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When the Phoenix disappeared from David’s view, he wasn’t entirely sure if it had been because his reborn friend had flown that far away, or because the tears in his eyes obscured his eyesight. Afterwards, he decided it must have been more the former, after having heard the Scientist cursing at his target getting away, once and for all.
Surely some of those tears must have been those of happiness. His friend had been reborn, and had escaped a perilous situation safely.
But the Phoenix was gone.
The Phoenix was gone.
Would he ever come back? David had no way of knowing if the bird born from the ashes of the pyre had even recognized him. Was it possible that the reborn form would have any memories at all of his former life? And surely, if he was as intelligent as his former self had been, he’d stay well clear of the man who longed to capture him (or worse). He wouldn’t risk that for the sake of spending time with a boy he probably didn’t even know.
What was it the Phoenix had said? He had an Instinct. He had no need for memories of another life.
Almost certainly, he would never see the Phoenix again. Never go on another adventure to visit the fantastical creatures his friend knew. Never talk to his friend who, despite being centuries old, was full of life.
The feather the Phoenix had given him—that had changed from sapphire blue to pale gold—was perhaps the only physical evidence of his friend. One that he wouldn’t be separated from for anything.
Once made it back home safely, the tears that had been leaking out before now poured out in massive sobs. His mother, at a complete loss as to why her son was behaving this way, did the only thing she could: she held and comforted him until he was able to calm down.
Some days after the Phoenix’s memorable 500th birthday, it occurred to David that he should write out his adventures, lest he forget anything. This story of David’s adventures with the Phoenix was something he went back to again and again—not just to read, but also to remember additional details he’d forgotten about previously.
When he’d been gifted his first typewriter as a teenager, he assembled all of the handwritten pages to put together a narrative, double-spaced on letter-sized paper.
He’d hardly known what to do with it after that, until one evening he was babysitting his youngest brother, who was demanding a story and dissatisfied with all of the books David picked up.
In a moment of inspiration, he started telling his own story—but substituting his brother’s name in order to invest the child in the narrative. The first night he told him the story of meeting the Phoenix, then on subsequent evenings, the adventures of the Gryffins, meeting the witch, the sea monster, the banshee. The chaotic afternoon of the faun.
He didn’t tell the final story. He withheld the Phoenix’s birthday and the cinnamon pyre. That still hurt too much to tell—the stains of teardrops on the paper betrayed how much it still moved him, even as a teenager.
And yet his brother demanded more, so David invented adventures he’d never actually experienced. He told of visits to Arabian deserts and dealings with the djinn. Of visits to the frozen north, in the lands of mountain giants. Descending into the deep, deep caves in the secret parts of the earth, where dwarves delved.
At first, David felt oddly guilty for putting words in his old friend’s beak, but came to the realization that he was keeping his Phoenix alive in a way by telling the stories. Stories that might not describe something that actually happened, but stories that brought the kindness, the wisdom, the silliness, the occasional short-temperedness and all the other many qualities of his friend. Stories that might not be factual, but were true in a manner of speaking.
The stories (apart from that of the final birthday), he became willing to share, but the feather he kept for himself. For his own first birthday after the Phoenix’s final one, he’d asked for and received a locking chest, where the feather lay as his most precious treasure.
Wherever the rest of his life took him, the feather came with him. When he was in the navy, it lay in his footlocker, discreetly wrapped in paper. It followed him to university, and to the first shabby apartment he’d rented on his own.
He’d never shown it to another person—until he found one he trusted: his editor.
Robin was a bit more experienced as an editor than David was as a published writer, not to mention a few years older, but they worked well together. David would spin tales, and Robin would guide him in directions to produce the kinds of stories that publishing companies would buy.
One evening David made the decision to show Robin the original story of the Phoenix: the chapters that had actually happened. His editor chuckled a bit about the so-very-earnest style that 14-year-old David had written in, but was absorbed nonetheless. And for the first time, David shared the final chapter, the one that only he had ever seen.
When Robin reached for a tissue to wipe tears away, David knew he’d found the right person to share this part of his heart with.
“Would you like to see the feather?” David asked, not even bothering to pretend his story was a fiction.
“Yes. Very much so,” Robin said softly.
David fetched the locked metal case from a hall closet, inserted the key, and slowly opened it.
The feather had not degraded one iota in the intervening years: it looked as if it had just been freshly-plucked. The pale gold had darkened, slowly taking on a red tinge, matching what the bird itself must look like, wherever he was.
“It’s beautiful,” Robin whispered.
If there had been any one moment, that might have been the one where David knew he was in love.
