Chapter 2: The Man with Blazing Eyes
“Oh come, thou dear infant! oh come thou with me!
For many a game I will play there with thee;
On my strand, lovely flowers their blossoms unfold,
My mother shall grace thee with garments of gold.”
--Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, “Erlkonig”
Morning began as it always did, at least as long as Grace could remember. Her grandmother woke her up at 7 A.M., having—in the strange style of the elderly—already been awake several hours. A bowl of scalding hot porridge sat on the dining room table. While waiting for it to cool enough that it would reasonably not melt through her tongue, the girl’s attention was drawn to the shaky, inconsistent, but loud bathroom showerhead. It was always Grace’s mother in there, who rushed out in a white towel and returned from her bedroom in an equally white nurse’s uniform.
She would wait in the hallway then, fidgeting in a way that showed the woman had forgotten something. Then, she snapped her fingers, retreated to her bedroom, and emerged with Grace’s father. He would invariably be in the middle of putting on a suit and tie, missing buttonholes because his eyes were half-closed.
While this occurred, Grace would blow on what honestly started out as lava. Why her grandmother cooked it so hot in the first place was moot. The porridge cooled eventually.
Crossing to the table where the girl already sat, her father would stub at least one toe on any of the innocent chairs, couches, tables, shelves, walls, books, trash bins, or persons that might find itself in his path. This partially did the job of waking him up.
Grace’s mother watched this with amusement while peeling an orange, but paused to slide a mug of black coffee over to him once he finally sat down. This might finish the work the stubbed toe(s) started.
At the point her father started pouring sugar into his cup, Grace knew she could safely eat her porridge without catching on fire. Catching fire, she thought. Why’s that sound familiar? Like most stray thoughts that come in the morning, the idea slipped away without much fuss.
“You’re sure you don’t want sugar with that?” This was always the first thing Grace’s father said to her in the day.
“No dad, it’s fine plain.” And it was. Grace’s taste buds reacted poorly to any flavor they happened to consider extreme, which counted a great many things. Sweet, salty, spicy, savory, or the sick, booger-taste of phlegm. The amount of sugar her father considered acceptable lay far to the extreme end.
“Eh, more for me,” was his consistent response. Though he never laughed, the family knew it to be a joke. An attempt at one, at least. The whole conversation took place while sugar still poured into his coffee. It was now no longer black. Or liquid, for that matter.
“That’s plain unhealthy,” mentioned Grace’s mother. This was not part of the expected routine. “Why doncha’ try something else, for once?”
“Maybe you’re right,” Grace’s father answered in his droll tone. “Mam, we have any cinnamon in the cabinet?”
That is what he called his mother. “Mam” instead of “Mom”, “Mama”, or even “Mommy”, all three of which Grace used, as she was told it was rude to call her mother by her first name. The girl was not sure why they had to use different words, but the elder Mrs. Grey had come to America from across an ocean. Though she had carried little, she could at least bring her language. It proved light enough luggage.
Following from this, the old woman insisted on Grace addressing her as “Grandmam.”
After riffling through the cupboard, she came back victorious with a can of cinnamon. She threw it at her son—which he nearly failed to catch—then continued milling about the home. Grandmam must have eaten at some point, but Grace was never awake to see it.
When Grace’s father experimented with adding cinnamon to his sugar-with-coffee, the smell of the spice awakened a memory in her. Vague, but involving lots of heat. That must just be the porridge in front of her. Why cinnamon, though?
The thought hung around as the family finished their morning meal. Grace embraced each parent in turn before they went to their separate jobs. Her mother’s occupation was clear, but a generic suit gave little clue as to what her father actually did. Probably something dull.
Left alone, Grandmam insisted on prayers, which the girl duly sat through. Finally left to her own devices, she switched from nightclothes to overalls so patched and old no adults cared how dirty they might get. A good thing for Grace.
She tore down four flights of stairs (each of which had sixteen steps—which she knew because she counted each individually) to the ground floor of her apartment complex. Then, the streets of her city. “Her city,” not because she thought she owned it exclusively, but because it was the only one she knew. A million other people also lived in the city, and all seemed to be out on the sidewalk. Maneuvering through the heavy crowd, she carefully avoided eye contact with anyone, steadfastly keeping her gaze to the ground.
The basic thinking went, if she never locked eyes with other humans, they would do the same courtesy and leave her alone. Some folks—usually other children—utterly failed to understand this rule, which bothered her like nothing else. If she never went out of her way to bother others, they should not stoop to bothering her. That made sense.
