by Luke Donegan
The boy looked into his deep, blue eyes.
I am Spirit, and power, said Erys. I have a gift to give you. Use it wisely.
He leaned forward, and held the boy’s face in his hands.
Erys? asked Jay.
But the young man’s lips stopped his words. I am a gift, whispered Erys, as he softly kissed the Teacher.
And above them on the hillside, beside the stairway ... and before the ancient palace ... the dragon approached the dead bird lying in the dust. The dragon nudged the bird’s limp head, pushing its beak free of the dust. The dragon opened its jaws, and closed them gently over the bird’s beak and nostrils.
He exhaled fire. The long stream of power it had just consumed rolled up from deep within his belly. He breathed it into the bird. He gave it all, freely, although it would mean his death.
Fire poured into the phoenix. The bird opened its eyes, and they were beautiful amber eyes. Colour flowed through its body, the gray feathers of its neck and breast and wings gave way to returned colour – reds and blues and yellows. Its wings twitched and fluttered. It lifted and flapped its great wings raising clouds of dust. It tried to stand, but the dragon held it down and poured more fire into its body. The phoenix flapped its wings. The dragon held it harder, biting its face with its teeth, gripping the bird, giving up more and more fire.
Do not struggle. This is my gift. Take it all! Use it all!
Blue flames sprang across the span of the phoenix’s wings.
More, whispered the dragon.
Red flames burst across the phoenix’s body. It became a creature of fire, roaring like a furnace. It flapped its great wings and fire leapt into the sky.
The dragon gave everything, completely, fully, the power of a billion forms of life. Until its own lawless life was, but for a final vestige, spent.
When the dragon’s jaws held no more fire the phoenix broke free. As a bird of white flames it rose above the ruins and the dying dragon, and the young man lying motionless on the ancient pier. The phoenix looked upon them with deep, sad eyes. It heard Erys’ last words ...
This is my gift. Use it wisely ...
Upon fiery wings it soared up into the sky and the ether beyond, leaving a trail of smoke and fire in the empty sky.
With Erys’ gift inside him, the phoenix sought out the core of the galaxy. He soared beyond the Solar System and entered deep space.
He was a burning light in the darkness. He flew through the vast galaxy, past stars and gas clouds, alone on the great wind. As he passed each star the pulse of solar wind blasted his face. Each pulse reminding him of the slap of waves against his face as he swam in the ocean as a boy.
Time folded. The journey lasted brief moments, and it lasted a lifetime. He passed thousands of planets. Many had been forever lifeless, silent rocks where that curious spark had not found purchase. On some there was evidence of life long past. Silent oceans. Dead forests. On a few could be found the remains of great civilisations. Stone canals across wide continents. Cities lying in ruins. Immense statues of alien kings lying broken in the dust.
The phoenix cried as he passed these remnants of life, and his streaming tears forming a silver trail across space.
But on some planets life forms clung to existence. Blue planets and ice planets where, despite Passage, creatures clung to life. As Jay passed these planets he flew low and skimmed their landscapes.
He cried out: Hold on! Hold on! I will save you. Just hold on a little longer.
The alien creatures on these planets gazed up at the white bird soaring across their skies. They gazed up, and a sense of hope rose in their hearts.
They called and screeched and barked and whistled and cheered as the bird of fire continued on its journey. And they gritted their teeth against the dark night, sensing that soon this night could end.
The phoenix approached the centre of the galaxy. He passed alien machinery, satellites and probes sent by advanced civilisations to study Dark Matter. These cold objects were silent and their builders long dead.
And then he discovered the source of the calamity that had befallen the universe – a rent in space, a long, jagged silver-edged tear through which a jet of Dark Matter spewed. The stream of Dark Matter flowed into the centre of the galaxy. There it fed a growing, pulsating, writhing spherical mass, the core of Dark Matter that fed the immortals. The ball of darkness that gave them their power.
