’s grip, Petra followed him. He nosed the door to one of the bedrooms open five inches and squeezed through.
Petra paused before the door and knocked on the door frame. “Nine? It’s Petra. Can I come in?”
An answer came from behind the door: “Yes.”
Petra pushed the door open. The curtains were drawn in this room, too, but it was even darker than the other rooms. Petra saw that a quilt had been hung over the window, as if it could block out the scorch of the day. She saw a perfectly made bed. On top of the bed was a full backpack. There was no sign of Nine or Sig. It was as if someone were preparing for the apocalypse and already had one foot out the door.
“Nine?” Petra asked softly.
A soft canine whine emanated from under the bed. Petra dropped to her knees and lifted the lace bed skirt. Eyes gleamed back at her, two pairs of reflective canine eyes.
“Nine?”
One pair of eyes blinked, and they looked more human than before. “You came,” Nine said.
“Yes. Of course. What . . . what are you doing under the bed?”
Nine sighed. “It really seems like the safest place to be.” She sounded a little embarrassed when she said it, though. But she also didn’t come out.
So Petra flattened herself and backed under the bed. She got herself arranged so that she was on Sig’s other side and all three faced the door. She thought it remarkable that there were no dust bunnies under the bed, a testament to Maria’s meticulous housekeeping. Petra knew that there was likely enough coyote fur underneath her futon to manufacture an entirely new canine.
“What are you doing?” Nine asked.
Petra tried to shrug, but she didn’t have room. “Well, if you guys are hiding under the bed, I figured that I should be, too.”
Nine chuckled darkly.
Sig put his head on his paws. Petra looked over his ears at Nine. “So what’s up?”
“I went to the Eye of the World last night,” she said softly. “As I always do.”
Petra rested her head on her arm. “Checking up on the pack?”
“Yes. With the fires, I’ve grown concerned. I stepped into the spirit world and followed them as they avoided the fire. When I came back here, came back to myself, I heard a warning from a toad. And I saw something in the sky. Something I had not seen for more than a hundred years.”
Petra’s gut clenched. “What did you see?”
“I saw the end of everything.”
Chapter 7
Waking the Dead
“When I was a little girl,” Nine began, “a traveler crossed paths with our tribe. He was a magnificent storyteller, a collector of tales. He told many stories, stories of white buffalo, of the Thunders and Spider Woman. He had traveled all over, gathering legends from all the people he spoke to. The pack he carried was light, but his head was heavy with lore.
“He told us a tale of a firebird. The firebird came to earth during the time before fire, when the world was damp and cold and the people ate their food raw. The firebird swept down to earth and offered fire to a virtuous soul who could catch the flames on its tail with pitch and wood. The people chased the firebird across the land, through forests, over mountains, and across plains. Once or twice, a fast runner would get close and profess their good deeds, but was unable to hold the fire because their heart was impure.
“The firebird eventually came to the home of a widow. The woman had heard of the firebird’s bargain. The firebird asked her about the good deeds she had accomplished in her life.
“The woman shook her head. She said she had no time for good deeds, as she was busy caring for her ailing father and children and their animals. The firebird landed on earth and offered fire from its tail feathers to the woman. Professing good deeds meant nothing to the phoenix—it was the work itself that mattered.
“The woman gratefully accepted the fire, and the firebird flew away. The woman summoned all the other women she knew, and the fire was shared among them far and wide. No one saw the firebird again.”
Petra’s brow wrinkled. “That sounds like a good thing? The firebird bringing fire to the world?”
“That’s what I thought, as a little girl. Then, I thought of the firebird as a benevolent spirit that brought light and blessings to humankind. I asked for that story to be told to me over and over. I felt safe in the darkness, knowing that a creature of great light and generosity watched over us, that something magical loved us and saw the goodness in us enough to give us part of itself. We were beloved people.
“But that changed years later, when a flaming bird appeared from the sky. It swept low over the land, its wings setting fire to the dry grasses of the fields, to trees, to our possessions. People, horses, deer . . . were burned as it flew. Lightning flashed from its eyes. Nothing and no one was safe from its wrath. My sisters and I huddled in a creek as it passed, and we were terrified. The phoenix seemed determined not to give us the blessing of fire, but to force fire upon us and destroy us. We were . . . unloved. My childhood stories were lies.
“My father, as strong as his magic was, was powerless to stop it. He cast spell after spell, and the people made fine offerings to placate it, but the firebird was not deterred. It burned the earth for days, reducing trees to ashen shadows and turning the sky black. I remember squatting in the creek, gazing to the sky with terror as that streak of fire blazed above.