Grace had also built experience when it came to tuning out the distracting noises any good-sized city is required by law to make during the day and even into night. She could, however, selectively eavesdrop on the entertaining arguments held by the half-feral pigeons. They perched in masses on any building they could poop on, and thus claim for their own.
Postmaster Crumb’s familiar boom traveled farthest. “I tell you; those postal routes are no good at all. No good, I say! You’ll no doubt find yourself stuck in traffic.”
“But would car traffic really stop us when we can fly anywhereabouts?” asked a pigeon less familiar to Grace.
“Um…” the Postmaster’s boom became a low mutter.
Only a few streets over, the girl returned to her friend’s park. Grace realized she could not dig up worms for the Murder as she had left the bucket behind yesterday. For some reason. She made a mental note to bring it home. Otherwise, it might rust.
The trees shielding the crow hollow, senior and sapling, had more broken branches than she remembered. Though minor injuries at worst, she had scraped and bruised herself the morning before. Running from something? Other than slightly moist earth—it apparently drizzled last night—and the rot of leaves, the dominant smell in the place was cinnamon.
“Watch that pile of melted slag,” called Waif. “You can’t miss it, on account of its stabbiness.” Grace was in the middle of crossing the mossy bridge when a purple blur darted into the stream beneath. Water began to steam.
If Grace wore glasses like her mother, they would have fogged up to the point of blindness. Instead, she got a fair view of a tall bird splashing around, who abruptly hopped back to the hollow’s side of the bridge. He was the source of the cinnamon smell. For a creature just submerged in water, he looked completely dry.
Grace said a word her father used a lot when he thought nobody was around. She did not know the exact meaning, but it was something you said when you were angry, upset, or surprised. Presently, she was the last of these. “I…I remember you now. But I thought you were from a dream.”
The purple bird chuckled as if she had said something especially clever. “Yes, these mix-ups happen when you’re a mythical being.” The plumage on his body ranged from lavender to indigo, depending on the amount of sunlight reflecting off them. His crest and tail vaguely resembled a peacock, but less a rounded fan and more a bridal gown’s train. At first, Grace thought they were rainbow-colored, but that was not exactly correct. The hind-feathers were clear like glass, and simply filtered colors as prisms would. A spectrum played along the train as the strange bird danced.
The bird was tall. At least past Grace’s waist, and she was not short for her age. His golden legs, which might be called thin—but never skinny—stepped about as if they had wills of their own, which occasionally disagreed. He clearly tried to keep balance during the continuous dance with himself, but every spin or turn came out slightly uneven. While he was beautiful as she remembered from yesterday, he was now marred with a slightly bent left wing.
“When he crashed, I thought Bennu was an impossible vision, as well.” Ol’ Hoary flew to Grace’s shoulder. The old, white father crow seemed more upbeat than usual. Especially contrasting how anxious and angry she had last seen him.
The memories of those strange events returned to Grace piecemeal, but increasing. “His name’s Ben? What is he exactly?”
“That, dear human hatchling,” said Chiaroscuro, whom Grace whipped around to see above, “is a phoenix.”
“Oh, okay,” Grace mumbled. She felt a bit stupid not knowing what that word meant. The old raven’s tone indicated it must be obvious. She whispered to Ol’ Hoary, “Are you okay with the raven being here? Weren’t you enemies?”
“We came to an arrangement after discovering a common enemy,” Ol’ Hoary whispered back, “And a common ally. You see, in the legends of all birdkind, phoenixes are considered holy. Chiaroscuro was sent here for an important reason, even if it wasn’t his own. For us not to show hospitality now might anger our gods.”
On the forest floor, Mrs. Tatters gathered her children in a circle. Each sat on a rock, root, or patch of grass. All tried talking over the others. The mother crow herself attempted to bring order as six monologues ran simultaneously. What shut them up was Grace’s appearance. Waif, having already spotted her, nodded.
“Oh, good morning, Grace.” Mrs. Tatters turned to the girl. “They’ve been jabbering like this pretty much ever since you left.”
“None of us could sleep,” admitted Ragamuffin. By her eager tone, it was clear she meant it in the same way as when Grace had trouble going to bed on Christmas Eve.
“Wasn’t it dangerous?” asked Grace. “I mean, with the fighting and fire, but no firefighters! And the metal bird, that…was scary.” She went to gather her emptied worm bucket. Her uncle’s gardening trowel was nowhere to be found. Mrs. Tatters pointed with her beak to the remains of the tool. A knife-sharp feather was driven straight through it. The small shovel was useless now.