The phoenix turned first towards the rent in space. Through the tear he glimpsed an alternative universe, a place where Dark Matter was the foundation of existence. This place was like a scream of pain, a universe built on horror and dismay.
The great bird was terrified. He feared to approach it, scared of being dragged into that place. But despite his fear the phoenix fanned his wings out wide and flew at the rent, straight into the issue of Dark Matter.
The phoenix plugged the rent with his body and barred the passage of Dark Matter into the universe. Dark Matter poured against his breast feathers and his wings. The pressure was immense, and in moments the weight of this evil place would overwhelm him and push through.
But this Spirit was a creature of Law. And the Law was more than a guide for how to exist in this universe. It was the cornerstone of all existence, the framework of life, the perfect balance of forces that made life possible. And the phoenix held the template of the Law in his bones and marrow.
The phoenix summoned fire to his wings. White heat leapt from his bones and blazed across its feathers. White heat scorched the rent in space, melted the fabric of space and fused its edges together. The fire of the phoenix sealed the hole in space and stemmed the flow of Dark Matter.
And as the power of the phoenix slowly diminished, Law was restored to the devastated universe.
The phoenix opened his eyes slowly. Peace flooded his soul, and a profound sadness at everything that had been lost. And a loneliness at the thought of his solitary fate.
The phoenix turned to the sphere of darkness hovering in space. The evil of Kafka Yellis’ crime had been reversed, though Dark Matter still existed in the universe. The ball of oily darkness was massive. It moved like a living thing, flowing, throbbing. Waves of energy spread across its surface. However, it had no mind of its own. It had no awareness of what was coming, or even of the bird’s presence.
In itself, there was nothing evil about the substance. It was a tool, nothing more. Though evil people had put it to evil purposes. In their pursuit of immortality the Ascendants had made it the substance of aberration. It was just something that was. Something that needed to be destroyed.
The phoenix flew to the sphere and laid his wings across its surface. The thick, oily substance oozed between his feathers.
Its size dwarfed the phoenix. Like a fly resting on one of the domes of the Museum, he was only a speck on its surface. But size did not matter here. Only power. And Erys had fed the power of life from across the galaxy into Jay’s Spirit.
Before the black slime could envelop him entirely, the phoenix summoned that power into being. Light blazed against the surface of darkness. A blinding, fiery light, brighter than a thousand colliding stars.
The phoenix called, a sound composed of all living things, the cry of animals, the rustle of wind in trees, the swish of fins in water, the whisper of voices, the call of winged creatures that had evolved on a thousand worlds.
Fire erupted from between the feathers of the great bird’s wings. Flames leapt and crackled, and slowly they fed on the dark substance beneath them.
And as he consumed the sphere of Dark Matter, Jay summoned the memories of his short life. Mornings in Ocean-Hearth, exploring the rock pools below the cliffs, diving into the surging waves, walking with Rhada along the banks of the dry river, being Teacher at Ocean-Hearth and telling stories to the children, being Scion-Teacher at the Museum, exploring that strange place, discovering the animals, becoming immortal ...
... the blazing fire of his life spread out across the ball of Dark Matter as slow
ly the sphere diminished ...
... and as he relived each memory, they fell away, consumed to ash and smoke by the flames of his consuming Spirit. He would know them no more.
He summoned the textures of life, water, cool against his face, the hot, bright sun, stinging his eyes, crunchy sand between his toes, the sound of calling birds, the rustle of a night breeze in the grass trees, the aroma of food cooking in the kitchens.
The sphere of Dark Matter diminished, as did he, for the power of this fire was too great for even the phoenix to survive. The heat of his flames consumed the feathers of his wings, burning into the sinew and muscle of his form.
Jay saw before him the faces of those he had known, and in some form, loved; the children of Ocean-Hearth, the Hearth-Father, the Teacher, his companions at the Museum, Erys, and Rhada.
Rhada who he loved, but had never spoken to of his love. Her wide eyes, her short brown hair, her strength and determination, her fierce love for the children. He cherished this memory, and he held onto her eyes ...
