Chapter 5: A Pyre by Christmas
That bird forever feathered,
Of its new self the sire,
After aeons weathered,
Reincarnate by fire
--Countee Cullen, “That Bright Chimeric Beast”
The last day of November was a Sunday, and her mother’s turn to take Grace to church. The week before, Grace attended her Grandmam’s church, and would presumably be back there next Sunday. The alternating system worked well enough for the adults, but Grace herself could hardly tell much difference between the two places. The Bible that priests read from was the same, the rituals were equally odd, and while the congregations’ appearances varied, they still dressed the same. Even if you spent the rest of the week in overalls, you legally had to wear your best clothes to church. Her mother and Grandmam agreed a blue-checkered dress was the best thing the girl had to wear. Grace just found it itchy.
At her mother’s church, Christmas was an especially important time, one celebrated the whole month. While the requisite manger scene would be displayed later for the outside public, it had been assembled indoors on Thanksgiving. Presently, statues of baby Jesus, Virgin Mary, Joseph, three wise men, and various barnyard animals including a llama found a home in an alcove to the left of the pulpit.
Reverend Stuff pointed all this out. “I bring this up not merely because the ladies of the committee spent hard work lugging the pieces out of our basement and would be furious if they didn’t receive a moment of acknowledgement,” he paused for a laugh that must have been running late, “but to also mention that of the three gifts our little Magi brought, two are authentic. Sorry, it’s not the gold. What we have is frankincense and myrrh. Can’t y’all smell it from here?”
Perhaps the prayers Mrs. Tatters, Ol’ Hoary, and the corvids made to the Morrigan had been fulfilled. Perhaps another holy trinity listened in. It did not much matter to Grace, because directly in front of her sat the rare substance sure to fix her phoenix friend’s injury. She started to grin, but quickly dropped it as Stuff continued preaching.
“Going near enough to smell these sticky, gummy incenses make it that much easier to imagine the people who lived two thousand years ago. Simply close your eyes. The birth of Christ is rightly the event we celebrate most, but there are other things worth remembering, things everyone here can relate to. Remember there were plenty other children in Bethlehem, innocents senselessly slaughtered on Herod’s orders. Victims of authority, laws bent not to safeguard communities, but to punish some for being born. Those poor babes of Bethlehem are tragically nameless to us, but they had families, right? Surely they were loved?”
This being a rhetorical question, the congregation was not expected to answer. Good thing, because they had none. Reverend Stuff continued.
“We can’t change the past, no matter how we might try to forget its worst experiences. We can keep similar crimes from happening here, now, so brazenly done because we’re expected to look away. Yes, even at Christmas, so many of our fellow beings go unseen. Invisible martyrs suffering while we are distracted by glittery lights.
“Hey, I love trimming the tree, too! Even with the pine needles. But we can also watch over those in our community who are vulnerable, helpless, and damaged. Even small sacrifices mean something, especially when those in power prove so terribly unhelpful. If we, the meek, fail to give what aid we can to those in even greater need, do we rightly merit forgiveness ourselves?”
Mrs. Grundy, who insisted on sitting in the same pew as Grace and her mother when plenty others were available, wrinkled her nose. “Well, that was needlessly depressing. What’s merry about dead kids?”
“I liked it,” replied Grace’s mother. “Well, ‘like’ isn’t the word. But I can appreciate what the preacher had to say. At the hospital, there’s always patients to keep the beds warm, children included. Too quickly, we have to send them back out on the streets, where there’s still more suffering. If someone could simply care for those kids before they came our way, it would save so much pain, especially the ones,” she side-glanced at Grace before whispering, “that don’t make it.”
Mrs. Grundy made a sound in her throat. Half-gag, half-choke. “Then you’d be out of a job.”
“I’d proudly find something else to do with my time.” Grace’s mother smiled, and Mrs. Grundy scooched down the pew.
As standard for a Sunday in the apartments, Rocky Ashcroft was blowing on his trumpet downstairs like the world was ending, and he would never get another chance to play. He called himself a “Renaissance man” three decades too late, which Grace took to mean “Bad music played loudly.”
The constant barrage of noise that late morning gave her a headache, but she focused on changing into overalls while explaining animatedly to Bennu what she had seen, heard, and smelled. With ends and odds, she put a sturdy cast together to replace the basic splint. But the phoenix’s wing remained broken. If anything, the injury grew worse.
Grandmam was at her own church, far outside the neighborhood, so Grace felt it safe to invite the Murder. All the crows arrived this time, including Ol’ Hoary, but Chiaroscuro lagged behind.
“What’s it like, this myrrh?” asked Ragamuffin. Her dark eyes were dreamy.
“Well,” Grace thought a moment, “it’s these red-brown gummy pebbles, and they smell kinda bitter. I don’t know why anyone would want to give it to a baby. Even the son of God.”
