Phoenix Without Ashes

by Edward Bryant

“I wish that I could help you,” she said.

  “There is a way,” he said, “now.”

  She waited silently.

  “During my exile... the hill on which we met. Have they searched there?”

  She nodded. “Two days ago. Tomorrow the men will search the hills in the north.”

  “Then I’ll go back to that hill. I need time to think out what I wish to do. Will you bring me food?”

  “Of course,” she said, disengaging her fingers. “Just a moment.” Rachel disappeared from the black rectangle of window.

  Devon tried to estimate how long she was gone. He silently counted up to sixty by thousands. Five times. Six. He thought he could see the first faint glow of dawn in the east. He hoped it was only his imagination.

  “Devon?”

  He turned back to the window.

  “Can you catch this if I throw it?”

  “I’ll try.” He took a firmer grip on the limb above. “Is it heavy?”

  “No.” She tossed the bundle in a short arc. He caught it neatly.

  “What is it?”

  “Bread, cheese, several apples picked from the tree in which you perch, some strips of dried beef. Now wedge that in a fork; I have something else.” She threw him something soft and bound tightly with cord. “It’s a quilted comforter. The autumn darkness grows chillier nightly.”

  “Won’t your parents know?”

  She laughed softly. “There are many apples, much cheese; the bread is stale. The comforter is a spare for my sister and me to use when the winter arrives.”

  “Thank you,” said Devon.

  “I will try to bring you more,” she said. “Perhaps I can come tomorrow, after vespers.”

  “I wish I could kiss you.”

  “I too, Devon. I love you.” Then she quietly shut the window.

  Devon had to shoo Dog back when he reached the edge of Aram’s property. Dog retreated reluctantly after he was tossed a bit of cheese from the precious packet of food. Devon waited for his own meal until he had gained the hills.

  TWENTY

  Aram and his family were awake and functioning an hour before dawn. Both Rachels, Old and Young, began preparing breakfast. When that was done, they would start cooking the midday meal for the men who would arrive in another hour to help Aram with his harvest. Aram and his neighbors had willingly participated for a few days in the search for mad Devon. But time was time and the wheat would not wait. So the family prepared for the arrival of the harvesters. Aram and Ruth fed the horses, milk cows, and the other beasts.

  The kitchen steamed with the rich odors of ham, sliced potatoes frying, eggs, fresh bread, early apple sauce, and the steeping pot of bitter, black tea. “What about the bread,” Old Rachel said. “Have we enough loaves?”

  Her oldest daughter looked up from the sink. “Loaves?”

  “Yes. Loaves.”

  “Loaves...” Young Rachel looked vague.

  “Of bread,” said her mother. “For the noon meal. We have at least eight men to feed.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother. My thought was elsewhere.” Young Rachel concentrated. “The three loaves yet unbaked will make it enough.”

  “Are there not four loaves?”

  “Yes, Mother, there are four.” She rattled the dishes in the sink.

  Old Rachel wondered what could be wrong now. “Is something the matter, child?”

  “No, Mother.”

  Old Rachel ticked off possibilities in her mind. It couldn’t be the horror—Young Rachel had negotiated that female ritual four years before. Still, perhaps it could be that time of the month—mother and daughter rarely confided in one another about woman’s secrets.

  “Daughter, is it the horror?”

  “Oh no, Mother!” Young Rachel looked shocked.

  “Oh.”

  Old Rachel speculated on other possibilities. There was the recent unpleasantness with mad Devon. “Are you still upset about that terrible night with Devon appearing here, having attacked the Elders and stolen a sacred relic from the Creator’s machine?”

  “I have pushed that from my mind.”

  Old Rachel absently whittled the eyes from the panful of potatoes. Perhaps she should attempt a more positive tack. “Your father has spoken with Old Garth.”

  “Oh?” said her daughter noncommittally.

