Phoenix Reborn

by Carina Wilder

  While seeking Hawke’s friendly features in the crowd, she’d all but smashed head-first into a teenage boy called Jeremy, who’d been carrying a pile of wood over to the place where she stood.

  Ashling would never forget his words:

  “What are you doing here, Ugly?” he’d asked.

  “I was invited,” she’d mumbled quietly.

  “Well, I’m uninviting you. This party’s for hot chicks only.”

  It had only taken a second for Ashling to turn away, ready to walk silently back towards town. She’d find Hawke another time.

  It was when she’d taken several steps that the kid had continued his string of abuse.

  “Is it because you’re so freaking ugly that your parents left you with that crazy old man Ranach? Because I don’t blame them. I’d have thrown you off a cliff. If I ever have a kid who looks like you I’ll do that, then kill myself.”

  Ashling had spun around to face him. The reaction had been impulsive and sudden. And had she known for a second what the consequences would be, she would have found the strength to ignore him.

  But he’d brought her parents into it. It was one thing to mock her physical appearance, but comments about her parents were off limits. She never wanted to admit that the jabs stung her to the core, but the truth was that they did; like a knife in her side, twisting. She’d never known why her parents had left or where they’d gone, or even if they were still alive. But they were gone, and she’d felt abandoned, unwanted.

  In her pain and rage, she had simply stared at the boy Jeremy, who still held the logs in his arms, a smug smile on his face. Ashling could see how pleased he was to have hurt her. She’d felt her rage increasing to a fever pitch as she breathed deeply, preparing herself for something — though what, she didn’t entirely know.

  For years afterwards she would recall that for a moment she had wished Jeremy dead, her eyes fixed on those logs, wishing they would engulf the boy in flame.

  And that was precisely what happened. As though doused in lighter fluid they had lit up, setting his sleeves on fire before he’d had a chance to drop the wood. His eyebrows and a large portion of his hair had also managed to light up.

  But that wasn’t the worst of it.

  Out of the woods Hawke had come sprinting, a blur from between the tall trees. In front of Ashling and everyone else he’d thrown Jeremy to the ground to extinguish the flames that were threatening to consume the young man. Never had Ashling seen anyone move so fast.

  And never had she seen a look like he’d shot her in that moment, his eyes locking on hers, on her very soul. He was judging her; she knew it. How could he not? In that moment, Hawke had hated her and what she was.

  And everyone else had stared, too. Not at Jeremy, but at the girl who’d appeared to start the conflagration. Though she must have been standing ten feet away from her victim and though they couldn’t explain how, there was no doubt in their minds that she’d done it.

  She was a freak; a fire-starter. She was to be hated and feared.

  That was the last time that Ashling had been invited anywhere, accidentally or otherwise, unless one counted a few out-of-town dates during her college years. And though she’d been intimate with more than one man, she’d never allowed herself to feel deeply for anyone, fearful of the potential consequences of pain.

  Never once since that night in high school had she allowed herself to be truly hurt by anyone’s words. Never again would she allow cruel jabs to become another person’s weaponry against her. She would conquer this fire-starting curse if it killed her.

  But the terrible truth was that the incident in the woods wasn’t the first time. The fire had come once before that night. Somewhere in her distant memory she recalled the first incident, though she’d been almost too young at the time for the memory to carve itself into her consciousness, and for years it had seemed more like a dream than reality.

  It was on the day that her parents had disappeared that her powers had come to light, quite literally. Ashling was only a small child at the time, and it was Ranach who had taken her into his home, attempting to shield her from the pain he knew she would feel when he told her that her mother and father had left her with him.

  But no one could ever take a parent’s place, fulfill the needs of a lost, abandoned child. And so when he’d reasoned with her, explaining that they may or may not one day return, she hadn’t taken it well. She’d felt rejected, whether it was the truth or not. Unloved, unwanted. And there was no consoling her.

  Ranach had left her alone in the smithing workshop. To this day she’d always been convinced that he’d done it on purpose, that he knew what would happen after he’d shut that door. He’d even cleared out the finished silver pieces before leaving her to mourn in private in that stone bunker. Somehow he’d known everything, before she even knew it herself.

  And her mourning had been something to see.

  By the time the day had ended, the studio’s walls were tinted black with soot, every piece of stray metal in the place liquified. And Ashling herself had come out unscathed from the flames that had shot up around her as she’d cried out in hopelessness and anguish.

  The old man had never shown anger over it; only understanding and patience. He had never once asked her what happened. He had simply offered her a home, and later, a job. And so she’d promised herself never to ask him about her parents. Because he had become her family.

  But the day was coming when she would need to find out the truth.

  She’d have to break her promise.

  * * *

  When she returned from her walk she entered the gloomy, artificially-lit studio and sat down at her table, looking at the hunks of solid silver before her. As usual, she debated whether to melt it with her hands or with a torch.

  Ranach knows, she reminded herself. He knew what she could do. What she was. And yet he never said a thing. He accepted her, flaws and all. To him, she wasn’t frightening.

