Pale Phoenix

by Kathryn Reiss

  "Home to what?" Abby's eyes narrowed. She was again the Abby that Miranda knew so well, sarcastic and hostile. "It's no real life there, either. I'm tired of never growing, never changing, being drawn back here just to sit and cry, then going back again, just existing on and on." Her shoulders sagged, and when she spoke next her voice was very soft, hardly audible over the wind. "I would rather die right now than go on that way. I don't want to be a phoenix anymore."

  Her simple words stirred something deep inside Miranda that all Abby's shouting had failed to reach. Could the solution to Abby's troubles be as simple as deciding not to be a phoenix? The first raindrops began to fall. "Come home now," she told Abby. "I need some time to think things through. But maybe I can still help, after all. We can try again."

  Abby looked down at the cold stone phoenix in her hand. "Without this bird," she said slowly, "everything would have ended for me in the house that day. Charred bone—" She turned the words over experimentally in her mouth. "Like the others. That's all I'd be. But I'm not, am I?" She looked up at them. "I'm not."

  They shook their heads.

  Abby gazed at them both with a blank, faraway look in her pale eyes. She seemed to be coming to some decision, for she nodded to herself after a moment. "All right," she said. "I'll take you home." She reached out her hands to them. Miranda's heart beat faster; she had been truly frightened that this moment would never come.

  "Close your ¡eyes," Abby whispered.

  Miranda glanced hastily around her for one last look before she obeyed. Here on the grass at the edge of the woods, it could be any time. The rain pelting down around them now could fall in any age. Then almost immediately the rain vanished, the air grew dense around them, almost unbearably stifling, then thinned again, and turned cooler, cold. It was this cold air that Miranda gasped into her lungs just as the smell changed to that of pizza, and she heard Abby's words, "Open your eyes now. We're home."

  Chapter Seventeen

  "MY GOODNESS, I thought you girls had gone home already!" Mrs. Hooton exclaimed as the three time travelers, silent and shaken, slowly walked down the steps from the museum wing into the front hall. "But since you're here, you're welcome to share our bedtime snack. Leftover pizza."

  Miranda checked her watch, then clenched Dan's hand. They had traveled so far together, she could not believe so little time had passed. She couldn't bear to leave before they had a chance to talk. He squeezed her fingers, willing her to stay, needing her closeness as she needed his. But then Miranda saw Abby's stricken face and slowly shook her head. "No, thanks. Abby and I had better get home."

  "Well, it is getting late." Mrs. Hooton saw them to the door. As they started down the front steps, she called after them. "Oh, would you girls like to come along with Dan to meet me at the Prindle House tomorrow after school? The witchcraft exhibit is just about ready. You three can have a sneak preview, if you like, before we open it to the public."

  "That'll be nice," Miranda answered faintly and hurried across the snowy street after Abby.

  Abby was withdrawn as they sat in the living room with Helen and Philip over their bedtime hot chocolate. Miranda felt a terrible urge to talk to her parents, to tell them about everything that had happened. But one glance at Abby's set face made her press her lips together hard. This was Abby's drama—she herself was in the wings while Abby stood center stage. There was a certain relief, too, in leaving the explanations to Abby. Miranda sipped her drink, remembering the fragrant stew in Sarah's cauldron.

  Abby drained her cup, then looked up at Philip. "Where do you think we go when we die?"

  He peered into his mug. "Helen, what did you put in here?"

  Abby didn't smile. "I just wonder, that's all."

  Miranda tried to catch Abby's eye, but Abby leaned toward Philip, waiting intently.

  "I don't know, of course," said Philip. He set his mug on the coffee table. "People believe different things. It depends on what your religion teaches—"

  "No, that can't be right." Abby cut him off. "I've been to dozens of churches and synagogues. Religions think they know, but I need proof. How can I get absolute proof?"

  Helen laughed uncertainly. "Abby, theologians, philosophers, scientists, and just about everybody else for thousands of years—no, certainly much longer than that—have all been wondering the exact same thing you are, and no one has ever found proof that everyone will accept as proof. Faith is an important element of all religions for precisely that reason. I, for one, believe there is a God and a heaven."