Time flowed on, for good and for ill. Robin and David made a home together and both continued to work. Robin had helped David transition beyond fantasy to write in other genres as well: science fiction, horror, and finally to mystery, where he spent decades of his writing career.
He never entirely left behind his stories of legendary creatures in far-away lands: he sold stories to children’s magazines, to publishers of anthologies of the fantastical. He’d certainly never touched the fame of a Tolkien, but there was no envy there. Tolkien may be better known, but had Tolkien ever actually visited Middle-Earth? David thought not.
Their family grew: they adopted first one child, then a second. Each child was eventually told all of David’s adventures as bedtime stories, though he did keep up the tradition of changing the protagonist’s names to that of the child he was reading to.
When the child was old enough, they both were told the final chapter: one that David could still not finish dry-eyed. Robin would sit next to him on those evenings, holding his hand and offering a tissue to dry a child’s tender tears.
When they were old enough to know when to keep stories private, they were shown the still-darkening Phoenix feather. David was not sure if either child had had the instant belief that he’d experienced with Robin, but he decided it was okay if they thought he told tall tales or was even a tiny bit crazy: he was certain they loved him as much as he loved them.
No life proceeds without loss: when his father had died, David had felt emptiness in a way that he hadn’t since the day of the pyre. His father had lived to a ripe old age, but his death was a loss that would always ache. His mother passed a few years later. People told him that perhaps it would be for the best, since she wouldn’t be alone anymore. “But she wasn’t alone,” David thought.
Years passed and passed. Robin retired as an editor for other writers, continuing now solely as David’s. David’s own output slowed into his sixties and as he approached his seventies. As a younger generation reached adulthood, he suddenly found a level of fame as a writer he’d not experienced before: adults who’d loved his work as children would flock to conventions he’d been invited as a guest of honor, bringing their own children in their wake.
He’d give recitations, answer questions, and above all, sign autographs, often for adults with tears in their eyes about how much his work had meant to them. It was immensely gratifying, but also exhausting.
“I wish the Phoenix could see this,” he said quietly to his spouse. “Who says he can’t?” replied Robin, holding his hand.
There had been times when David would look at books of unsolved mysteries, looking for any sightings of a tall, golden-red, talking bird, but with no luck. Though by reading the books, he did learn that the Scientist had mysteriously disappeared in an expedition to hunt for Sasquatch.
The world never stops and certainly never slows down. David and Robin grew older and their children had children of their own. However, no one lives forever, and one day, Robin left David’s side.
The day after the memorial, David unlocked the case once more to look at the feather again. It had become a bright red, but his attention was caught by a note inside the case, written in Robin’s hand.
“Don’t be in a rush to follow me. There’s still life yet to be lived and people yet to be loved, and dare I hope, words yet to be written.”
And there were. He left fiction behind and now wrote poetry exclusively. Portraits of people, landscapes, adventures, describing them all in poetic meter.
He wrote songs without words. He couldn’t write music, but he could feel it, and that was enough for him.
Years passed.
Like the Phoenix, David realized near the end that he also possessed an Instinct. He was in bed recovering from a cold when he suddenly knew that he’d never climb out of that bed again. For the first time David truly realized how the Phoenix had felt so many years ago: no fear of what lay ahead, but sorrow for those who would be left behind.
He’d already made preparations, of course. His estate would be divided among his children and grandchildren. He’d written letters of farewell and thankfulness to all the many people he’d come to love: family members, comrades from every stage in life, publishers, fellow authors (some of whom he’d mentored), people he’d corresponded with from many countries, and people in his everyday life.
For a long time, he’d wondered what should happen to the feather—slowly turning a beautiful auburn color—after he passed. He’d entertained the idea of the feather being cremated with him, but imagined that it might well be fireproof.
Some years before, his youngest granddaughter had shyly passed him a piece of paper on which was written a story of a girl having a brand-new adventure with a Phoenix. It was obviously the work of a child, but had made him smile, and chuckle and even given him a sense of wonder.
David knew who he would pass this most precious possession on to.
The pain had stopped. Tears came to David’s eyes when he realized what this signified. He was on the other side now, and there was no going back.
“So I wonder what happens next?” he asked himself aloud. He got out of bed, his pajamas now hanging off him.
“First, get out of those old-man clothes, I think,” came a voice that was both familiar and not. There, smiling at him was a face he’d only seen in photographs: Robin, still young. “You’re here right on time.”
“In time for what?” David looked down to see his bedclothes change into a pair of jeans and a button-up plaid shirt.
“An adventure, of course.” Robin grabbed his hand and pulled him. “Come on, there’s a big bird here who just won’t stop talking about you.”