“You’re right,” Mrs. Tatters agreed. “But we were also delivered. Even if a dark spirit like a banshee designated our home as a place where death must occur, my chicks, my mate, and I all live. A bit bruised and scraped, but it could have been much worse.”
“I won’t take all the blame for your injuries,” said Chiaroscuro, who must really like looking down on others since his perch was so high.
“Of course,” Mrs. Tatters continued as if the raven had not spoken, “Grace deserves all the credit for saving Ragamuffin!”
Grace moved to sit with the birds. For a second, the circle was broken so all of them could crowd around her. They were overwhelmingly happy to see her, reminding her why she preferred them to human friends. People held grudges and stewed in their own ugliness, but birds quickly bounced back from even the worst disasters. It surely proved difficult to incessantly worry about life when at any time you wanted you could lift into the sky. The girl wished she could fly along with them.
“As always, you are a true friend to birds, Grace.” Ol’ Hoary let himself into the circle.
“Grace?” yelled the bird called a phoenix, who had been busy dancing his way from the bridge. “More like one who has graced us with her presence! Whilst I tested my mettle against that Stymphalian bird, she granted the spark I needed to rise to the challenge…and melt my opponent. No, that name alone won’t do. I grant you the title ‘Eternal Radiant Maiden, Thrower of the Tiny Shovel!’” The purple bird bowed to her.
“I feel we corvids contributed something to the battle, too,” grumbled Chiaroscuro.
“Indeed.” The purple bird nodded much harder than should be safe for a creature with so thin a neck. “Now we’ve met you, Fair Maid,” he clearly struggled to walk towards Grace in a straight line, what with all the spinning, “allow me to introduce myself.” He fell silent.
Apparently, he really did want Grace’s allowance. “Um,” she positioned herself on the same twisting root as Ragamuffin, “you’re allowed to introduce yourself.”
“Very well. My name is Bennu of Heliopolis. As mentioned, I’m a magical creature called a phoenix. At a specific time every five-hundred years, my species performs a secret ritual which burns our bodies to ash, returning us to the state of an egg. When we hatch, it’s like we’re entirely young again. Our minds are free to gain as much new knowledge about the worlds as we can. If we stayed adults, we’d start believing we already have all the answers, with nothing more to learn. What a horribly boring life that’d be!”
“How is that possible?” asked Ragamuffin. The young crow said what Grace was thinking, but felt too embarrassed to say out loud.
Bennu pointed excitedly with his beak. “See, you prove my point! No adult would ask such a question straight out. Too stuffy and full of themselves. To answer, I must describe a time in history well before I hatched. So, not all the details might be exact. But before there were cities, or even towns, the whole world was covered in woods and jungles. In a place called Kush, there was a special forest, one where magical fruit grew.”
“What kind of fruit was it?” asked Offal. His black, glassy eyes bugged wide.
“Yeah, what was so magic about it?” added Jackanapes. “Did it let you set fire to stuff, like you snuffed out that metal bird?”
“That was awful.” Dusky shook his head.
“You mean ‘awesome,’” disagreed Waif.
“It was a little too warm,” Ragamuffin moaned slowly. A day and night of restlessness seemed to catch up with her all at once.
“Guys,” Albumen said after a sigh, “I’m sure Bennu will tell us if we just give him room to speak.”
“Yes, thank you,” said Bennu. “There were actually two types of fruit in this garden, and each possessed a unique effect on any creature that ate them. The first was a silver peach, which granted the power to know right from wrong, inspiring great happiness when you help others, and wretched misery when you behave selfishly.”
“Is that a power?” asked Chiaroscuro.
“Only if you’re not evil,” responded Mrs. Tatters.
So far, the phoenix’s tale reminded Grace of other stories she had heard, usually on Sundays. With slight differences.
“The other fruit was a golden apple,” Bennu went on, “whose power proved even more amazing. It granted eternal youth. You’d never grow old, and any injury you received would swiftly heal. The first fruit originally came from a place called Asgard, and the second from a place called Vanaheim. The special trees had been planted in Kush after some big war between the two realms. Nobody seems to remember why it was fought in the first place, but the planting was done as a gesture of peace between the two sides. The trees were guarded by a dragon with roughly a hundred heads. I mean, nobody could get close enough to check. Regardless, there were enough eyes to watch the trees all times of night or day, even as some heads slept.”
Bennu’s story was becoming less and less familiar to Grace.
“In the forest of Kush dwelled many creatures, including the ancestors of my people, the phoenixes. There were also the original two corvids, Huginn and Muginn. I can’t remember which was the wife and which was the husband. Not to leave anyone out, there were also the two ancestors of humanity, back then a species much shorter and hairier. Future generations called the couple many different names: Manu and Shatarupa, Mashya and Mashyana, Deucalion and Pyrrha, Ask and Embla, and plenty other I can’t recall now.”