  "And when you die you'll be with all your family and friends who died before you?"

  "I'm not sure I'd go that far, personally," said Helen. "But I know many religions would say yes. And it certainly is a comforting thought."

  "So the only way to know for sure is to die, I suppose," said Abby dully.

  "Probably," said Helen. She looked questioningly at Miranda as Abby returned to her hot chocolate. Miranda just shrugged. No one spoke for some time; the only sound in the room was the clink of their spoons against the mugs.

  Then Abby stood up. "Excuse me. I've had enough—and I'm feeling sort of dizzy. I'm going to bed."

  Helen rose hastily. "Let me feel your forehead, honey. Are you coming down with something?"

  "No—" Abby waited while Helen placed a hand on her brow. "I'm just tired." She headed for the stairs.

  "Let her go, Helen," said Philip, and Helen sat down again.

  "What's wrong with Abby, Mandy? Do you know?" she asked.

  Miranda shrugged. How to tell them of Abby's despair? How to give them an accurate account of how Abby tried to go back before the fire, of her failure, of her longing to die so that she might at last rejoin her family? At least she hadn't been able to try the poison mushrooms.

  Miranda choked on her hot chocolate. Abby had not, after all, been able to kill herself in the past. But nothing prevented her from trying to commit suicide here.

  "Excuse me, too," Miranda said, shoving back her chair. "I'll go talk to her, see if anything's wrong."

  As she hurried out of the room, she heard her father's soft voice. "It's just great how friendly the girls have been to each other these past couple of days. Maybe things really will work out for us after all."

  "Oh, I hope so," said Helen fervently. "It would be so wonderful...."

  Miranda sucked in her breath and ran upstairs. Nothing could ever work out if Abby were already dead. She barged into Abby's bedroom without knocking. "Abby? Abby?" But the room was empty.

  Cold fear plunged into Miranda's stomach. The bathroom! Razor blades or who knew what in the medicine chest? But when she ran down the hall to check, that room was empty, too. Miranda put her hands to her face.

  She ran to her own room and flung herself onto the bed. Then she noticed Abby in the corner window seat, legs drawn up tightly beneath her.

  "Oh, Abby!"

  "What's the matter? Seen a ghost?"

  "I thought you were going to—"

  "Kill myself?" Abby nodded. "I was thinking about it. But I'm a ninny. A great big coward." Her voice cracked with angry tears. "Maybe it wouldn't work anyway. Maybe I wouldn't die even if I tried. But in order to know, I need someone to push me over the cliff, to pull the trigger, to knock the chair out from under me once my head is in the noose—"

  "Abby, stop it—please!"

  Abby's eyes glittered as she hugged her legs. "I need you to put the poison berries in my tea, or stab me with a dagger. Will you do it, Mandy? You with your safe home and loving family and normal life? Will you do it so I can get back to my own parents—and William?"

  Miranda stared at Abby. She saw the twitch at the side of Abby's mouth, that old sardonic, unpleasant smirk. Miranda's pity dissolved. Her voice when she spoke was sharp. "You know I won't. And only someone as selfish as you would ever ask such a thing. Just leave me out of it. I won't shove you down the stairs or shoot your brains out, much as I'd sometimes like to. But listen—last year Mither sprained her back
and had to take some pretty strong painkillers. I bet she has some left. Go check the bathroom. Take a couple pills and you'll fall asleep. Take ten—you fall down unconscious. Take the whole bottle, Abby, why don't you? Take it and see if maybe you really will die!"

  Abby's smirky, superior grin vanished and her eyes filled with tears. Miranda jumped off her bed and stamped right over to the window seat. She shouted into the other girl's face, "Yes, you'll die at last! And what an easy way to go. Even a coward like you can manage it!" She held up her hand when Abby tried to speak. "I know what you'll say next. You'll want me to be the one to pour you the cup of water. No way. This is something you'll do all by yourself. But I'll get my parents to come up and kiss you before you fall asleep. I won't tell them it's good-bye, of course, because they'd rush you to the hospital and pump your stomach, and we know you wouldn't want that."