“Sounds like myrrh, all right.” Bennu had reacquired a bit of his chipper attitude despite the outlook of his injury. “The resurrection ritual seems the most straightforward way to fix my wing. Though, technically, I’ll be destroying myself. Not just body…but mind.” Without warning, he sunk under a mass of sighs.
“So,” said Mrs. Tatters, “we need to plan how and where we care for Bennu’s egg until he re-hatches and can continue his quest. Everything we do is surely part of the Morrigan’s will.”
“But how long should the hatching take?” asked Albumen.
“The egg I can take care of,” volunteered Grace. “I mean, I know you have more experience with incubating, but a firebird will probably need more heat than a crow’s bottom.”
Bennu nodded. “Indeed. You can simply set me on your oven. No later than a year and a day. I’ll have both hatched and fledged by then.”
Waif puffed out his chest. “We’ll have no trouble guarding the scroll. So, you don’t have to worry, Gracie.”
“Plenty of secret places we can hide it,” added Dusky, “Where the sun don’t shine.”
“This’s a bit like putting the car before the roadkill,” cautioned Ol’ Hoary. “First, what’s our plan to get ahold of these myrrh pebbles?”
“Steal it, obviously.” Chiaroscuro’s massive bulk now balanced on the open windowsill. No one heard him fly up. While not the first time the old raven visited Grace’s bedroom, she always felt a bit uneasy with his casual filthiness.
“That’s what I suggested!” mentioned Jackanapes.
“Stealing from a church?” Just saying the words dried out Grace’s mouth. “That has to be a sin as bad as murder…I mean, different kind of Murder!” she explained when she noticed Offal looking askew.
“I’ll never understand this aversion you humans have to stealing,” said Ol’ Hoary.
“Some humans,” clarified Chiaroscuro.
As Bennu and the corvids chattered, Grace had an argument inside her head. She did not just hear her own voice. There were the voices of her Grandmam, mother, father, even Reverend Stuff. On the one hand, you are expected to help those in need. Grace was always willing to fight other children who tortured defenseless animals. Striking at the Stymphalian bird with her uncle’s trowel felt much the same. She acted this way even knowing it might get her in trouble. If she were caught stealing the church’s myrrh, she would no doubt get in serious trouble with the adults. But was that as important as the trouble she would get in with God for letting the phoenix suffer?
“I’m sure,” said Grace, but not feeling sure at all, “Jesus will forgive us if we took the myrrh for ourselves. I mean, Bennu does need it more than anyone, right? To the rest of the church, it’s just funny-smelling rocks. If they want that, there’ll still be frankincense. What we’d be doing is charity. But like, secret. Jesus is supposed to see everything, so he’ll know we stole the myrrh for a selfless reason!” She peered at the ceiling. “I mean, right?”
No definite answer came from above.
“I don’t think there’s any other way.” Mrs. Tatters alighted to Grace’s shoulder, grooming the nape of the girl’s neck.
“Why don’t we give it a week,” said Ol’ Hoary. “Pray to the Morrigan, Jesus, or what have you. If Bennu isn’t better by then…” The father crow left the thought unfinished.
“It’s dangerous to my mind,” admitted Bennu, “but there’s a lot of good birds (and a dodo) whose heads will explode if I don’t seek a remedy for these spores. Nephelokokkygia’s resources are already strained, they won’t think to send out anyone else. The distance to Earth is too vast for anyone except phoenixes.” He fell silent, but turned his neck to gaze at everyone in turn. His eyes rested longest on Grace. “Thank you all.”
***
Next Sunday, Grace attended her Grandmam’s church. It was much bigger than the place her mother preferred, with a great domed ceiling. But no Christmas decorations. Bennu’s wing had not healed. Returning home, she surprised her parents by begging to also attend her mother’s church later that day. While official sermons were rare on evenings, any number of informal meetings were held in backrooms, some groups intended for children, others solely for adults.
“You know, I think I oughtta’ go, too,” said Grace’s father.
Grace’s mother raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“I…” Grace’s father began, “should make up for lost time.”
In the backseat of the beetle-black car, Bennu was invisible to Grace’s parents. Past the church doors, children easily separated from their parents. Adults knew they would be perfectly safe inside. While not able to turn invisible, Grace had experience going unnoticed, and slipped away to the main auditorium. At a glance, the room looked well-lit, but abandoned. While she offered to carry him, Bennu insisted on walking beside her. His steps proved uneven. None of the dancing from before.
Still, the phoenix and girl weaved through the pews without incident. Moving ever leftwards. They were mere yards from the side alcove where the nativity display currently rested. Only a couple rows… Then, Grace caught sight of a man sitting in the front row. How could she possibly have missed him till now? The man was positioned so he overtook the narrow margin they needed to pass to reach the display. He had not even bothered to remove his hat; which Grace had been taught was a very rude thing indoors. It looked like a black trilby.