  “The stiffness in Old William’s joints seems to grow by the day. He is no longer unwilling to quit the forge. Young Garth has been a capable and willing pupil. I think we shall see Young Garth no longer apprenticed, but as the metalsmith himself before the winter is out.”

  “I’m happy to hear that,” said Young Rachel. “Garth will make a fine smith.”

  “When he accedes to the smithy,” said Old Rachel, “he will also be permitted to marry.”

  Her daughter said nothing.

  “Young Garth is a fine man. He is strong and dependable.”

  “He is that,” said Young Rachel. Musing, she added, “He also has no imagination.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing, Mother.”

  Old Rachel felt angry and somehow hurt. “Daughter, he will be an excellent husband.”

  “I’m sure he will, Mother.”

  Her voice tightened. “Rachel, Young Garth will be your husband.”

  “As decreed by the Creator’s machine.”

  “Yes. As according to the Creator’s plan.”

  They each worked in silence for a while. Old Rachel finished the potatoes and started slicing the ham. Young Rachel slid a tray of bran muffins into the oven.

  “Mother? You always knew you would marry Father?”

  “Of course, child. Our betrothal was known to our parents from birth. The Creator’s machine issued the genetic pronouncement, just as it did for my parents, and my grandparents, and so on.”

  “But didn’t you ever—wonder?”

  “Wonder about what?” Her eyes widened with puzzlement.

  “Whether—” Young Rachel picked for words. “Whether it was something you should do?”

  “Should do?” The older woman shook her head. “Of course not. It was a certainty.”

  Young Rachel sat aimlessly, hands still in her lap.

  “Daughter, the potatoes should be turned.”

  “But didn’t you ever question the certainty?” Young Rachel’s voice involuntarily lowered as though she were uttering a public obscenity. She walked slowly to the stove.

  “What’s that?” said her mother. “Question it? Certainly not—I’ve never questioned any pronouncement of the Creator’s machine. Nor of the Elders.”

  “Did you love him?”

  “Your father?”

  Young Rachel nodded.

  “What had love to do with anything? He was—is my husband. Aram is as fine a man in his own right as Young Garth is in his. Love is a meaningless word.”

  “I do not love Young Garth.”

  Old Rachel shrugged and said, “That has nothing to do with the marriage; it would be impious to think it did.” Young Rachel turned away, saying nothing.

  Her mother caught the small movements of her shoulders. “Child, are you crying?” She put down the slicing knife and crossed the kitchen to her daughter. Her hands were clumsy because she was not accustomed to holding her children; but she clasped her arms around Young Rachel. “Oh daughter, daughter,” she crooned. “Is it so important to you, love? Your husband will be good to you. He will care for you.”

  “It isn’t just love,” said Young Rachel in a small voice. “It is the lack of choice.”

  Her mother sighed. “‘Choice is the breeding pool for temptation,’” she quoted, “‘and temptation is the spawning ground for sin.’”

  Young Rachel continued to cry.

  “You will become accustomed,” said her mother. “I did.”

  They held each other silently for another minute. Then both heard the approaching voices from outside.

  “Your father and Ruth,” said Old Rachel. “Come, there is food t
o serve.” She crossed to the stove.

  Aram stamped into the kitchen, clapping his hands together. “Cold!” he said. “The chill of Belesh is upon the land. Wouldn’t surprise me if it frosted any night now.”

  “I will pick the last of the tomatoes today,” said Old Rachel.

  Aram nodded agreement. “Good thing we got the apples in.”

  Young Rachel set down the teapot on the table. Casually, but without looking at her father, she said, “How cold do you suppose it is in the hills?”

  “Well, daughter, that’s hard to say.” Aram looked puzzled. “Being they’re closer to the sun, I’d guess they’d be warmer. Except during the night when it’s the moon they’re up near to—then I’d guess they’d be colder.” His face assumed an irritated expression at having been asked such a foolish question. “Have you got some good reason for asking?”

  “I was curious.”