  Her voice rose scornfully. "So they'll kiss you good night, and when they go downstairs again they'll say what I just heard them saying a few minutes ago. How happy they are that you're living with us, how they hope you and I will be friends, how much they want you to stay. Of course you won't hear them, because you'll already have sunk into a stupor. But you wouldn't care, anyway, right? Because we don't matter to you. All you want is to die—on the off chance you'll meet up with people who died three hundred years ago." Miranda broke off to catch her breath and glared at Abby. "All these years of life you've had, Abby—and I don't think you've appreciated one minute. All you've been doing is wishing you weren't alive. Well, you don't deserve to be."

  She stopped at last, shocked at herself. Abby's head was bowed now and tears dropped onto her knees. Miranda felt tears start in her own eyes. After a long pause, she spoke up grudgingly. "I—I'm sorry. You wouldn't really die from the pills, Abby. In fact, I don't really think we even have any more. But even if we did, and even if you took the whole bottle, I'd be on the phone for an ambulance before you finished swallowing."

  Abby lifted her head and threw her arms around Miranda. "Oh, Mandy," she sobbed. "I know I'm awful. I don't really want to die—I just can't bear going on like this. How long does that legend say phoenixes live? Isn't it five hundred years? If I'm a phoenix as you say, does that mean two hundred more years for me? I hate living on and on and never changing, while the people I care about die. I hate going back to the ruin all the time, just to cry there for all I've lost."

  "I know." Miranda sat on the window seat next to Abby. She was trying to think back to the moment in the ruin, trying to remember the idea that had risen out of the ashes. Abby had said then she didn't want to be a phoenix. And yet she had no choice. Or did she?

  She contemplated the pale girl. "You look just like a normal person. You were born like everyone. You lived a normal life—until the moment you should have died. Then something magical happened, and you didn't really die at all. It happened because of one special thing you had that no one else in the world had. The phoenix. Somehow it gave you another chance."

  "Rebirth out of the ashes," murmured Abby. "But no chance for a normal life."

  "I wonder," mused Miranda. She turned to look out the window into darkness. She could sense the deep blankets of snow, though she couldn't see them.

  That night she dreamed about flying.

  The next day Miranda wandered through her classes in a fog. She remembered how it felt to drift above the ground. She couldn't concentrate on her work. She had Abby on her mind.

  When the final bell rang she sighed with relief. Soon she and Abby and Dan were crunching along Main Street, then around the corner to the Prindle House. A backhoe was parked in the vacant lot, shrouded with snow. The ash and rubble of the ruin seemed more real. "Soon this will be a parking lot," Miranda marveled. "Can you believe it?"

  Mrs. Hooton called to them from the porch of the Prindle House. Mrs. Wainwright stepped out from behind her and waved. On the porch, Dan introduced Abby to his great-aunt, then they all went inside.

  Miranda looked around with interest as they walked through the old house, but there wasn't much to see. The wide wooden floorboards were covered with white dropcloths. Wallpaper hung in tatters. Paint buckets and plastering tools lay on planks atop sawhorses. Mrs. Wainwright led them up the narrow staircase to a newly painted bedroom. The wooden floor gleamed with fresh wax. Glass cases had been installed under the window, and a banner above read WITCHCRAFT IN GARNET?

  "Welcome to the Witch House exhibit," Mrs. Wainwright said, motioning them to step closer and look. "Your parents have done a stellar job, Dan."

  "Take your time." Mrs. Hooton smiled. "We'll be downstairs with the carpenters."

  Miranda, Abby, and Dan crowded close to peer into the first case. A brief history on easy-to-read tagboard cards told about the hysteria that had gripped late seventeenth-century New England. An etching showed a woman tied to a chair attached to a plank held above a pond, and the caption explained that this was a ducking stool. Once used throughout New England as a punishment for wives who nagged their husbands, the ducking stool was utilized in Garnet during the witchcraft hysteria as a test to prove whether or not the accused were truly a witch. A real witch, people believed, could not drown. So if the accused drowned, then she was not guilty.

  "Oh, wow," said Dan. "Not guilty, but dead anyway?"

