Phoenix Reborn (Woodland Creek)(2)

“I didn’t think I could make anything like this,” she said, staring in wonder at her own creation.

“You can if you’re inspired. Interesting, too, that you should have crafted a bird of flame. A Phoenix.”

“I don’t know why, even. It just sort of happened.”

“As I said, that is exactly the best way to create. This creature was somewhere deep inside you, waiting to burst forth, and now, in a sense, it has. And speaking of beautiful birds, do you know — I’ve heard that a rare Golden Eagle has been spotted in the skies above town. You should go out and look for him today. Go out and celebrate your success.”

“I don’t know. I have all sorts of work to do.”

“I’m your boss, if only in a very unofficial capacity. And I’m telling you that you have nothing of import to do. Come, if you won’t actually leave the house then let’s head upstairs. You spend far too many hours cooped up down here, young lady.”

“I like it down here,” she protested. “No one bothers me. Well, except for you, you old windbag.” Finally she laughed, realizing that there was no sense in resisting Ranach’s demands. He always won out in the end.

The old man let out a deep chuckle.

“Windbag. That I am,” he said, extending his hand to help pull her to her feet. “But how can you stand being enclosed in this prison for hours on end?”

“It feels safe,” Ashling replied with nothing but raw sincerity in her tone. “Not prison-like at all. Out there is the real prison. The people, the world judging me and condemning me.”

“They don’t judge nearly so much as you think, my dear girl. If only you knew how you are supported outside of these walls.”

He rarely spoke of it, of her trick of manipulating fire and heat. Of the fact that this was the only place where she felt at ease with her strange and uncontrolled ability. And yet Ranach had never seemed to hold it against her; he even managed to treat her as though it were simply a part of who she was, like the ability to whistle or do a cartwheel. How anyone could be sympathetic to a would-be arsonist, even an accidental one, was beyond the young woman. But she gladly accepted the kindness among all of his other generous gestures. Not the least of which was the fact that he’d taken her in as a child when her parents had disappeared.

The studio’s walls were concrete, as was its floor. Its ceiling was made of a fire-retardant tile, all of which had been a relief when Ashling had first spent time in the room. That was one appealing facet of the job: no risk of burning anything down. This was the one interior space in town in which a fire-starter could work without risk of arson. And no doubt the old man had taken that into consideration when he’d offered her the position of apprentice.

“I’m never going to be really good at this, you know,” Ashling said, looking at the firebird that she still held as her mentor towered over her. “I’m not talented like you are.”

“You have many talents. The only issue is that most of them are hidden, even from you,” said the man in the wise tone that occasionally convinced even Ashling that he must know whereof he spoke.

“Well, they’re not terribly useful talents then, are they?” she said. “I’m sure everyone has some sort of hidden skill that never rears its head, but they don’t do anyone any good if they remain concealed.”

“Yes, but yours may be useful one day, and in fact may save your life. You see your gifts as curses. But believe me, they are quite the opposite. One day you’ll understand.”

“What do you mean?”

Ranach looked at her from under his bushy brows and smiled, his eyes sympathetic.

“Nothing that can’t be saved for another day. But come, let’s leave this small hell and head upstairs. I want to be in the sunlight for a little, even if you don’t.”

He guided her out of their isolated bunker and up into the well-kept living room, which was filled with antiques that seemed to have come from every conceivable corner of the globe. A sunbeam poured through the window, highlighting particles of dust that flew up as the two proceeded up the staircase.

“By the way,” Ranach said, turning to her as his foot hit the Persian rug that sat in the centre of the floor. “In addition to soaring Eagles, I hear that an old friend of yours is in town.”

“Oh? And who would that be?” she replied, stretching her arms as she stepped into the bright living room. Friends were not exactly her forte.

“Hawke Turner.”





2





Ashling froze mid-stretch, her already large eyes widening. She hadn’t heard that name uttered in some years, though she saw it almost daily. In writing, everywhere she turned, on cinema marquees, in newspapers, online. There was no avoiding it.

Hawke Turner was the golden boy of Woodland Creek, a claim to fame of sorts for the town. He’d left when he was a teenager to pursue a career in film, and he’d made it with great success. In fact, Ashling had watched him a few nights earlier in a romantic comedy which she’d rented on pay-per-view, though she would never have admitted such a thing to Ranach or anyone else.

But long before Hawke’s career had begun, before the awful night that had changed everything, Ashling had shared a close bond with him. All their young lives they’d been classmates. And as a freshman in high school, Hawke had often sat with her outside at lunch, chatting with her, asking questions about her thoughts, her aspirations. He’d always seemed genuinely inquisitive, genuinely caring.