Phoenix Reborn (Woodland Creek)(8)

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 nail, 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.