“Adam and Eve?” suggested Grace.
“Yes, that was one. Thank you, Radiant Maiden.” Bennu gave no indication he was aware Grace’s cheeks were growing hot. “It’s less important what these two small, hairy humans were called, what matters is what they decided to do. They decided, along with Huginn and Muginn, they wanted to taste both magical fruits. They knew of the powers held in the produce because my ancestors had already eaten both. First the silver peaches, then the golden apples. Those original phoenixes got lucky pilfering the peaches, because the dragon heads guarding that side of the forest were distracted. Some giant got it into his mind he could hold up the sky, and tried to prove it.”
“There were giants in those days?” asked Grace.
“Yes, they come from a place called Ettinheim. But that’s not important now.” Bennu paused. “The ancestral phoenixes got off scot-free taking the peaches, but didn’t manage to grab any to share with their friends. They learned this was something to feel regret over. Still, they vowed to eat some golden apples as well. The humans begged them not to try something so dangerous. The corvids—even then—were more curious than was altogether reasonable, and gave encouragement instead.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
“The time the phoenixes wished for came when the daughters of that giant trying to hold up the sky came to talk sense into their father. The dragon was distracted by the girls, who were probably beautiful and therefore more satisfying to devour. Yet, the dragon was a bit more alert after the last theft. Just as the phoenixes nipped off with the gold apples, one reptile head breathed fire at them mid-flight. Scorching them to crisps.”
Dusky started crying. “I didn’t know this would be a sad story.”
“It’s not,” Bennu reassured. “Least, not for the phoenixes. Their friends began mourning them, naturally thinking they perished. But soon as they stole them, the phoenixes started munching on their apples. They sprung back up from where the flames hit them, completely fine. Better, even. They knew they could never truly die, as long as they had fire to restore them. They must’ve felt so excited to tell their friends.
“But as it happened, the dragon turned angry and a little confused. After all, his fire had likely been enough to destroy just about anything. It thrashed its tail, twisting its body into knots, and accidentally dislodged some silver peaches. Soon after, several curious animals came and ate them. One group was the early corvid couple. Another was the humans. The only problem with the latter was: they bit too deep to the peach pit, and broke some teeth. Since then, humans have to grow two separate sets of teeth. One as babies, the other as they start to grow up and figure for themselves about right and wrong.”
At this point, Grace decided this must surely be a dream. She was misremembering and combining stories she heard at church and fairy tales from her Grandmam’s books. She kept all this to herself for the moment. After all, it would not hurt to listen to this story some more.
“The phoenixes felt overjoyed to see their friends gain the same wisdom only they once possessed.” Bennu was clearly approaching the end of his account. His voice turned broader, grander. “They encouraged the corvids and humans to further seek the golden apples. If the dragon set them ablaze afterwards, well, that’d be no problem at all. Both the corvids and humans were terrified of the idea. The first humans moved close to the golden apple tree anyway. Or as near as they could. The dragon wouldn’t fall for the same trick again—otherwise he might lose his job—so he sneezed smoke at them to ward them off.
“Though it didn’t kill the mortals like fire would, the sheer heat of the breath burnt away most of their hair, except the stuff on top. Huginn and Muginn decided they’d seen enough, and flew right out of the jungle into the rest of world. The human couple decided that was probably for the best, and left Kush as well. Since that time, crows and humans have been smart enough to understand the idea of right and wrong—even if the exact definitions proved hard to pin down. Regardless, they have to make the best of their knowledge in the few precious years they have to live.
“The phoenixes were among the few races to eat the golden apples, and so they and their descendants gained the power to live forever. As did a species of what were either lizards or newts. Can’t quite remember. Anyway, that’s my explanation for you! I’m downright famished. Ancient history takes it right out of me. Does anyone know where I can get ahold of some cinnamon?”
“Um…sure,” said Grace. “But do you really only need that?”
“It has all the nutrition you’ll ever need, Dear Maiden,” Bennu said with great confidence.
“It does?” Grace felt sure she was still asleep. Soon enough, Grandmam would wake her up. 7 A.M. exactly. She would eat hot porridge with her family, then leave to play with her crow friends. For real, this time. No glowing purple bird would be present. Even so, she decided to play along until she was woken up.
