Image "Secret Garden" by Anathematixs over at Deviantart
Pygmy was not the right word for the small phoenixes. They were not simply small, they were different. Fairies were one theory, another was great thinking owls, but that theory was convoluted, since it involved some method of shrinking the chicks coming from 18 foot wingspan owls and 10 foot wingspan phoenixes, while the pygmies had merely 8 or 11 inch wingspans. The pygmies also acted a bit more like fey than like the owls, playing tricks, following people around, and not being exceptionally serious. Fairy-Phoenix would have been a better name, but Pygmy Phoenix was the name given.
Claire knew a Fairy-Phoenix, and the two got along well. The Phoenix (for it was a kind of Phoenix, not a kind of fairy, being most obviously a Phoenix) came to visit her often, and sometimes she would try to trick the Phoenix, who was clever. Most of the time the Phoenix got the best of her, but occasionally she caught him off guard, like the time when Virflugalasir, who she called Vera, flew up and perched on her shoulder, and found himself unable to leave, caught in a magical trap Claire had placed very sneakily. They laughed about it later, but Vera had been fairly sore about it at the time. For his part, Vera was not an exceptionally easy Phoenix -- he played far more tricks on Claire, far more successfully. Sometimes they were dangerous or slightly destructive, but as they spent time together, Vera learned to play tricks without hurting Claire, and Claire learned to laugh off some of the less offensive tricks that had upset her before. Phoenixes and pigmy-phoenixes can, as you know, speak, and the two conversed often.
Pigmy-phoenixes, like any of the talking fey, keep secrets and are hesitant to share details about their lives or plans, but occasionally trust develops and they are able to, in some lesser ways, trust and be trusted by mortals. It doesn't happen often, but seldom are stories about those who are not different. Even realism courts characters with moral superiority, making them different. Claire herself had very little trouble trusting Vera, once the firebird learned to be kinder and less destructive, and she told him everything. She told him about problems with other girls, disagreements she had growing up, gossip, and while she was in the stage of life where that is very common, her troubles and love for the various boys who talked to her and courted her. Anything and everything else she could think of. The Phoenix, blessed with wisdom, understood, though many of the ideas were strange, or did not make sense. Although often Claire was wrong, either from the pygmy's perspective or from a human perspective, or both, the Phoenix could tell what to say to keep the girl growing and learning, and was a mentor of sorts. The choice of teaching her to grow up with human ideas or Pygmy-Phoenix ideas was a difficult one that Vera never made consciously, though he thought about it. In the end, his conflict made him choose a different thing each day, and the girl's thoughts were not as mutable as he expected, and she ended up simply being a bit more free-spirited and tricky, though with her luxurious upbringing, staying in the same place and planning came naturally, but those were not entirely anti-fey qualities, and high-court fey qualities were better than mortal qualities, or so Vera's opinion went.
Claire had grown into a woman to be reckoned with, and Vera was proud of her. At sixteen. Claire would be her own woman soon, and in court life that encouraged chivalry but also encouraged women to hold high ranks, Claire was doing quite well for herself. Vera was very proud indeed.
But Claire had not sprouted from the ground fully formed. She had a father and a mother, and they looked out for each other as a family, so when a noblewoman of a better court came, and asked Claire to be her replacement when she came of age, the family pulled up all roots, and followed the woman to the higher court. But phoenixes, even Pygmy-phoenixes, are proud creatures, and leaving one's home, one's nest, to travel with a mortal would be unheard of. Vera stayed, not bearing any ill feelings, but laughing away the girl's pleas that he come.
On the second to last visit, she had an artist paint them, singing softly with eyes shut. They were quiet, and it was quite a somber occasion. They were not sad, but they were melancholy. This was the path for Claire, the best path for her to take, and neither of them regretted or begrudged that path. Here was the place for Vera, the only place, and Claire had been around Vera long enough to understand. But they were melancholy. Claire took the painting with her and hung it on her wall once they arrived.
On their last visit, they wrote a song together, something they had always loved doing, and it was sad and it was sweet and the melody was one of their favorites. They said their goodbyes, and the girl left a woman, and Vera was alone again, and tried not to care. They had only been weekly or biweekly visits. They had not been close enough for it to hurt Vera. But he sang the song. He sang it so much, they asked him if a siren would rise from his ashes when next he fell. A ridiculous thought, to be sure, but it stung, though they meant it as a joke. Claire sang the song frequently, but never with anyone around.
Claire stayed away for quite some time.
She stayed away for quite some time indeed.
She was forty-three years old before she came back.
When she did, half of it was to see if he had ever existed in the first place. Humans often wonder, when they have seen something truly miraculous, if it actually happened. After some years they doubt themselves, that they are remembering accurately or that their ideas are corrupted by age or by thoughts they have had or held since the memory. It took her some time to find him. The bird flew around his area of the forest, proud of the time, nearly fifty years now, that he had been able to restrain himself. Pygmy-phoenixes not known for their tempers, but controlling one is a prized accomplishment among creatures who live in trees and impulsively create fire. Causing problems and tricking people and making them question themselves and wonder about things was one thing, but destroying your home by accident or lack of control was quite another.
He spotted something uncommon, a mortal, and flew to a spot he could watch her from. His interest piqued when he noticed the hair color and the dress, but the face was all wrong -- he was not used to watching people grow up. But then, of course, she started singing. The first song was not theirs, nor the second, but the voice sounded a little too similar not to be hers. Then finally, she said to the forest "you always were a stubborn one," and began singing again, and it was their song, and it was sadder, and as she drew close to the finish, her voice faltered, and she was unsure, but she finished it, looking around, and he flew up, and her entire face turned, and they were happy.