“’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,” the man sang, “and grace my fears relieved, how precious did that grace appear, the hour I first believed…” With his back still to her and Bennu, he began speaking normally. “Hi there, Amazin’ Grace. Didn’t I tell ya’ we’d meet at a more convenient time?”
“Convenient for whom?” Bennu asked. Grace herself had gone mute.
“There’s few places on this side of the city where one can find half-decent myrrh.” The man in the front pew finally turned his head. Instead of eyes, there were flashing red fires. Nothing seemed to keep them lit. Not coal, nor gas, nor electricity. Mr. Aitvaras’ eyes blazed by their own power, with no almond shades covering them this time. “Cheaply, I mean.”
“So, this is the dark-suited demon so eager to meet me.” Bennu sounded brave. All his shaking must have solely been from his lopsided body. “You should know, my gold scroll is well hidden. A place you’ll never, ever find it.” In fact, the scroll still lay under Grace’s bed.
“Pffffff, I don’t care about your message.” Mr. Aitvaras paused to yawn. “Only the messenger. There’s a real killing in the exotic bird trade, but I see you’re damaged goods.” He clicked his tongue, almost sympathetically. “Don’t mind me whilst performing your little ritual.”
Grace crinkled her brow. “You’re not here to stop us?” She had finally found her voice, but had to look for it in a hundred different places.
“Not when it furthers my goal.” Mr. Aitvaras stood and, with a flourish of a hand, directed them towards the alcove. “Please, I insist you reduce this miserable creature to its pristine egg form. At which point, I will sell it to my mistress, and collect a hefty commission.”
While she hated doing exactly as the man-shaped demon told her, Grace led Bennu to the nativity scene. While they had to cross Mr. Aitvaras, they thankfully never came into physical contact. Sure enough, the myrrh was still there, in a ceramic bowl held by a plastic wise man.
Another statue held ‘gold’ that was clearly painted foil. The third kept frankincense, which could easily be told apart from myrrh. Frankincense was the same color as macaroni-and-cheese, while the incense Bennu needed was red-brown. With sweaty hands, Grace grabbed the entire bowl, putting it in the pocket of a winter coat several sizes too big for her. She previously hid a cinnamon canister in the opposite pocket.
“Psst,” Bennu whispered to her, “What if we take the incense and performed the ritual some other day?” In the plan they and the corvids had agreed to, a pyre was to be set up on a secluded area of the church grounds. They needed sunlight, though, and sunset was already well underway. Oh well, more sunsets could be counted on. The most immediate plan they needed was of the escape variety.
One thing at a time. Grace breathed. In and out. Slow and deep. She pivoted so her back was no longer to Mr. Aitvaras. Bennu was already staring him down.
Mr. Aitvaras remained standing, apparently engrossed in inspecting his fingernails. “So,” his voice slurred slightly. “You have a lighter, some matches, maybe? Of course, I could light the pyre myself.” He looked away from his cuticles long enough to inspect his pockets, melodramatically turning each inside-out. When all pockets came up empty, he snapped both hands, and sparks suddenly danced the length of his fingers.
“Haven’t you heard that playing with fire will get you burned?” Bennu’s head crest raised, his tail feathers shook. Grace figured this was a distraction. While Mr. Aitvaras was kept talking, she could scope out the shortest route to freedom.
“Ben Benny Bennu! (That’s what I’m goin’ to call you now.) You and I should know that old saw doesn’t apply to those who were born burnt.” Mr. Aitvaras spread his arms like a gesture of friendship, except for the flaming nimbus surrounding each hand. He took a step towards them, and another, then turned and pulled himself up onto the preacher’s dais.
Grace’s legs tensed. Ready for exertion.
Mr. Aitvaras slammed both palms down on the wood pulpit. It might as well have been kindling. Grace was halfway to the side door before she smelt smoke. Bennu managed to keep pace with her, but she veered in a different direction, to the confused squawking of the phoenix. Grace had no time to explain. She just raced to the first backroom where voices could be heard.
“…I just figure if you need anyone else to help with Christmas music,” Rocky Ashcroft was barely audible over the noise of his knuckles rapping on his silver-and-black trumpet case.
“Thank you, Rockefeller,” answered Reverend Stuff, “but our choir will be…”
“Reverend, reverend!” Grace must have screamed, because Rocky jumped. “A strange man broke into the auditorium, and I saw him start a fire!”
“What? I’m sorry child…” Reverend Stuff hunched over so they could be face-to-face. Then, he sniffed the smoke. “My God!” His head jerked to the ceiling, “Um, sorry.” Looking back down, he said “Leave here, Miss Grey. I’ll shepherd everyone out safely.”
Grace’s friends had picked a spot on the grounds within a semicircle of thorn bushes to conduct Bennu’s ritual. The nearest route took her past a broad, open room, where a mass of children were held under the supervision of one very tired teenager. Grace saw no reason not to stop and also warn them of the fire.