“Hmm, let me think,” Bennu drawled. With his non-injured wing, he scratched a spot under his short beak, exactly as humans stroke their chins to illustrate they are thinking. “Maybe not for a human, but for a phoenix, yes. Cinnamon for breakfast, lunch, and dinner! What time is it now?” he tried looking at the sun, but thick branches got in the way of gauging its position.
“It’s only morning,” said Grace, “unless this is all a dream. In which case, it’s night.” Surely this was a dream. After all, how could a bird be made from metal, or another one burst into flames yet be perfectly fine right after? That would be completely out-of-the-ordinary. Not something perfectly mundane like talking birds.
Bennu nodded like this was the sagest thing he heard in a long while. “Well, I’m not dreaming, because I don’t sleep at all. Part of the effect of my ancestors eating the apples of immortality. I take it you’ve never heard of phoenixes before now, Grace?”
Grace admitted that.
“That implies you learnt something in a dream!” Bennu spoke like a film detective revealing all the evidence. “Which doesn’t normally happen. It can’t be your dream, then!”
Grace had to agree. She heard about dragons and giants, yes, but nothing about birds catching fire to grow younger, much less that there was a proper name for so fantastic a notion. When she waked up, she ought to search out a dictionary to check.
Bennu craned his long neck up to see Chiaroscuro, who had not joined the circle of crows. “Now, you might be dreaming all this right now, and the rest of us are figments inside your raven mind.”
“I truly doubt that,” Chiaroscuro said with a defiant squawk. “I’ve dreamed of many things over forty years: dreams of freedom and escape, dreams of death and all that might come after, dreams brought by ivory merchants and those with plums and pumpkin pie on the side. And yet, I could never hope to imagine anything as unrelentingly cheerful as a dancing phoenix.”
(He said “cheerful” as if it were a swear word.)
“Seems reasonable,” agreed Bennu, who became lost in thought a moment. “And,” he eventually continued, “I figure if anyone else dreamed us to be here right now, they did it in such a way we’d need to eat. Let us have breakfast, then!”
“I’ve already had mine,” admitted Grace.
“Yeah,” said Ragamuffin, “and we’ve had plenty of worms.”
“We have?” asked Offal.
“I received no worms,” asserted Chiaroscuro. While his evil eye still looked far from nice, it viewed the others with something closer to bemusement. “And that girl specifically promised me some.”
“Grace promised you treats if you left this hollow peacefully,” pointed out Mrs. Tatters. The mother crow started preening the back of the girl’s hair, which tickled.
“So Dear Maiden,” said Bennu, “if I can bother you to do me another good turn, I’d be in your debt as long as I live. And keep in mind, that’s forever.”
“Sure,” Grace agreed. It would be simple enough. The metal feather struck through her uncle’s trowel would no doubt raised some questions, so she buried the broken tool. She brought the intact metal bucket home.
Grace went to the kitchen cupboard and—standing on tiptoes—proved just able to reach the cinnamon canister. It fit perfectly in her overalls pocket. As she was halfway out the door, Grandmam called her over, urging her to wear a jacket.
More and more, the girl was becoming uncertain about all this being a dream. Her Grandmam behaved and sounded exactly as she did during waking hours. The old woman’s thin, wrinkled hands felt the same when helping Grace tug on the jacket, a few sizes larger than she was. Adults promised she would grow into it. Even though it neared the end of October, the autumn day felt warm.
Grandmam insisted. “You never know when it might start storming.”
Grace returned to the hollow to find the birds in a meeting. She kept quiet so as not to interrupt.
“…Of course we’re happy to play host while your injury heals,” Mrs. Tatters was saying.
‘But,” Ol’ Hoary added shortly, “we first need to know there aren’t any other metal birds that might attack here.”
Mrs. Tatters nodded. “We’re raising chicks, of course, and though we’d hate to see you leave the hollow, our priority is always keeping them safe.”
Waif groaned. “Ah mom, don’t force Uncle Bennu to leave when he just got here. All us kids are fledged. Plenty old enough to take care of ourselves.”
“Don’t talk back to your mother, boy-chick,” ordered Ol’ Hoary. “Grace won’t always be around to protect you, as she did with your sister.”
Grace frowned. “I won’t?”
“Don’t dwell on that now,” Bennu butted through some of Grace’s darker thoughts. “Now is what we should focus on. For example, I now detect the repast you’ve so generously supplied!” The purple bird cuddled up between the girl and Ragamuffin. He felt warm (but not hot) to the touch.
Having difficulty opening the lid, Bennu asked for help. “Anyway, to alleviate anxieties, crow parents, while there are other ghastly specimens like that metal bird who regrettably forced me into melting it, they’re all in the Stymphalia Swamps. On the clear other side of the world. The one you saw was chasing after my most valued possession. See this fireproof container strapped to my leg?” Bennu stuck out his foot so Grace could remove the gold cylinder.