“It is that blazing creature I am certain that I saw last night. I know this creature is to blame for the fires. It is ferocious.”
Petra reached over Sig’s back and stroked Nine’s silvery hair. “Gabe saw it, too. I spoke to my father . . . he says it�
��s a phoenix, a creature summoned by alchemy.”
“Whatever its name, it is death in flame.”
“When you saw it as a child . . . did it go away? Did your father find a way to stop it?”
Nine stared toward the door, her gaze unfocused. “My father went into a trance and said he could communicate with the creature. The creature was searching for something, something that would make it whole so that it could sleep. You see, the firebird—the phoenix, as your father calls it—is immortal. It can be woken and go back to sleep, but there is no destroying it.
“There was a woman from another tribe who arrived at the creek on the seventh day. She was well known for many miles as the most powerful shaman in the land . . . she could change night to day by plucking down the moon and could poison a man with a glare. By then, much of the water in the creek had evaporated, and we feared what another attack by the bird would bring. There was already nothing left around us but broken trees and blackened earth.
“The shaman walked across the field, barefoot, as if the heat did not bother her. She pulled my sister and me from the creek and told us not to worry. She told us that the bird was lonely, that it sought a companion.
“Suddenly, the creek became flooded with tiny black toads, thousands and thousands of them, swarming us. They reeked of decay. And a giant rotting toad emerged from the creek, large as a horse. He was a god, a god of death and rot that had come to the land ruined by fire.
“The Toad God told the shaman that she could not defeat the phoenix alone. He agreed to fight the bird, to weaken it, so that she could step in and defeat it. The shaman argued with him, knowing that this would hurt or kill him, but the toad would not listen. He was death, he told her, and she had no dominion over him.
“As they argued, I saw the fire in the sky and pointed. The firebird swept down to the ruined field. The instant it lighted to the earth, the Toad God attacked it. It took the bird’s throat in its jaws, and the bird’s wings beat at it, catching it on fire. The smell . . . it was like nothing I’d ever experienced. And the battle raged all afternoon and into the night.
“When the moon rose, the firebird beat away the toad, sending it smoking to the ground. The Toad God, defeated, crawled back to the creek. The shaman stood alone before the bird, her willowy figure the only thing left standing. She opened her arms. The firebird landed before her, smoldering, and wrapped its wings around her.
“The fire . . . collapsed. It curled around her, flattened, and then there was nothing. No shaman, no phoenix. Just char on the ground and silence.”
Nine sighed and turned her head toward Petra. “We gathered up what remained of the tribe, those who hid in streams and caves, and began again. But we always feared the return of the firebird.”
Petra chewed on her lower lip. “The mythology I read about phoenixes suggests that they’re cyclical in nature . . . that they awaken once every century or two and then self-immolate.” Maybe this one wasn’t on a super-regular schedule, if it woke irregularly. Hell, it might have insomnia, for all she knew.
Nine laced her fingers under her chin. “This might be the same one as before. But there is no god of rot to fight it and no shaman to offer it.”
The door to the room opened, and Maria’s feet appeared, bare and toes painted cerulean blue. In moments, she peered under the bed.
“Hey,” Petra said.
“Hey,” Maria said, sitting down on the floor in a puddle of blue calico fabric.
“I think we might be screwed,” Petra said.
Beside her, Nine nodded.
Maria put her head in her hand. “Well, what else is new?”
“Do you happen to know any shamans who might submit to self-immolation? Or gods of death?”
“No. I do not know any shamans, nor do I know anyone who’s keen to do the burning alive thing. I know an undertaker, though, but I’m pretty sure that’s not who you’re looking for.”
Petra rested her chin on the floor. “Yep. I think we’re fucked.”
A trip to the spirit world could typically only be undertaken under certain conditions. Certain phases of the moon could allow one to slip through more easily, as could disciplined meditation, a few flavors of ceremonial magic, and some earthly locations where the veil between the worlds was stretched thin. Joseph Dee didn’t bother with such things, not anymore. He could slip into the spirit world with a simple wish, much like a child wishing on a dandelion. Inhale. Focus. Exhale.
He had been occupying his bed at the nursing home, the television volume cranked up loud enough to drown out the twittering of the stitch ’n’ bitch going on next door. He slipped away from the physical world in the middle of his favorite game show—a rerun—motivated as much by the desire to search for answers to the riddle of the phoenix as the desire to get away from overheard gossip about people’s grandchildren he didn’t give a rat’s ass about.