Bennu was patiently waiting at the bottom of the exit steps. The entire Murder, plus Chiaroscuro, roosted uneasily among the thorns. Huddling under the final lights of sunset, when pink-tinted clouds faded to a washed-out violet.
“By Morrigan,” exclaimed Chiaroscuro, “did you really need this big a distraction to get myrrh?” The old raven sounded strangely impressed. Even this far out, they could smell smoke.
“Not…” Grace tried to speak, though her lungs felt like they were burning, “me…Aitvaras!” This set the Murder in a frenzy, only intensified by the demon’s appearance.
Congregation members of every age were fleeing the church without reason or rhyme, but all subconsciously avoided Mr. Aitvaras. Even if it took them back into the path of smoke. The demon’s full-toothed smile reappeared upon spotting Grace and Bennu. More smoke belched from his mouth. The sheer volume of ash seemed greater than Mr. Aitvaras’ body weight. Like a balloon untied, he deflated.
With a hand still on fire, Mr. Aitvaras tossed aside his hat. The thin line of red hair Grace once saw grew into a full rooster’s comb. His deflating skin twisted inside-out, and he effortlessly slipped free of his black suit. The figure which stopped to carefully fold the clothes could not be called “manlike” by any stretch of the imagination, but might barely be considered a “thing.”
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
The best way Grace could describe it was a skeletal-thin rooster with a scaly snake tail the length of a whip. The plumage on its wings looked like they had been a hasty, messy tar-and-feathers job, and the wings underneath better resembled a bat, with clawed fingers protruding out. The heels of its feet had long black spurs. Except the blue blazes in its otherwise empty sockets, the demon’s dominate colors were crimson and black. Fire now accompanied the smoke which still poured from its serrated, bony beak.
Corvids fled from the figure, and Grace also backed away. Bennu, however, focused on using his short beak to tear through his cast. The broken wing hung just as ineffectively as it had for several weeks, but that could not stop him from trooping towards the demon. The phoenix’s rainbow tail unfurled, glowing in the sunset. When he decided to stand up straight, the purple bird was quite tall. Taller than the beast that had once been Mr. Aitvaras.
The phoenix sang notes from a song Grace once understood before falling asleep. Congregants once helplessly panicking across the lawn became calm without really knowing the reason why. The demon rooster flicked his whip-tail and reared to strike, but Bennu inhaled the blue fires right out of his sockets.
This version of Mr. Aitvaras—the true version—screamed. The streams of black smoke from his mouth and nostrils cut out. “Stupid little…you blinded me!” As the demon rooster flailed, Chiaroscuro dive-bombed him.
“What are you waiting for?” The old raven turned to the crows attempting to hide amongst the thorns. “A formal invitation from Lady Mondegreen?” At this shaming, Ol’ Hoary and Waif joined the fray. Albumen and Dusky were right on their tails. While smaller than Bennu, Mr. Aitvaras was still several times larger than all the corvids combined.
Mrs. Tatters pulled her three youngest chicks aside as the Great Mobbing War (as it would come to be known) broke out. “Now, you’ve all fledged, and I can’t make every decision for you—although I rightfully should—I feel this particular fight is far too dangerous for you.”
“Forget that, Ma,” said Jackanapes, who enlisted in the corvids fighting wing-to-wing. Mr. Aitvaras struck out with his whip tail, but in his blindness failed to hit anything.
“I dare say,” said Chiaroscuro, “we make much better allies than enemies.”
In response, Ol’ Hoary grunted.
Mrs. Tatters sighed. “At least one of you should remain with Grace while the resurrection ritual is completed.”
“Why, mom?” asked Offal.
“Because, genius,” said Ragamuffin sarcastically, “somebody needs to fly Bennu’s egg off to our hiding place.”
“Oh yeah. Where’s that, again?” Offal was left serving as backup to Mrs. Tatters, who made an uncharacteristically brutal attack on Mr. Aitvaras’ drooping red wattles. Though blind, the demon had just managed to clip Waif.
Ragamuffin helped Grace mix her cinnamon and the stolen myrrh in a rough circle. The empty bowl slipped from the girl’s sweaty hands, shattering. Bennu, still flush with heat taken from the demon, tried squeezing his body inside the circle without retracting the prismatic train. The tail put even the most magnificent of earthly peacock fans to shame, but more importantly, it caught the absolute last rays of sunlight for that evening, acting as a magnifying glass. The tall purple bird caught on fire.
This was no fire Grace had seen before. Certainly, it featured the usual range of yellows, oranges, reds, whites, and blues, but the pyre refused to limit its palette. Green flames danced in the conflagration, and purple ones, too. It was a rainbow, yet more. There were colors the girl had no names for.