The whole group gathered to see her unwrap an equally gold scroll. Not just gold-colored, but the metal itself. That was obvious, not that Grace or the crows had much experience handling the usually rare substance.
“I should begin by explaining birds in the city where I’m from are getting sick from a fungal infection.” After gulping as much cinnamon as his small beak could hold, Bennu elaborated with his mouth still mostly full. “One caused by parasitic spores. Nobody was sure how to cure it until we received this item in the mail. It was sent by a famous ally to our city, who went missing some years back. His personal muse similarly vanished.”
“Muse,” Grace tried out the word, unsure of its meaning. “Like a museum? How could anyone misplace a building?”
“Not a museum, but the words are related,” Bennu shook his head and pushed the cinnamon canister out of reach so he could not eat any more. He swallowed to the bottom of his throat. “Many a museum contains items that wouldn’t exist without muses. It’s a muse’s job to help inspire creativity in humans, encouraging them to pursue arts and sciences.”
Chiaroscuro snorted. He had at last come down from his high branch. That he sat placidly between Waif and Ol’ Hoary proved they had made peace. “Why would these muses feel the need to help anyone?” asked the raven. “Does the job pay well?”
“Only in what matters,” Bennu answered patiently. “Beauty, truth, excitement. Whatever enriches the live of anyone open to new or different things. I’ve worked as a muse myself. While it is tiring to fly around the planet several times a day, the rewards of progress have value lasting longer than any material wealth. See the writings here, Lady Grace of the Tiny Shovel? Worth more than what it’s inscribed on. Problem is…well, none of us birds can actually read it.”
Grace could see why. She knew the alphabet and numbers (both the usual kind and Roman, which were just letters used a different way) but she could make little sense of what was written on the sheet. Familiar symbols mingled with utterly foreign ones. Strange sequences of dashes, squiggles, even pictures of animals. Maybe she could have identified some if she had not delayed attending school.
“And you think this scroll is a prescription to cure the spores?” asked Grace. “Why’d you think that if you can’t read it?”
“Because.” Bennu went entirely still. No more dancing or wiggling. “Deciphering this scroll is the best…no, only hope of curing my people. And who could do that better than the one who sent it in the first place, who already saved our city with his genius?”
“But you lost this guy,” Ragamuffin broke in, “You admitted so. What about his ‘muse’, though?”
“Never met them,” Bennu confessed, “But any clue to tracking our ally should be explored. The problem I’ve found is, the scroll is also valued by greedy creatures merely because of the material it’s made of. Now that’s out in the open, Hoarfrost and Tatterdemalion, I won’t ask to stay with you long. The safety of your family come first, naturally. Besides, it ought to take no time at all for my sprained wing to heal. Then I’ll be free to continue my search.”
“My wife and I are fine with this,” declared Ol’ Hoary. “As long as no other monsters show up.”
“For now,” Mrs. Tatters grandly stated, “you are our honored guest. The chicks really are quite taken with you.”
Waif grunted. “Well, the younger ones are, at least.”
“That’s what counts,” argued Albumen.
“Yah, Uncle Bennu will stay!” cheered Offal.
“We’ll have a hot time.” Dusky laughed at his own joke.
“Oh, do that fire trick from last night!” Jackanapes all but demanded.
“No,” interrupted Ragamuffin, “sing us another one of your lovely songs.”
Promising to return later, Grace excused herself and left. It was getting close to lunchtime, and she certainly needed more than cinnamon. While thinking of a way to explain the now mostly empty container if her family noticed, she bumped into a stranger.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said to the man. Grace noticed he wore a clean, pressed black suit.
“Oh, that’s quite all right,” he responded. His tone was happy, almost singsong. “But, ya’ know, child, it’s rude not to look someone in the eye while they are addressin’ you.”
More than anything, Grace wanted to move to the side of this stranger and go home. She was a single street down from her family’s apartment, too. Still, her mother always extolled the importance of politeness.
The stranger was not tall, but carried himself that way, with a straight back and no slouching. He wore a black trilby to match his suit, as well as large almond-shaped sunglasses that covered his eyes. Indeed, most of his face. The only thing standing out about this man’s features, now Grace was looking, was a grin wider than she thought possible for a human being. It was a mystery how he spoke intelligibly while exposing all those yellowed teeth at the same time.
“Ain’t that better? Show respect for elders. Let me introduce myself. My name is Mr. Aitvaras. I work with J. Edgar and the G-men. Ya’ heard of them, right?”