Inhale. Focus. Exhale.
At least the spirit world was quieter than the physical world. Joseph had spent years and years here, when he’d been in a catatonic state to all eyes monitoring his physical form. Joseph opened his eyes in a soft, misty realm. A pearly grey fog surrounded him, cool against his skin. He smelled water and trees and moss.
He climbed to his feet to survey his surroundings. Here, he had always been able to walk, and he was a good twenty years younger than he was in the nursing home. He hadn’t always had a human body here, but he had acquired one in the past year, after Petra had found him. Here and now, his body felt strong and his head clear of drugs and confusion. He was wrapped in a black oilskin coat, on which water was already beginning to condense. The mist was wrapped around trees, impossibly tall, with branches that disappeared into the fog. The ground was covered in shed pine needles, muffling his footsteps. A ring of stones surrounded him, each stone as big as his fist. They were a variety of types and colors from both the upper world and the lower world: larimar from the foundations of Atlantis; limestone from the right foot of the Sphinx; quartz from Lemuria; jade from Xanadu. This simple ring had taken so many years to construct, but it was his portal to the spirit world.
He’d come here to look for the phoenix, despite his daughter’s prohibitions. He didn’t know where its original birthplace was, but starting here seemed as good a place as any. He kept a mental map of the spirit world, and he always chose to begin his wanderings here, in the embrace of this protective circle. Nothing could harm him here. Within the circle, he could collect his thoughts, summon, and plan with impunity.
A silver string, fine as spiderweb, was pinned by a rock to the center of the circle. Joseph reached down and tied the string around his waist. This astral cord would extend as needed, and would allow him to find his way home. He’d created this enchantment after spending many years lost here. He always wanted to find his way back, and the cord would lead him home.
A raven cawed overhead. His brow wrinkled. “You’re not the bird I’m looking for. You’re not bright and flaming.”
The raven lit on a branch and cawed again.
“Do you know where it is?” Joseph figured that most winged creatures gossiped among themselves. The raven likely knew.
Slowly, the raven began to fly away.
Shrugging, Joseph stepped over the ring of stones to follow the raven down a pine-needle-strewn path. The raven meandered slowly, lighting on low branches, waiting for Joseph to catch up. The silver string drifted behind Joseph, pushed by the breeze.
“I suppose you know all the birds in these parts, don’t you?” Joseph asked. It wasn’t silly to talk to animals here. They always understood. And sometimes they talked back.
But the raven kept his silence. Joseph followed him through the mist until the path spilled into an open meadow. The grasses here were as tall as his knees, and mountains had sprung up at his back. The land looked largely undeveloped. In the distance, though, he could make out a town and the tracks of a railway.
But closest to him stood a house, about a half mile away. I
t was a house built in an old-fashioned style, two stories, surrounded by wrought iron fencing. The raven flew off toward the house and perched on the chimney. Joseph waded through the grasses toward the house. The windows of the house were black, as if they’d been painted on the reverse side. Perhaps this house existed in the past, and this was the imprint of it on the spiritual ether. Whatever its origins, there was something wrong about the house.
The wind changed, and Joseph smelled it. He smelled something viscous, like mud and nightshade.
There was magic here.
Joseph reached to his side for a weapon. Weapons in the spirit world could take any shape or form. His was a bullwhip made of quicksilver, solid when he needed it to be. He loosened it from his belt and let the fall of the tail trail among the grasses, serpentine as it hissed along the ground.
He advanced on the house and paused outside the iron fence. At first glance, he thought it might be decorative. But as he held his hand above it, he felt the weight of the wards buzzing against his hands. It was like holding his hand against a beehive—vibrating with danger. The fence was likely a magic circle like the one he’d materialized in, designed to keep some things in and others out.
Something moved at the base of a fence post. A black toad the size of an apple moved into view. It stared at Joseph and spoke with a voice that sounded like gravel churning in mud:
“Do not cross this threshold, sorcerer.”
Joseph cocked his head. “What’s behind the gate?”
“Unimaginable power best left untouched.”
The toad scuttled away into the grass. Joseph called for it, but it did not return.
He stood before the gate. The unimaginable power that the toad spoke of might be the phoenix. He weighed the warning of the toad carefully. He knew that toads, in alchemy, were symbols of rot and putrefaction. They were death, and Joseph was not interested in death. But there was no power or knowledge gained without risk. He had come to this place for a reason, and he was not ready to tuck his tail between his legs and leave.