Beyond color, the pyre also smelled wonderful, even to someone with a nose as sensitive as hers. All sweet, with no bitterness. Even at its zenith, the phoenix fire never approached the dangerous levels of heat like what was raging through the church. Honestly, it felt more warm than anything else. Safe as a bubble bath, or spring humidity with a mischievous breeze to temper it.
Bennu’s plumage turned from purple to charcoal gray. Body parts started falling off, reduced to ash that mixed with the cinnamon. For as long as he had a throat and a mouth, however, the phoenix sang, letting Grace and the corvids know he felt no pain from this experience.
The song heartened Grace, helping her forget the fear of Mr. Aitvaras. Without words, it attested to forgiveness for the guilt felt over keeping secrets from her family. It cancelled out the stinging dismissiveness she received from naysayers like Mrs. Grundy. It even mollified the regret building all year as she considering the prospect of abandoning her bird friends to attend school.
The phoenix’s physical presence remained hidden from the churchgoers. Nonetheless, the milling crowd must have understood something of Bennu’s strains. Even if, like Grace, they could not fully comprehend its magic. How else to explain the sudden improvement to their collective spirits? Where before, the prevailing attitude was “everyone for themselves,” now young and old alike helped guide each other safely from the smoke and fire, with none left in harm’s way.
Then, Bennu’s throat and mouth went the way of the rest of him. Grace could swear they had been last to turn to ash. With the song ended, she lurched back into what she considered the real world.
Aside from a small scorch mark on the already dead grass and a slight whiff of incense, no evidence existed that the ritual took place except the egg. Even in post-sunset’s navy blue, it glowed red. A perfectly smooth object, with a torrent of steam rising off it. The rainbow of flames had consumed the broken incense bowl.
Like the snap of two Lucifer matches, lights returned to Mr. Aitvaras’ sockets. The demon bird’s reptilian tail slammed into his bevy of opponents, crashing many corvids to earth, including Mrs. Tatters. Blazing eyes fixed on Grace and Ragamuffin. In the reverse of the process that turned him into a monstrous rooster, Mr. Aitvaras sucked up some ambient ash and smoke still hanging in the air. Enough material to reinflate his human form. While he unfolded his now-sullied suit, Grace picked up the phoenix egg. She immediately dropped it, and was left staring at her burnt palms.
“What did you expect?” Ragamuffin tried joking, even as Mr. Aitvaras stalked their way. The young crow plucked the steaming egg, and, while she winced with pain, at least managed to hold on longer than Grace.
The humanoid Mr. Aitvaras crossed the distance to the semicircle of thorns. He leaped at Ragamuffin, but the fledgling flew beyond his grasp. She could not fly much higher, though. The egg was easily half her body weight. The demon turned on Grace, slashing in her direction with claws tipped by fire.
Grace tripped into a thorn bush, and screamed, “Guys! Help me!” Some confused churchgoers turned her way. At Grace’s cry, Mrs. Tatters was first of the birds to rise from the ground. The mother crow nudged Ol’ Hoary, who spotted his only daughter sinking under the weight of a phoenix egg. Ragamuffin now drooped low enough that, if he wanted, Mr. Aitvaras could simply snatch her up.
The phrase “second wind” is employed so often in writing as to be less than inappropriate for use here. Besides which, it was not a wind that struck against Mr. Aitvaras from all sides, but rather a second storm of beaks, claws, and loose feathers. The demon had just pried Bennu’s egg from Ragamuffin’s burnt feet when Grace ran right into him.
This time, the girl kept from dropping the egg. As Ragamuffin perched on her shoulder “Because my wings are tired” as the fledgling put it, Grace handed the (slightly less volcanic) object to Chiaroscuro.
Turning it into a game, as he did with most things, the old raven tossed the egg to Jackanapes, who then passed it to Waif. When he, in turn, could not withstand any more burns, he pawned it off on Offal, who gave it up to Dusky without much fuss. While one corvid always had a grip on the egg, the others struck against Mr. Aitvaras, tearing and ripping his suit, to Grace’s audible encouragement. No matter how scratched he became, though, the demon never bled. Only dull ash seeped from his wounds.
With a grimace of wide teeth, Mr. Aitvaras called a fireball into his hand, throwing it at the current carrier: Albumen. Grace said to watch out, and the eldest son got well clear in time.
“This has gone far enough.” Grace put her hands to her hips, but mostly to wipe her burnt palms on the folds of her dress. “Mrs. Tatters, Ol’ Hoary, you guys should scatter! To where it’s safe.” She waved the corvids off, and they did just as she encouraged. The girl was now the only one left in her party.
Mr. Aitvaras stooped to pick up his hat, then grabbed Grace by the front of her dress, trying to lift her up. The churchgoers who managed to escape the fire which still refused to be put out shifted their attentions to the struggle. As when Bennu fought the metal bird, Mr. Aitvaras must have forgotten to keep himself unseen in all the commotion.