The sphere of Dark Matter was almost consumed now. It was a ball wrapped in the wings of the phoenix, held in the tight grip of his claws and flaming wings, whisper thin, almost gone. And the phoenix too was almost gone ...
... he held onto Rhada’s eyes ...
... his own hazel eyes, like dissipating mist ...
... his glassy beak, translucent ...
And in a final burst of flame the ball of darkness was consumed. Dark Matter was defeated, and his own fiery existence, like the last breath of wind, or the last drop of rain, was exhausted and fell away ...
The phoenix was gone.
Chapter 23 SPIRIT
Lanyard of the Pellpenar stood at the end of the bowsprit, her eyes closed and her face upturned against the apparent wind. Fifty feet down the white furl of seawater rolled across the bow, slipping port and starboard, flowing behind the great Trader. The bowsprit rose and fell thirty, forty feet as the ketch navigated each ocean swell and trough between. Guide ropes ran the length of the bowsprit, but Lanyard did not need their support to avoid being flung into the troubled ocean. Her feet were sure. She knew the motions of the ketch and the motions of the ocean as she knew her own self. The rhythms of its moods, as to the cycles of her life, as all the Pellpenar, the penguin people of Tarc knew them. Rise and fall of ocean waves. Love, egg, ocean, hatching and care, followed by love again, if there was time before Passage. And Passage the end.
But now there was no Passage. Like a blossoming flower, or the blue ocean, life without premature and Spirit-less death opened before her.
The Trader pitched and Lanyard reached out awkwardly to grip a guide rope. An uncharacteristic move! She hoped none of her crew had seen it.
Now, there was no Passage. Gone from the rhythms of life. Did this make her unsteady?
Lanyard closed her eyes. She felt the apparent wind against her face, and the motion of the vessel as it rose and fell. The cool spray of seawater kissed her cheeks, fine like a misty morning on Tarc, walking across the green hills. Her husband loved the hills, as did all men of Tarc. And she loved the ocean, as did all women.
What a strange yearning to place in our hearts? she thought. To desire such different states. To love, but constantly wanting to be elsewhere. Men on land and women on sea. The Creator’s little joke, perhaps. Or maybe a biological necessity.
Perhaps we would drive each other mad if we were always together, she thought.
But she loved the ocean. In truth she was happiest with a deck beneath her feet, a full spinnaker above, billowing like a thundercloud, and the endless, rolling ocean beyond.
She felt the apparent wind against her face. Not the true wind. Forward and slightly to port. Caressing like a butterfly’s wings. She remembered the teachings of her first captain when she was still a girl, her first year at sea.
“The apparent wind is what you feel on your face when you stand on the bowsprit, the wind affected by the motion of the boat. The true wind is what you sail to.”
To illustrate the point her Captain tossed a handful of sawdust into the air. The dust blew across amidships and out over the ocean.
“When you stand on deck, you only feel the apparent wind,” she told Lanyard. “The true wind is outside and beyond.”
She had learnt to read the wind over the years, the hesitations, the slight change of direction, the lessening of breath. She felt it now, a flutter on her left cheek, the wind turning more to port. She glanced at the spinnaker and noticed a slight deflation in the sail, unobservable but by the most experienced of sailors.
Lanyard hand-signaled her first mate crewing the tiller amidships. “One degree to port, trim the spinnaker.”
Her first mate acknowledged the command and adjusted the tiller, relaying commands to her crew at the whisker pole and mainsheet. The crew adjusted their rigging and Lanyard watched the spinnaker fill again. She turned to the ocean and closed her eyes. The apparent wind on her cheeks fluttered and became steady. Lanyard smiled, a wind as perfect as it could be. But it was not the true wind.
Lanyard was Captain of the Eudyptes, the flagship of the Pellpenar. Her duties as captain kept her at sea for eleven months of each year. While she loved her husband and her children, after a few days home in the forests of Tarc she was yearning for the ocean again.