  "Looks like it," said Miranda, frowning. "I wonder if it says anything here about Willow?" She gazed down into the case, trying to read the old documents listing the accused persons and their sentences.

  Dan shook his head. "I checked. Her name isn't there."

  Abby moved on to the second case. She looked inside. After a moment she called to them to come look. Her voice sounded ragged.

  They peered down at a torn, yellowed page from an old newspaper. "Look at the date," whispered Abby. "1755—a year before I came here to live with Matilda and Tobias Prindle. It's a letter written by Tobias himself."

  Miranda frowned at the faded, oddly formed letters. "What does it say? I can't read it."

  But Abby had no difficulty.

  "The sins of the fathers weigh heavily upon this family. We are besmirched by the stain of our ancestors' Guilt. They who so willingly and with vigor participated in the insanity that plagued our Town some sixty years ago have left a Shadow upon all generations to follow. We cannot hope to be forgiven in the eyes of God in Heaven without first atoning here on Earth, and to our fellow Men. I therefore offer freely and without obligation Monetary Restitution to the surviving families whose members were accused and executed for the Crime of Witchcraft in Garnet. I acknowledge the responsibility of my ancestor, Josiah Prindle, in leading these Baseless Accusations, and hope to diminish the Guilt that stains my Soul and the Souls of my family by this act of most humble atonement—"

  She stopped. "And the rest is torn away."

  "It's enough, though, isn't it?" asked Miranda. "We know that William's father went off the deep end, but at least it sounds like later generations of Prindles were sorry."

  "It's sad," murmured Dan. He put his arm around Abby's thin shoulders. "Tobias felt so ashamed, even though he hadn't been born when it was going on."

  "Do you think that's how come you landed so far in the future?" asked Miranda. "The phoenix sent you on to a time when people didn't believe in witches anymore—so you would be safer."

  "Safer, maybe," said Abby. "But still always on the run."

  They looked at each other, then wandered through the rest of the exhibit without another word. The sound of a carpenter's drill led them down the steep stairs to Dan's mother and Mrs. Wainwright, who were watching the carpenters replacing rotten floorboards in a back room. "Ready to go?" asked Mrs. Hooton. She put on her coat and scarf. Mrs. Wainwright accompanied them to the front door, chatting cheerfully about the renovations.

  "Thanks for letting us in to the exhibit early," said Dan. "It's awesome."

  "But horrible," said Miranda. "I've never heard of anything so stupid as that ducking stool in my whole life."

  Ab
by wound her scarf over her pale hair. "People were different then," she said in her quiet voice.

  "Oh, don't you believe it for a minute, my girl," said Mrs. Wainwright. "That's a mistake we often make when thinking about history. But you can be sure the people in old Garnet were no different from us at all. Their ways may have been different—and some of their fears—but at heart they were like us. They hoped for what we all hope for. Good health, good friends, a family to love, enough food, and a safe place to live. They lived their lives day to day, just the same as you and I." She opened the door and they stepped out into the cold again. "That's really all we ever can do."

  They said good-bye then, and Mrs. Hoooton drove carefully up the hill to their own safe, warm homes. Miranda sat silently in the backseat, lost in thought.

  Miranda tried to keep up her usual cheerful banter as she helped her father wash the dishes, but the effort exhausted her. Her mind was whirling with memories, fragments of conversations, half-formed notions that might mean everything—or nothing at all. She hoped he didn't notice. Finally they finished and she hung up the towel, then wandered off to look for Abby. She found her drooping over the piano keyboard, pale hair hanging limply down her back. Miranda touched her shoulder. "Listen, I think I've figured it out. The reason why the phoenix linked us together. How I'm meant to help you, I mean."

  She was disappointed that Abby's expression remained glum. "I'll always be a—a phoenix," Abby muttered. "Never a normal person."

  "No, listen to me," said Miranda. "How often do you go back to the ruin?"

  "You mean, how many times a day?"

  "You mean you go back that often?"

  "Well, yes. I can't stop myself." Abby's hands moved over the piano keys, playing soft chords.

  Miranda suspected that Abby's need to return to the ruin was very much like an addiction to a drug—and every bit as dangerous. "So you've never tried to live like a normal person at all."