“What are you doing there?” asked a cop. Grace looked to see it was Officer Finn Murphy from the library the other day.
Mr. Aitvaras looked up, and his white blazing eyes went wide. “Er, aha! I caught the little brat who started this fire.”
“That’s not true!” Grace struggled out of the demon’s grasp.
“Oh ho, then why are your hands all burnt?” Mr. Aitvaras grabbed the girl’s wrists and forcibly showed her palms to the officer.
“Now, you couldn’t have started this big fire, right miss?” Officer Murphy smiled at her. He acted much less rude now they were no longer total strangers. “You,” he turned to Mr. Aitvaras, who received no smile, “with that suit, I reckon you must be some sorta G-man.”
“Yes, yes, something like that,” Mr. Aitvaras said with a dismissive wave. “I have official government business here, so you just go…”
“What’s your name, sir? So I can add to my report.” Officer Murphy took out a pencil stub and pad of paper.
“People call me Mr. Aitvaras, but I insist you not write about me!”
“‘Aitvaras?’ Never heard that name before. What is it, Russian?”
“Lithuanian, actually, now get out…”
The policeman’s eyes narrowed. “Soviet, then? What are you really doing here, and why would a church-burning interest the feds?”
While newly visible, no comments were made about Mr. Aitvaras’ burning sockets. Apparently, part of his disguise still held up.
“Charitably, stranger, you must be mistaken,” said a nearby bystander, who turned out to be Reverend Stuff. “This girl’s a hero. She warned us all about...” he gestured widely to the flames now licking at the steeple. No firefighters had made it yet to their side of town.
“No lord, that child has a jumbie in her!” Mrs. Grundy, her white wool coat covered in ash, butted into the argument. “Those burns on her hands probably came from playing with matches. Let’s hear this G-man out. If we don’t trust our government, who else can we?”
“I trust my eyes,” Rocky Ashcroft held a half-melted trumpet. “Reverend’s right. I was there when Gracie warned us all, and she also said it was a stranger started the fire.” He squinted at Mr. Aitvaras.
“You don’t know this child like I do, Rocky.” Mrs. Grundy wagged her finger every which way. “Did you not see her just now? She controlled that flock of blackbirds, directing them to rip this poor visitor’s suit.”
“They were corvids,” Grace mumbled.
“Sure, I saw some birds acting up,” Rocky Ashcroft put down his trumpet. “But they probably just went crazy ’cause of the fire. The idea anyone can ‘control birds’ sounds like the work of an active imagination.”
“No one’s ever claimed I have an imagination of any sort,” Mrs. Grundy poked the much taller man in the chest with a skinny finger. “Don’t you be the first to insult me that way. She’s got the devil in her. Always sticks to herself, mumbling at birds. No wonder all other children steer clear of her. I hear the schools won’t even accept her, when she’s well past the age she should have started.”
A crowd of people Grace thought she knew gathered around, glaring at her and making reproachful comments, not caring whether they were overheard. Some nodded along to Mrs. Grundy’s accusations. More than a few young people snickered.
“For the love of Jaysus, Saba, shut your stupid mouth for once in your worthless life!” Grace’s father muscled past the crowd till he was looking down at Mr. Aitvaras. “Hey, get your ashy hands off! My! Daughter!”
Immediately, the demon’s claws dropped to his sides. Grace had never seen her father so angry. It frightening her to extremes. Nevertheless, she ran into his arms. Her mother pushed her own way through the crowd. “Are you okay, baby?”
Grace started to nod, but then the sound of sirens blasted down the street. Between the flashing firetruck lights, the heat and smoke that filled her lungs, and the sheer stress of the last hour, her body gave up on taking it all in. She fell to the ground, shutting her eyes and sticking her fingers so deep in her ears they must have grazed her brain.
Her father helped her back up. A firefighter motioned for the crowd to quickly—yet, somehow, also orderly—move to the far right of the building while they brought out hoses. Mr. Aitvaras rushed over and shook the fireman by his shoulders.
“What you really should do is arrest that girl before she burns down another building.” Mr. Aitvaras hooked a clawed thumb at Grace, and with his other hand pointed to random faces in the crowd. “It could be any a’ your homes next!”
Mrs. Grundy clapped until Grace’s mother gave her a look far outstripping the venom Chiaroscuro’s evil eye held.
Despite the situation, the firefighter chuckled. “You’re telling me a little girl started this whole blaze?”
“Yes, fool, that’s exactly what I’m saying.” Mr. Aitvaras smile seemed to have turned off permanently. His face locked into a bird-beaked sneer. “It might seem ridiculous, but you should know to never trust a nig—”
Whatever way Mr. Aitvaras might have finished that sentence, he was cut short by Grace’s father punching him square in the face. Then, he grabbed the demon by the front of his black suit, tossing him onto the street curb. But when the man moved to kick and pummel him some more, his boot only hit a metal grate. Mr. Aitvaras had vanished. Not one speck of ash or whiff of smoke testified to his former presence.