  “Wasteful talk,” said Aram. He sat down at the head of the table and began to serve the food. Breakfasts were usually quiet, save for the sound of champing jaws and Aram’s running monologue in which he plotted out the course of the work day.

  “... if we can finish off the forty by the creek by noon, then I’ll send Joshua and Young Jedediah up to mend that fence—”

  “Father?”

  Aram frowned at Young Rachel. “Daughter?”

  “May I ask you a question?”

  “Is it more important than that foolish query about the weather in the hills?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Very well.” Aram used the respite to cram half a slice of crisp bread into his mouth.

  Young Rachel said, “When will the end of the world come?”

  Ruth giggled. Her mother hushed her with a silent look.

  Aram chewed contemplatively. After a while, he swallowed and said, “The Book tells us it is so.”

  “But when?”

  “Is this a matter of immediate interest?” said Aram sternly. “The end will come when the Creator sees fit. And that will happen only when sin has assumed the ascendancy.”

  “Soon?”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” said her father, “though there are those who think the demonic possession of Devon can be construed as a sign.”

  “Could it be?”

  “A sign? Elder Jubal told me that the madman Devon is more likely a warning from the Maker that piety is coming into precious short supply in Cypress Corners.” He ruminated. “Just look for yourself. You can see it all around. Order is becoming loosened. There are those who ignore the rules. Impious questions are increasingly asked.” Aram looked glum. “I knew it, I watched it coming for cycles. Nothing has come without warning.” He sighed. “I did not pray enough.”

  “Then perhaps the end is near,” said Young Rachel.

  Her father raised his head. “Why must you make my breakfast more melancholy, daughter? The harvest weighs heavily enough without adding the burden of world’s end.”

  She said quietly, “I am sorry, Father.”

  Aram returned to his food.

  Young Rachel said, “I beg pardon, but I have one more question.”

  Putting down his fork, Aram said, “What is it?”

  A pause, then: “How shall the world end?”

  “Don’t you know, daughter? I’ve read the prophecy often enough over the cycles.” He looked thoughtful. “The Creator has decreed it; Cypress Corners shall be destroyed in fire.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  While Aram and his neighbors harvested the wheat, while Elders Jubal and Micah and a small army of conscripted searchers combed the northern hills of Cypress Corners, Devon slept atop his hill in the south.

  The sun had risen into its first full frame as Devon reached the deer trail. The valley was fully awake before he gained the summit. The clear dawn air magnified and carried to him the morning sounds of animals and humans. He heard the clinking, metallic sound of calves nosing hungrily into grain buckets as though he stood there in the corrals himself.

  Once upon the hilltop, he climbed behind the screening brush. Devon wrapped himself in the dark blue quilted comforter and ate a welcome breakfast of cheese and bread and apple. He left part of the core and tossed it aside for the birds.

  It took only a few minutes to assemble a new bed of pine boughs. Still wound in the quilt, Devon lay down. Later, he didn’t remember even adjusting his body to reach a compromise with the contours of the pine bed. He fell asleep immediately.

  Old Devon strode up the hill, burning as he walked. The flames curled around his limbs, fanned out from the long dark beard, yet his flesh was not consumed. His son sat up from a deeper sleep and watched him come. Old Devon approached close, but there was no smoke and no heat.

  “Do not bend away from me. I cannot hurt you.”

  “I know, Father.”

  The old man sat down crosslegged, facing Devon. “It’s all very well that you’ve gotten back to Cypress Corners safely—but right now that’s a hollow achievement.”

  “I know that too.”

  “Micah will comb this land—he will let the balance of the harvest go hang—if only to catch you.”

  “But why?” said Devon. “I don’t threaten him. Now that I know about the coming destruction of the Ark, all I want to do is help.”

  His father said, “You can ask him that question yourself soon enough. My concern is that you live long enough to do something with the answer.”

  “I’ll live—if only to take Rachel away from here.”