  But to so many other people she was a freak, worthy of nothing more than disdain. And at twenty-four years old she was lost. Was there a place for her in this world? Hawke Turner, for some reason that escaped her, seemed to think she was important. Intriguing, even. But why?

  She looked to her right, where an old mirror hung. On occasion she used it to try on the pieces of jewelry that she or Ranach had made. She assessed herself. What would she think, if she saw this person on the street? Would she assume the worst of her?

  Long, light reddish-brown hair trailed down her shoulders. Her bright eyes were round and inquisitive-looking, though she’d always thought them too large. Her lips were shapely, her skin quite nice. But it was the flaws that were highlighted for her, as they are to every young woman: her nose could have been narrower. Her eyes could have been blue. The list went on and on. But she wasn’t ugly, at least, though she’d thought of herself as an ugly duckling in her youth, hoping that one day she would emerge as a lovely swan.

  But ugly or not, a man like Hawke would never be interested in someone like her. She didn’t look like a movie star. She looked like an ordinary woman. More to the point, she was anything but. And Hawke had been there; he’d seen what she’d done. So he knew, of course, that she was odd, and that many of the town’s residents distrusted and disliked her. But perhaps his years in the spotlight had taught him to seek out the strange, quiet people. Maybe he liked the calm of solitude as much as she did.

  So — she was a freak of nature. And she would embrace it, at least for now. Taking one of the rounded pieces of silver in her fingers, she began to heat it, softening its surface. With her fingertips and nails she began to manipulate it, flattening the almost molten metal into a circle. She was going to make herself a charm. And maybe it would bring her protection and luck.

  Before long, she’d roughed out a replica of the Golden Eagle she’d seen earlier in the day, its wings spread in flight, face looking downward as though searching for its prey.

  With a small iron nai
l, she formed a loop and then hooked in a metal clasp. Then she removed the silver chain that she always wore around her neck; the chain which remained perpetually empty, a remnant of her mother. Years earlier, Ashling had found it in a jewelry box that her parents had left behind when they’d disappeared.

  When she’d threaded the pendant onto its length she held it up in front of her face, watching the eagle move in slow circles, showing itself from every angle.

  The eagle rivalled the firebird as one of the best pieces she’d ever made. It truly looked as though it were in flight, animated in its hunt. Perhaps her gift was in crafting flying creatures. Maybe her envy of their ability to escape earthly cares fed her talent.

  She hooked it around her neck, allowing the pendant to settle on her chest. This — her eagle — was now her totem, her protection. The golden flyer who’d come to visit from above. She hoped to see him again, and that he would stick around and keep her company on her solitary walks.

  4

  Inspired by her creation, Ashling headed out on another hike the following morning before work. Her eyes searched the sky once again as she climbed towards the Observatory in hopes of finding her lovely friend above.

  It was 7:30 a.m. and the air was crisp, the clouds painted with strokes of pink and orange as Ashling wrapped her arms around herself for warmth.

  Only a vulture occupied the sky, though, and Ashling had little interest in him. She always knew the large birds by their spread wing-tip feathers, which caused them to fly in uneven circles. It always made them look slightly drunk as they went, the wind rendering their patterns erratic. Vultures were vile creatures; gawky in flight as they looked for rotting flesh to eat. They made eagles look like champion ice skaters in their grace and poise — not to mention the fact that they often regurgitated rotten meat, which no doubt smelled utterly awful. Their stomach acid was so volatile that it could dissolve metal, let alone what it might do to human flesh.

  So no, the vulture was not what she wanted to admire at an early hour.

  Ashling wandered, her head crooked upwards as she hunted for her golden friend from the previous day. But her progress was abruptly ended when she collided hard with something. Her arms shot out, grabbing for whatever it was, convinced for a moment that somehow a tree trunk had moved into her path.

  With horror, she realized that she’d landed her palms on Hawke Turner’s stomach. She had only a moment to register how firm it was, how warm, before pulling them away.

  “Well, fancy meeting you here,” he said.

  Ashling’s eyes were on his, embarrassment written all over her face.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he laughed, grabbing her arms to support her. “You were just so focused on the sky that I stood watching you. I wanted to see if you’d even notice me.”

  “Clearly I didn’t,” she said, pulling away from his grip. Her voice was more hostile than she intended.

  “Ashling, I didn’t mean to make you feel…” He looked repentant for finding the situation amusing.

  “It’s fine,” she said, doing little to hide her own regret at her tone. “I was just surprised. I’m not used to running into people up here.”

  Hawke looked towards the sky. “This is the best place in town to scan what’s above us, in the day or at night,” he said. “And the sky is open, free of all the crap that goes on down here.”

  “I suppose that’s what appeals to me too,” she said. “It’s uncluttered. I like that.”

  “So tell me: what else do you like?”

  Once again, those deep eyes were taking her in, warm and inviting. Ashling studied him, assessing him. Did he really want a reply to such a question? Well, he’d asked, so she was giving it whether he liked it or not.