In the odd lull that followed, a woman stepped out the passenger seat of the same firetruck which continued to give Grace a headache. Her face could only be described as wooden, with tan skin and a thick jaw. Like Mr. Aitvaras, she wore a suit, but a dark green one.
“What are you, another G-man—er, woman,” asked Officer Murphy. He picked up the pencil stub he dropped on the lawn.
“Women have been part of the CIA since its founding.” The woman’s tone stayed neutral, displaying no offense at the policeman’s presumption. “I have a badge, don’t I?” And she did, pulling it from her blazer pocket in one fluid motion.
“Er, Agent Mallory Grammery.” With few streetlamps, and firelights being extinguished, Officer Murphy had to squint to read the blue-and-gold badge in the evening dark. “So, CIA and the FBI in one place. What’s really going on?”
“Enough from you.” Agent Grammery spoke at a clipped pace. “I came because I meant to locate an individual calling himself Mr. Aitvaras. Since he appears to have smoked out, I’ll settle for an interview with this girl he seemed so interested in just now.”
“I hope that’s code for arresting her,” said Mrs. Grundy. “I’ve half a mind to press charges mys…”
While not as dramatic as the beating her father gave Mr. Aitvaras without realizing his true demonic nature, Grace’s mother managed to cut their neighbor short with a slap to the face. She turned to Agent Grammery. “My daughter might be a little different, but I know she can’t be mixed up in tonight’s tragedy.”
“That I will determine in time. Till then, go home Mrs. Grey. Your family, too. Stay there until I call. It might not be safe out here for you.” If Agent Grammery meant this as a warning, it came with her same flat affectation.
“How did she know our last name?” Grace’s father later wondered from the driver’s seat of the beetle-black car.
***
Waiting proved worse than pain. First thing upon getting home, Grace checked under her bed. The gold scroll was gone. In fact, no traces of Bennu were present in the apartment. While several coatings of ash made it a good idea to wash up, she and her parents were so exhausted they went to bed in the same clothes they had worn to church.
Grandmam was shocked on hearing the details the next morning. The situation felt so traumatic, Grace’s mother cancelled her next few shifts at the hospital, which she never did. Grace’s father also did not go to work (whatever that was) as he kept expecting a mob led by Mrs. Grundy to break down the front door and attempt to burn his daughter as a witch. Until then, he spent a great deal of time polishing silverware, particularly the knives. While she previously agreed to incubate the phoenix egg on her apartment stove, none of Grace’s corvid friends came. She felt too tired to visit their hollow herself.
Agent Grammery eventually arrived wearing the same green suit. However many days since the fire, none of the Greys kept track. It had been more than two, at least, but probably less than a week. They all had showered, finally getting the persistent reek of smoke off them. Grace had no idea why she was being made to sit with the woman. Between them on the kitchen table was a hefty stack of files. The only thing she took comfort in was Mal Grammery’s eyes were clearly visible. Brown, the same wooden pigment as her skin. The woman seemed human enough.
“I’ll tell you a secret,” Agent Grammery started, “but only if you’re not a tattletale. They make the worst spies.”
Grace did not respond.
“You’re right,” Agent Grammery continued, “it’s better if you start telling me your secrets. The criminal calling himself Mr. Aitvaras—it would be inaccurate to call him a man—has proved very hard to catch. I only ever arrive in time to find embers of the places he burnt. I’ve rounded up as many witnesses to the church arson as I can, Miss Grey. Most were happy to talk. A Mrs.…” Mal Grammery rifled through a file, “…Grundy was rather excited to discuss you and your alleged relationship to birds. It seems you are no mere witness, as I was originally led to believe. More important, though, is what you believe. Do you ever hear things?”
“Yes, lots,” was the first thing Grace said so far. “Traffic noises, people talking, sometimes music.”
“You might not be so educated yet, but my understanding is you’re not dense.” Agent Grammery pursed her lips, but had no trouble speaking through them. “Let me be more specific. Do you believe you hear things no one else can? Things talking which rightly shouldn’t, for example. Are you, then, privy to information others would kill for? Have you at any point in the past seen things other people would call impossible? Do you ever feel like you’re going crazy?”
“No,” Grace answered definitively.
“Is that no to all my questions or just the last?” asked Agent Grammery.
“Yes,” Grace responded simply.
“You’re a willful one, Miss Grey. A virtue in any American. To an extent. At some point, you must fall in line with what you’re told, and while its preferable to choose to follow authority, that might not be possible in the near future. I say this because Mr. Aitvaras was involved in smuggling a dangerous substance into this country. It is organic, affecting the minds of those it comes into contact with, making their minds almost supernaturally susceptible to manipulation.”
At this, Grace started involuntarily from her seat. Sounds like the spores in Bennu’s city.