Claire knew a Fairy-Phoenix, and the two got along well. The Phoenix (for it was a kind of Phoenix, not a kind of fairy, being most obviously a Phoenix) came to visit her often, and sometimes she would try to trick the Phoenix, who was clever. Most of the time the Phoenix got the best of her, but occasionally she caught him off guard, like the time when Virflugalasir, who she called Vera, flew up and perched on her shoulder, and found himself unable to leave, caught in a magical trap Claire had placed very sneakily. They laughed about it later, but Vera had been fairly sore about it at the time. For his part, Vera was not an exceptionally easy Phoenix -- he played far more tricks on Claire, far more successfully. Sometimes they were dangerous or slightly destructive, but as they spent time together, Vera learned to play tricks without hurting Claire, and Claire learned to laugh off some of the less offensive tricks that had upset her before. Phoenixes and pigmy-phoenixes can, as you know, speak, and the two conversed often.
Pigmy-phoenixes, like any of the talking fey, keep secrets and are hesitant to share details about their lives or plans, but occasionally trust develops and they are able to, in some lesser ways, trust and be trusted by mortals. It doesn't happen often, but seldom are stories about those who are not different. Even realism courts characters with moral superiority, making them different. Claire herself had very little trouble trusting Vera, once the firebird learned to be kinder and less destructive, and she told him everything. She told him about problems with other girls, disagreements she had growing up, gossip, and while she was in the stage of life where that is very common, her troubles and love for the various boys who talked to her and courted her. Anything and everything else she could think of. The Phoenix, blessed with wisdom, understood, though many of the ideas were strange, or did not make sense. Although often Claire was wrong, either from the pygmy's perspective or from a human perspective, or both, the Phoenix could tell what to say to keep the girl growing and learning, and was a mentor of sorts. The choice of teaching her to grow up with human ideas or Pygmy-Phoenix ideas was a difficult one that Vera never made consciously, though he thought about it. In the end, his conflict made him choose a different thing each day, and the girl's thoughts were not as mutable as he expected, and she ended up simply being a bit more free-spirited and tricky, though with her luxurious upbringing, staying in the same place and planning came naturally, but those were not entirely anti-fey qualities, and high-court fey qualities were better than mortal qualities, or so Vera's opinion went.
Claire had grown into a woman to be reckoned with, and Vera was proud of her. At sixteen. Claire would be her own woman soon, and in court life that encouraged chivalry but also encouraged women to hold high ranks, Claire was doing quite well for herself. Vera was very proud indeed.
But Claire had not sprouted from the ground fully formed. She had a father and a mother, and they looked out for each other as a family, so when a noblewoman of a better court came, and asked Claire to be her replacement when she came of age, the family pulled up all roots, and followed the woman to the higher court. But phoenixes, even Pygmy-phoenixes, are proud creatures, and leaving one's home, one's nest, to travel with a mortal would be unheard of. Vera stayed, not bearing any ill feelings, but laughing away the girl's pleas that he come.
On the second to last visit, she had an artist paint them, singing softly with eyes shut. They were quiet, and it was quite a somber occasion. They were not sad, but they were melancholy. This was the path for Claire, the best path for her to take, and neither of them regretted or begrudged that path. Here was the place for Vera, the only place, and Claire had been around Vera long enough to understand. But they were melancholy. Claire took the painting with her and hung it on her wall once they arrived.
On their last visit, they wrote a song together, something they had always loved doing, and it was sad and it was sweet and the melody was one of their favorites. They said their goodbyes, and the girl left a woman, and Vera was alone again, and tried not to care. They had only been weekly or biweekly visits. They had not been close enough for it to hurt Vera. But he sang the song. He sang it so much, they asked him if a siren would rise from his ashes when next he fell. A ridiculous thought, to be sure, but it stung, though they meant it as a joke. Claire sang the song frequently, but never with anyone around.
Claire stayed away for quite some time.
She stayed away for quite some time indeed.
She was forty-three years old before she came back.
When she did, half of it was to see if he had ever existed in the first place. Humans often wonder, when they have seen something truly miraculous, if it actually happened. After some years they doubt themselves, that they are remembering accurately or that their ideas are corrupted by age or by thoughts they have had or held since the memory. It took her some time to find him. The bird flew around his area of the forest, proud of the time, nearly fifty years now, that he had been able to restrain himself. Pygmy-phoenixes not known for their tempers, but controlling one is a prized accomplishment among creatures who live in trees and impulsively create fire. Causing problems and tricking people and making them question themselves and wonder about things was one thing, but destroying your home by accident or lack of control was quite another.
He spotted something uncommon, a mortal, and flew to a spot he could watch her from. His interest piqued when he noticed the hair color and the dress, but the face was all wrong -- he was not used to watching people grow up. But then, of course, she started singing. The first song was not theirs, nor the second, but the voice sounded a little too similar not to be hers. Then finally, she said to the forest "you always were a stubborn one," and began singing again, and it was their song, and it was sadder, and as she drew close to the finish, her voice faltered, and she was unsure, but she finished it, looking around, and he flew up, and her entire face turned, and they were happy.
"The Pygmy-Phoenix's Song" Flash Fiction © Ben Clardy V
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.
No comments:
Post a Comment