But my husband is always there waiting for me when I return, she thought. She pictured the red feathers at his breast as he transformed to the animal, glossy black feathers about his head, an emotion-charged transformation each time he saw her after a long absence.
“I don’t know how long I will be gone,” she had told him the last time they were together. “But I will return.”
He sensed something different about her, a hesitance.
“What is it?” he asked. “Are you concerned by this voyage?”
“Not the voyage. I have sailed that far north before, though not that far to the east. But I know the winds. The traders can more than handle the winds. But it is the City Mothers’ decision to go there in the first place that bothers me. I do not know if it is wise.”
She and her husband walked along a path near their home on Tarc. The path wound among the trees of a thickly wooded forest. Their children were ahead along the path, laughing and crying out with the enjoyment of a game. Emerging above a cliff top, the path overlooked the valley. A river snaked through the hills down to Pellpenar City on the distant coast. They sat on a bench and looked across the harbor beyond the city. White sails skimmed across the bay.
“The human species brought ruin to the world,” explained Lanyard. “Their wars nearly wiped out not only their own people but all the animists as well. And their scientists damaged our planet beyond repair.”
“A long time ago,” said her husband.
“We are safe here. They do not know we exist. I think it is unwise to reveal ourselves.”
“The world has changed,” said her husband gently. “I can feel it in the air. I can see it in the earth, and the plants, and the animals in the forest. Passage is no more. Somehow, it has been destroyed. And the world is coming back to life.”
They looked up as their three children returned along the path. Their youngest at three years was in penguin form, her small beak snapping at her siblings.
“The Umawari told us what the humans were trying to achieve,” continued her husband. “Somehow they have destroyed Passage. The humans have redeemed themselves.”
The youngest child chirped and jumped into her father’s lap. She nuzzled him with her beak.
“I agree with the City Mothers,” he said. “It is time we made ourselves known to them. If we come together, penguin people, emu people, seal people, humans, and others, perhaps we can ... not return our world to what it once was, because I think that would be a mistake ... but perhaps we can build a new world where Nature is bountiful, and where all races live in peace.”
Her husband was an optimist. He lived on steady ground, in the forest above the
city. Her foundation was perpetually in motion, rolling, rising and falling. While she loved the ocean, she did not trust it. She opened her eyes.
There were three Traders sailing north to the city of Pars. Her own vessel the Eudyptes. Half a mile to port sailed the Adelie, and opposite to starboard the Forsteri, each following a parallel course. A hundred sailors crewed each ketch. Three lone Traders on the endless ocean, full spinnakers gliding across a rippled sea of silver blue.
As they sailed further north, Lanyard felt a growing heat in the apparent wind.
The apparent wind. The wind of this vessel sailing across this ocean on this day, in a world no longer ravaged by Passage. She felt the stirrings of hope, and of the optimism of her husband. Perhaps they could build such a world.
She turned to the Trader. Her crew was busy with their duties. The first mate at the tiller smiled and hand-signaled across the deck: “A good day for sailing.”
She smiled and returned her gaze to the ocean. Yes, a good day. The wind against her cheeks. The rise and fall of the ocean. The spray of seawater on her face. What she could see and feel and hear. This life, physical and in the world.
But not the true essence of life.
She missed her husband and her children. She remembered kissing her husband on the dock before sailing. He was such an emotional man. As they kissed he transformed. She remembered his beauty in animal form. Glistening feathers that seemed to capture light. The sleekness of his beak. Bands of black and white down his neck.
The love she felt for him and for their children, and her love for the ocean, was something that brought her closer to Spirit. Love, tempered by the world.
Love, a wind as perfect as it could be. But not the true wind.
... the apparent wind is what you feel, while the true wind is what you sail to ...
... a perfection you strive for.
The true wind was like the world of Spirit, a world tantalisingly just beyond her reach.
It felt good to be telling stories again. The Teacher looked over the faces of the children of Ocean-Hearth. Eager, focussed, delighted. They were glued to his every word.