If Agent Grammery noticed the shift, her body language did nothing to let on. The woman’s face remained staid. As if genuinely carved from wood. “Think if our country’s enemies found a way to weaponize this substance. We must beat them to it. It would make the difference between a victory for our way of life and a nuclear war. The substance mustn’t fall into the hands of any foreign nation. Have you heard anything about it?”
Grace imagined what a demon like Mr. Aitvaras could do with spores that make bird’s heads explode. If Agent Grammery was Mr. Aitvaras’ enemy, Grace should help her, right? Yet, the woman seemed to have her own intentions for using the spores, which were too dangerous for anyone. “This…substance,” since the Agent had not directly mentioned a fungus, Grace did not either, “can it be cured?”
“Care to find out?” Something shifted in Agent Grammery. She no longer looked like a woman with wood-colored skin. Now, she was a hollowed-out tree trunk, carved in only the most rudimentary shape of a person! Stray twigs and moss poked out unevenly.
Grace leapt from her chair. If Mr. Aitvaras had empty sockets full of fire, this second version of Agent Grammery had holes plunging straight through her head. Suddenly, breathing became very, very hard, and the girl’s knees knocked together.
“Well now. I guess you can see the impossible.” The figure carved from a hollow log suddenly left the premises. Instead, there was Agent Grammery in her green suit. “Even if you can’t hear it. That means we’re getting somewhere.”
Grace was excused to her room as Agent Grammery—whatever she might actually be—insisted on talking to her parents. Instead of going to her own bed, she curled up with her Grandmam, held in the old woman’s thin, wrinkled arms. While hardly late in the evening, it was still well past supper time. Good enough time to fall asleep as any, if she was not still in a dream which started with seeing a phoenix. She was on the edge of sleep when she overheard a great shouting from the kitchen.
“You know what that word originally meant, Mr. and Mrs. Grey?” Agent Grammery spoke loudly, but calmly. “A place pilgrim found safety.”
“Look, I work in the medical profession,” Grace’s mother shouted in a thoroughly uncalm manner. “I know what asylum means now. It doesn’t matter what it used to mean. It’s Bedlam now.”
“Which comes from ‘Bethlehem.’” Agent Grammery’s bland intonation indicated she was explaining something to a toddler. “Regardless, what I’m proposing is more like a school than anything else, no matter its architectural origins. A place for girls who don’t fit in, who would be pariahs if left without the proper guidance.”
“I think my girl’s fine the way she is!” yelled Grace’s father.
“Anyone can improve with education, Mr. Grey. It’s not a punishment unless you view it in that state of mind. Consider the benefits. The Institute provides free counseling to residents, and you’d have to be blind, dumb, and deaf not to see your child is presently haunted by something serious. It’s in a peaceful location, way in the countryside. Far, far from the site of the church arson and controversy still burning around that incident. Have you checked the newspapers recently? The community wants answers, same as the government. The main difference is your community also wants blood. The prime suspect’s nowhere in sight, so the regular police force might like words with the person sighted nearest to him by multiple witnesses.”
“That a threat?” The voice of Grace’s father had grown quieter, yet somehow it made him sound even angrier.
“Think about what I have to offer, Mr. and Mrs. Grey. I’ll return tomorrow to see whether you’ve come to your senses, or whether the church catastrophe gets the scapegoat your own next-door neighbor continues to push for.”
Grace had left the warmth of her Grandmam’s bed to better eavesdrop. Now she solely wished to drift back into unconsciousness. The girl had a rough time of it. Grandmam woke her up at exactly 7 A.M. Back to routine, it seemed. Breakfast seemed to go normally until her father put a hand on her knee.
“Baby, you’re going to have to go away, to this…place.” He spoke like he was trying to swallow a jagged boulder. “Just for a while, we hope. You remember the movie Harvey I took you to?”
Grace nodded. “You mean the one where Jimmy Stewart was forced into a loony bin because of a giant bunny.”
“Er, yes. But you’re no loony, Gracie. Just a bit confused. Th…the place you’re going to, I think it’ll look like that place from the movie. It’s all girls there, around your age. Government run, or related to them somehow.”
“It’s away from the city,” pitched in Grace’s mother. “But we’ll still be able to visit. We’d never agree to this if we thought we’d never see you again. I want you to be brave. No matter what happens. Can you do that, baby?”
“I can be brave, mom.” Grace thought of all the times she faced down Mr. Aitvaras. Sure, Agent Grammery surprised her by turning into wood, but that was all. The girl had nothing to be scared of. Not when wood could burn. If only she still had phoenix fire.
“Whatever happens, we love you, Gracie.” Grandmam doddered over to her, needing to balance on a cane. The old woman held the girl to her breast, stroking the curls in Grace’s hair for the longest while. “We love you to the moon and back.” Their moment should have lasted forever.
But there was a knock at the door.