Phoenix Reborn (Woodland Creek)
Carina Wilder
1
Ashling manipulated the melting shard of silver, drawing it into a long, thin thread. The searing heat radiating from her fingertips softened the metal under her touch, the silver’s shape adapting to her coaxing as it altered alongside the instructions of her quick, deft movements. Carefully she twisted it round several times, creating a small, narrowing spiral in her hand. She pulled at one end, shaping it into a sharp point.
The project was one that she’d begun with no goal in mind, but now as she stared at her creation she settled on the notion that she was crafting a unicorn’s horn. Something mythological, non-existent; a fantasy of someone’s creation.
Yes, this was an excellent plan. Things that didn’t actually exist were inherently indestructible. The horn was symbolic armour that she wished she could wear on her own body to protect against hurt, against people, against judgment. Against everything. Ever since that night so long ago, she’d wanted nothing more than to find a way to defend herself. Maybe the horn could be a talisman against pain.
But no — a sharp object, of course, wasn’t armour. It was a weapon. One which could penetrate those who wished her ill. It was aggressive and hostile. And the fact was that if she ever wore it around her neck it would more likely injure her than anyone else.
She let out a quiet laugh at her own expense before dropping it into the ceramic crucible meant to hold molten metal, allowing the silver to begin cooling once again. Her mind began to wander to more pleasant avenues as she peered into the container. Perhaps, she thought, a heart-shaped pendant would be more likely to sell; she should really make some of those for the shop.
Somehow, hostility and silversmithing didn’t mix. This was a craft for those who enjoyed pretty things. If she’d wanted to make swords, she should have apprenticed for a blacksmith.
So she began again, this time moving slowly, her thoughts calculated as she used the silversmith’s torch to liquify the silver from underneath, as any normal human being would do. She slowed her mind and her movements to the pace she’d seen in Ranach’s crafting so many times over the years.
Where was he, anyhow? Normally he didn’t leave her alone for this long. He always seemed to sense when she was having problems and to show up in the nick of time to save her from a meltdown, whether figurative or literal.
“That’s looking good.”
And just like that, her question was answered. Ashling jumped, threatening to splash a little of the molten metal onto herself or worse, him. His footfalls were so quiet for a person with such a booming voice. “Yes, very good,” said the old man. “Except for the fact that it’s nebulous, shapeless and altogether quite useless. Now, perhaps it’s time to make something other than a blob. Come now, you’ve been down here for hours.”
She took her eyes off the metal for a moment to look up at him, her eyes flashing mock rage. As usual, Ranach’s long, white eyebrows and bushy hair seemed to stick out in every direction but the correct one, which always gave him the air of a mad professor. His messy appearance would have made him seem homeless but for the fact that he smelled clean, at least. Not to mention the intelligent look in his eye that always seemed to say, “I could dress nicely, but who has the time to bother with such frivolous business?”
Though some of Woodland Creek’s inhabitants found him a little too eccentric for their tastes, the general consensus had always seemed positive: he was a good, kind man and very helpful to anyone in need. So while dinner invitations were scarce, he certainly was well-liked, or at least well-tolerated. And no one questioned that he was brilliant. He was a master crafter. And Ashling, who knew how gifted he was, remained a mere student, and probably always would; or at least she told herself so on a regular basis.
“It’s only a blob because I started over,” she said, her voice sheepish as she eyed her small bowl of semi-molten silver. “It wasn’t working out.”
“Never give up. You can always find ways to change something unattractive into something beautiful,” he said. “Now, go ahead: do what I know you can.”
She began to pour the silver into a small round mould before he protested.
“No,” he said. “Do it your way.”
Ashling sighed and poured the remainder of the liquid into the palm of her left hand. It should have burned her, of course, but heat never had that effect. Instead, the silver began once again to cool as she sculpted it like putty, pulling it into thin strands.
“Access your mind’s eye,” Ranach said. “The first thing that springs into your field of vision is the very object that you should create.”
She closed her eyes and, blind to the world outside of her imagination, continued to manipulate the material, flattening, tugging this way and that. Her fingers seemed to know what to do, as though controlled by strings held by a master of puppetry. And so she let them go, steering the silver towards the shape that she’d seen; the creature who soared through her vision.
At last, she clasped a solid form between her fingers, delicate and thin. Opening her eyes, she anticipated seeing a mess of half-melted silver. But instead, she was greeted with the most beautiful object she’d ever managed to create.
“There,” Ranach said, backing away. “A lovely creature which transformed from nothing but your mind and fingertips.”