All summer long this romance took wing, assisted by the firebird that waxed glorious in the young lovers’ great affection for each other. Despite his failing health, the young poet decided to steal the maiden from her tower, and began to make plans, unaware that all along, the maiden’s jealous father had knowledge of this illicit romance. After all, it was he who had locked her in this tower to avoid just such a dilemma, and he did not wish for anyone to plunder the richness of her body. Yet the treasure of love is meant to be shared, and the two young lovers may have succeeded had they not been waylaid as they were escaping. The father sent his guards, who caught up with the young lovers as they were crossing a bridge that spanned a ravine. Unable to defend his love, the young man fell beneath the blade. The maiden sprang to her own death rather than continue to submit to her tyrant-father’s cruelty. It is said that those who were present that night saw the two lovers’ souls fly up into the air on flaming wings to join with the firebird that circled, its song sweeter then forever after. It is also told, from then on, the firebird was never alone, and whomsoever was able to attract this bird and its companions to their gardens, brought with them great fortune for however long they were able to cause the spirits to linger.
In love and life, sacrifice, the greatest beauty borne on flaming wings, ephemeral. I don’t think Ailas and I understood the story when we were little, but I feel I hold some of its truth while I walk along the winding track that slithers between the gloomy lamin trees, up a narrow ravine to an abandoned vadis farmer’s stand. The sulphurous breath of Mount Ferion is carried on the air that mingles with the sweetness of meria, but the crickets join their chorus to the drumbeat of my pulse, and I continue.
I am not alone. I will never be alone, for another fire burns within me, filled with boundless wonder that ignites the threads that hold it all together so that I may tug at them at will, and create change. I will go home that one last time; I will sing a lament for the blood of my blood, those who nurtured me like a tender vadis-orchid shoot. I will lay the dead to rest.
And after that?
Who knows? Does it matter? Suffice to say that the dam wall has been breached and the waters stagnate no more. My new brothers and sisters go forth this night as well to bestow blessings, as do I. Everything ends. New life springs forth from the ashes of the old, and the not-knowing brings with it both sweet pain and unbridled joy.
About this Author
Nerine Dorman is a South African author and editor of SFF currently residing in Cape Town. Her short fiction has been published in an assortment of anthologies, including the Midian Unmade: Tales of Clive Barker’s Nightbreed; The Endless Ages Anthology for Vampire: The Masquerade; the Wraeththu mythos; and War Stories: New Military Science Fiction, among others. Her YA fantasy novel Dragon Forged was a finalist in the 2017 Sanlam Youth Literature Prize, and she is the curator of the South African Horrorfest Bloody Parchment event and short story competition. In addition, she is a founding member of the SFF authors’ co-operative Skolion.
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