Grace had, from her father. She frowned.
“And you are?” the stranger tapped his foot. His wide body blocked her path along the sidewalk.
“I’m Grace.”
“Grace what? Ain’t you got a last name?”
She felt increasingly hungry, and did not much feel like having a conversation. She crossed both arms over her stomach.
“Fine, have it your way, Grace Anonymous. You might be able to help me, though. Wouldn’t it be fun to aid your government?” The man calling himself Mr. Aitvaras tilted his head to the side, apparently waiting for an affirmative response. When he got none, he resumed with “You know, I’m new to this side of town, and I saw you live in the apartments down the way. I’ve misplaced something, you see.”
Mr. Aitvaras took off his trilby, and wrung it between his hands. The gesture mimicked the movements of an anxious character in a comedy film Grace had seen. Under the hat, he was mostly bald but for a pencil-thin line of crimson hair running from the top of his forehead to the nape of his neck. The only comparison she could think of was a rooster’s comb.
“I’m looking for a bird.”
Grace still wished to move past, but what he said made her still. Did firefighters finally notice the explosion in the park? Would they send the government to check that? No, it must surely be a coincidence.
Mr. Aitvaras tapped his foot again. While there were other pedestrians on the street, they all walked around the spot where he and Grace stood. He put his trilby back on, hiding what little hair he maintained. He brushed his hands on his suit pockets.
Grace noticed a thin layer of ash covering his palms. The man smelled of smoke, too, but not the stench of cigarettes she detested. More like charcoal. Already hungry, she now started fidgeting nervously.
“I’m trying to think, sir.” Grace attempted to speak the way she would during church. Respectful, and not too loud. “There’s so many birds in the city for me to think of just one. I mean, just count all those pigeons!” she gestured widely with both arms. Mr. Aitvaras failed to follow either way she pointed.
“Hmm, no.” he stroked his chin, getting ash over his lower face. “I was thinking a bird a bit prettier than any old pigeon.”
“Are you sure, sir? On the window ledge over there, one fat pigeon’s neck has shiny bands of green and purple. That’s pretty pretty.” Though she could not see his eyes through the almond shades, she knew Mr. Aitvaras was glaring at her. Though it was a sunny day, Grace started to feel a chill. She felt glad Grandmam had foisted a jacket on her.
“Um, no,” Mr. Aitvaras started grating his teeth, and with so many, it made a terrible sound. “No s…sweetheart, I was thinking something a smidge bigger than a flying street rat!” He lowered a palm to a little under Grace’s height, almost the exact length of Bennu. “Purple, sings a lot, occasionally bursts into flame. Much too dangerous to be around tiny, tender, vulnerable children like yourself.”
Grace hoped she was still dreaming, because that would mean this was just a nightmare. Not that nightmares were the best place to be, but they had one commendable quality. They always ended. Even hoping so, she knew this was real life. The man would not be as easily evaded as a dream monster.
“Mister, you must be mistaken,” she tried anyway. “There’s no bird that can just up and catch fire. Not outside a kitchen oven. I’ve heard of ‘singing for your supper,’ but never supper that sings itself. Do you want chicken?”
For some reason, Mr. Aitvaras bristled at hearing the word “chicken.” Like a switch from on to off, his grin vanished. His mouth formed an odd downward way, so his front lip covered the bottom like a beak. “No, I think you know exactly what I’m talking about. You’re just too…shy to come right out with it. I should mention there could be a big reward if you tell me quick. I’m not talking candy. Cold hard cash! Gold coins and such, guaranteed to not have chocolate in the middle. We can bargain specifics later. All I need’s for you to point me in the right direction of this special purple firebird.” Off to on, he was smiling again.
Now, Grace had been told by both her mother and Grandmam lying was wrong. Usually, she had no trouble being honest, even if it turned out to hurt other people’s feelings for some reason. (Which she never intended.) But the girl knew in the pit of her empty gut if she did not lie to Mr. Aitvaras, a lot more would be hurt than feelings. “Nope, mister, I for sure know nothing about any bird like that. Maybe go to a zoo, or even a circus—you’ll see more things at a circus than just this street.” She spoke quickly, anxious she might collapse.
The smile on Mr. Aitvaras’ face shorted out permanently. The smell of charcoal grew stronger. “Er, yes, thank you very much for that little tip, but I don’t think you realize what the rewards I offer might do for you. Money brings power, and the freedom to choose what you want to do. Never have to do your chores. Never have to go to school. Never have to grow old.”