  “I like quiet,” she said. “I like seeing new things, beautiful things. I like when people have open minds. I like being alone, but I like to talk to someone who gets me.”

  “That’s a start,” he said. “And—” his hand approached her neck as he pulled her new eagle pendant away from her skin, examining it. “You like a certain sort of bird.”

  “I like many sorts,” she said, trying to ignore the tingling sensation where his fingers had grazed her chest. “I’ve always envied creatures who can fly and get away from everything. The ones who can see the world from above.”

  “It is pretty great,” he said, his eyes trailing back to the sky. “The sensation of it.”

  “Oh? Have you done a lot of flying?”

  “In planes, sure,” he said, pulling his gaze back to her. “I seem to spend half my life on a plane.”

  “Of course.”

  “So, did you get the things done last night that needed doing?”

  “Last night?”

  “You said you’ve been busy.”

  “Oh right, of course. Yes. I did some work at the studio. I needed to finish a project.”

  “Was it the eagle?” he asked, his fingers touching the pendant once again.

  “Yes, in fact.”

  “It’s beautiful. I’m impressed, Ashling. Truly.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Well, if you’re finished, that means you have some free time,” said Hawke. He smiled at her — he had the warmest smile, and she found herself wondering if this was just some symptom of being a talented actor. How could anyone ever trust a guy who’d won awards for pretending to be someone else?

  And once again, he was coming close to implying that he’d like to go out, without actually saying the words. Ashling found her hands balling into tight fists, waiting for what she hoped and feared might come.

  But Hawke seemed distracted a moment later as his eyes moved away from her, up to the sky, and Ashling’s followed. “What is it?” she said.

  “That vulture,” he replied. “I don’t like him.”

  He definitely wasn’t acting now. In his voice she heard something strange — a hostility, a change. As though he had a personal vendetta against the bird.

  “Neither do I,” she said. “But what’s your issue with him?”

  “I don’t think he’s what he pretends to be.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Hawke’s eyes moved back to her face and he smiled again. “Nothing, really. I just don’t trust some creatures. There’s often more to them than meets the eye.”

  “You know, you’re — more interesting than I expected,” Ashling said, letting her guard down for a rare moment.

  “I suppose I should be offended by that,” he laughed.

  “Not at all; it was meant as a compliment.”

  “Well, speaking of creatures with more to them than meets the eye, I want to hear more about you, Ashling. So I hope I can see you later.”

  “Me too,” she said. “I’d like that.”

  “Good. Good.” Once again he ran his fingers through the back of his hair, as though he were nervous, restless in his thoughts.

  “I’ll see you later then, Ashling the eagle-watcher,” said Hawke as he smiled once again — that irresistible smile — and began his hike down the hill. She watched him go, wondering how it was that two days earlier he hadn’t existed within the frame her life, other than as a man on a screen. Now she found herself calculating the hours until she would see him again.

  And after that would come the countdown until he would leave forever. In spite of her better judgment, that was the part that she feared most.

  * * *

  That day after work, Ashling wandered downtown, unsure of why she was doing so. Each time she was near Hawke, a cardiac incident seemed to occur inside her chest. Everything about him was setting her body into a series of excited bursts. Making her feel alive again, as though a great weight had been lifted off her shoulders and she were floating.

  And yet she reminded herself again and again that nothing good could come of it. He was leaving soon, for one thing. For another, even if he weren’t, they could never be together. That is, if a man like him could ever truly be interested in
a woman like her.

  But she admitted to herself that she was curious about the movie he was filming. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to go sneak a peek. He’d said something about High Street, and maybe the film crew would be out there right now. Maybe she could catch a glimpse without being spotted.

  The first thing she saw were large trailers set up along the road; white, nondescript units that might have held people or props.

  And then she saw him: Hawke, speaking to a couple of people who were dressed casually and had the air of crew members. For a moment she watched, noting that in the distance young women were gathered behind a barrier, also observing the handsome young man.

  He seemed oblivious or indifferent, however, ignoring them entirely while he chatted and laughed with his colleagues.

  Ashling allowed herself a few moments of admiring glances: how was it that such a handsome man was also so friendly, so seemingly kind? There seemed to be no pretense about him; he was all warmth and smiles.

  Finally she turned away, concerned that he’d see her and know that she’d been looking on just like one of the women who fawned over him. That wasn’t her style. Of course, her style was to lurk in shadow and to pretend she didn’t exist — which made for a rather shallow social life.

  “Ashling!”

  She stopped in her tracks.

  “What are you up to?” Hawke asked, jogging her way as she turned around.

  “I just came downtown to have a wander,” she said. “I didn’t realize you’d be set up so soon. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” In the distance she saw a few women, no doubt fans of the local star, staring at her, mouths gaping open. How? What? Why is he talking to her?

  “Well, come have a look,” Hawke said, ignoring them. “We’re on a break for a few minutes. Come see the set.”