  Old Devon smiled. “I wanted a spirited son. I’m pleased.” He stood and started back to the path. Over his shoulder, he said, “Now it’s all up to you.”

  “Is that all?” Devon called.

  The answer floated back from below the crest. “Love and friendship are handy, but count on yourself first.” The flames died away in the air.

  Devon awoke in plenty of time to watch the hands straggle in from the fields at sundown.

  TWENTY-TWO

  “I should hate to die in fire,” said Rachel, shivering inside the makeshift tent they had made of the quilt.

  Devon said, “The sphere projector assured me it would be very quick. Just an instant before we became ash.”

  “Just the same, I would not like it. What time is it?”

  Devon poked his head into the outer air. “Still at least two hours before moonset.”

  “I must return soon. I’ve behaved badly at home and I think my mother suspects.”

  “And Aram?”

  “Don’t speak of him. If he knew, he would be standing above you with a scythe.”

  Devon said, “If I fear any man, it’s he.”

  “Not Elder Micah?”

  Devon was silent for a while. “Him too.”

  There was another lapse until Rachel said, “Tell me more of the ship and the world beyond this one.”

  “What have I not told you?”

  She retorted, “That is something you should know, not I.” She lightly tugged his ears.

  “I’m not sure I can remember it all,” he said, “there was so much.” Devon lifted one end of the quilt again. “Look—see the stars?”

  “Of course.”

  “Watch them twinkle and wane, as commonplace as fireflies in the woods.”

  “I like fireflies,” said Rachel.

  Devon continued, slightly annoyed. “Think what it will be like when you see the real stars shining bright and steady.”

  “I think it will frighten me.”

  “But why?”

  “Your stars remind me of beasts’ eyes shining in the dark.”

  Devon said, “What beasts?”

  “The beasts of the hills.”

  He laughed. “I’ve found few beasts here, and the ones I did discover were all friendly. It’s the ones in the valley I worry about.”

  Rachel laughed with him. “The beasts are in the stories my mother told me, cycles ago. Little girls asked unwholesome questions and always came to a terrible end. I wo
uld dream night after night about animal eyes glowing in the dark, staring at me and never blinking. And I was afraid to ask questions.”

  Devon said, “My parents encouraged me to ask questions, until they died.”

  “I remember that,” she said softly. “Aram helped fight the fire.”

  “Everyone did.” He paused. “I don’t remember anything of that night. They told me I crawled out, almost dead from the smoke; and then they had to hold me because I tried to go back in. I must have seen the faces in the circle above me and known my parents weren’t among them.”

  “It’s true. Aram told us that.”

  “I remember nothing until I woke up the next morning on a hard bed in Granny Esther’s house. She pretended to be deaf because she didn’t know what to answer me. It took her an hour to tell me my mother and father were dead.”

  “I asked my father about the prophecy of fire,” Rachel said. “The one in the Book.”

  “It’s coincidence!” Devon twisted around. “The Ark is not going to plunge into the heart of a star. We aren’t going to die that way.”

  Rachel said seriously, “Can we really stop it?”

  “We will.” The words were flat. “We are going to find those who can help us, and then we are going to set the Ark back on course. We may never live to see the ship’s destination, but our children will. Or their children.”

  “Children?” Rachel said.

  “Children.” He kissed her with a tenderness that grew suddenly into something more powerful than either of them had anticipated.

  “Devon, I love you.”

  “Rachel,” he said, and echoed the words.

  “Tell me I am not damned for this.”

  “You told me it didn’t matter to you.”

  “And so it doesn’t.” She brought his mouth close again.

  “It’s getting closer to moonset.”

  “You tease me,” she said. “Do not throw my words back in my face.”

  Devon pulled her close then; their lips met and moved like live things. His hands brushed along her sides, made the barest pass across her breasts. Warnings, qualms, alarms; Rachel forced them back. Something steeled in her mind, as much simple resolve as passion.

  “This time,” she said, “shall I take off all my clothing?”