In spite of herself, Grace felt interested. She wanted to play in the park with her crow friends as long as she could. The stranger crouched on his haunches, so he and Grace were at the same level.
“Yeah, stay young and watch everyone around you grow feeble and die. Wouldn’t that be fun, Grace Anonymous?” Mr. Aitvaras was still not smiling.
Whatever attention he might have stolen with talk of freedom, Mr. Aitvaras lost it from Grace. He reached out a hand with ash coating the palm, seeming to honestly expect her to shake it.
She kept her hands at her side.
He started to lower his almond shades.
She turned her head away.
Yelling what she knew to be curse words (although it was a language she had never heard) the stranger calling himself Mr. Aitvaras stormed away.
Grace wasted no time running back to her family’s apartment building. While she considered herself starving, she needed to catch her breath outside before she felt strong enough to climb more stairs.
“You really don’t look at the eyes, do you?” said a harsh and increasingly familiar voice. Grace looked up to see Chiaroscuro perched on a windowsill.
“You followed me home? Why?”
The old raven sighed. “I got annoyed by all the jubilation the phoenix and bloody Murder were making. A sane creature can only take so much.”
“Yeah, I don’t like eye contact.” Grace inhaled deeply, then exhaled to match.
“It’s no crime,” Chiaroscuro said, “lots of folk won’t turn towards my blind eye. But my other one sees perfectly. And when that manlike thing lowered his big, shiny shades, I got a peek at what’s underneath. I’ll tell you, that’s quite a bit worse than either of my peepers.”
Grace frowned. “What do you mean ‘manlike thing’?”
“Well, I can’t call this—Mr. Aitvaras, that’s what he said, right? —a man. No more than I can call a lawn jockey, ventriloquist dummy, or giant spider wearing a hat and trenchcoat a ‘man.’ Sure, the basic shape is there. But that’s it. He’s pretending. It must make it easier for his sort to go around you human beings.”
The loose jacket failed to protect Grace from the chills inside her. “What is ‘his sort’ if he’s not a person?”
“Well, think about it,” responded Chiaroscuro, “If there’s something like a phoenix, a muse sent to bring knowledge and create beautiful things, why can’t there be something else spreading ignorance and generally making the world an uglier place?”
“You mean a demon?” Grace thought back to certain church sermons, when the preachers had clearly fallen into a bad mood that week.
Chiaroscuro harrumphed. “‘Demon’ is just a word. I’ll just share what I saw. If you’d met Aitvaras’ gaze near the end of your friendly chat, you wouldn’t have seen any eyes. You would have seen two empty sockets filled with fire.”
Grace coughed hard. It suddenly become difficult to breathe. She must have inhaled some ash. Less than two days ago, she would not have believed a man could have blazing fire where—by all rights—eyes should exist. It had been a strange couple of days, and what the raven said made sense. Even if she did not like it.
She sat on the top step of the apartment’s front porch and put her head in her hands. The raven moved closer, and strangely, she felt comforted by his presence. Grace’s thoughts were drawn back to last winter. A cousin on her mother’s side came to the city from a different state to spend Christmas with them. Her name was Perdita, and she never knew which restroom or water fountain to use, so Grace figured she was not all that bright.
Still, Perdita was older by several years, and experienced more. One thing the cousin spoke about was a friend from her small town, and how she was once “lured away” (those were the exact words) by some strange adult.
Just thinking of that made Grace colder. She put her knees to her chest and rubbed her hands along them, trying to get the chills out of her legs. Details came back. At least, what few there were. Something bad happened to Perdita’s friend, that much was clear. But even the adults in town were too frightened to discuss the matter openly.
Like how behind closed doors, parents whispered about not having enough money. Still, kids always managed to overhear some bits of information they duly passed along to their peers. Perdita had several theories of her own about what might have occurred, and recounted
what other girls in her class imagined might have happened to their friend. They could not ask the girl directly, because she was moved away.
The scariest thing to Grace was that however gruesome speculations became, the most important facts were hidden. These gaps in the story might hold things even more terrifying!
But they could never know for certain, since the adults would not tell them the truth. It was ultimately agreed, however, that there were certain people who would lure girls—and boys, too—away from their homes, for some reason.
Grace wondered whether this Mr. Aitvaras was that type of being, even if he was just a “manlike thing.” Maybe demons really were in the world, and that is why adults were too frightened to talk about it.
Grace rose from the steps and all-but-fled to her Grandmam, and whatever support the old woman might provide beyond a filling lunch. Till bedtime, though, Grace could not keep herself from wondering whether Perdita’s friend had seen blazing eyes.