Firebird

Ivan paced back and forth in the garden, occasionally hunching over and cursing to himself. After unleashing a final string of unfettered profanity, Ivan came to his wits and gathered his courage. He turned towards his father’s tree, the one that bore golden apples said to contain divine blessings that could heal any ailment, close any wound, expunge any poison. Beneath its boughs on damp grass lay the phoenix, quite dead.

In living memory there had always been a miraculous tree in this very spot, and Ivan’s family had long ago built its estate on the same hilltop. It had been the primary reason for the strange longevity and good fortune that had followed the Mikhailovs for centuries, as the family experienced no illness, mortal wounding, or deficiencies of old age. And for as long as the tree had existed, so too had the phoenix, protector of the mystical fruits and fiery avatar of the divine.

“Where is that man?” Ivan muttered. Sweating, he flicked his gaze around the courtyard, watiting for the servant to return with what Ivan had asked for. Rattling came from the garden’s side entrance, and by torchlight Ivan could see the servant’s outline in the dark.

“I’ve got one, your highness,” said the servant, panting. He held up a large cage covered in black cloth. “Shall I start mixing the paste?”

“Hurry, Ruslan” said Ivan.

Ruslan went to the tree and gently lowered the cage, then slung a satchel from his waist and began to remove vials. As Ruslan busied himself, Ivan inched closer to the expired firebird and looked down in morbid curiosity. It was enormous up close--with a wingspan wider than any man was tall--and Ivan could see even more clearly the sheer variety of colors on its plumage. Every conceivable shade or tint of fire shone even in the fading twilight; the full spectrum of light’s colors covered the phoenix.

Ivan reached down and gingerly pulled off a feather. Satisfied that the phoenix would not attempt to carve off his hand, he extended his hand and grabbed a small fistful. As he plucked he tried to suppress his building alarm. Once more, he recounted everything that had happened, hoping to discover that he was in a nightmare.

Earlier that evening on a stroll through the gardens Ivan had stopped before his family’s tree, the setting sun painting the heavens pink and purple. Against such a backdrop, the phoenix’s tree had been particularly alluring; Ivan had found himself enraptured by the firebird.

“Ruslan,” Ivan had asked, “what does the firebird eat?”

Ruslan had screwed up his face in concentration. “Your highness, in all my time here I can’t remember having fed the bird. I suppose it eats the fruit, your highness.”

Nodding, Ivan had thought the suggestion most wise. “Fetch it some wine,” he had said. “The finest vintage, such a beautiful creature deserves the best we can offer.” The look on Ruslan’s face had been one of perplexion, but the servant nonetheless fetched a bottle from the cellar as well as a silver bowl. Ivan had demanded to pour the wine himself and deliver it to the phoenix, and he had smiled to the bird as he walked towards the tree.

Placing the bowl before the tree, Ruslan had bowed deeply to the bird and prayed that it chose not to attack him. He had backed away, making sure to keep his face to the bird--it might have been the tree’s protector, but it was also an enormous avian armed with razor-sharp beak and claws. Curious, the phoenix had flapped to the ground, glittering wings beating against the twilight air. Ivan had smiled as the bird dipped its head to drink, and the smile had disappeared as the bird squawked once, then fell to the ground.

“Ruslan,” Ivan had said after a beat, “when was the last time the firebird was born?”

“One hundred and seventeen years ago, your highness,” said Ruslan

“And when was it expected to be born again?”

Ruslan hesitated, “Roughly three hundred years from now, your highness.” After several minutes of the prince panicking, Ruslan had suggested a course of action.

Heart pounding, Ivan snapped back to his current occupation. He had made good progress, as most of the feathers now rested on an unfurled blanket beside the cage.

“Your highness, shall I begin adhering...” Ruslan asked.

“Quickly now,” said Ivan.

Ruslan tugged at the black cloth on the cage, removing it to reveal a large--but hardly phoenix-sized--bird within. The bird flapped at being awoken, but allowed the servant to remove him from his cage. Brush in one hand, bird on the other, Ruslan looked to Ivan. “This will take some time to adhere the feathers, your highness.”

“It must be before sunrise,” said Ivan. Looking down, he realized just how many feathers the phoenix had possessed and how difficult it would be to transfer them to the substitute bird. He gathered a handful of feathers and Ruslan dipped his brush into the cement he had just brewed.

At Ivan’s feet there was a sudden flash and the smell of burnt grass. A pile of ashes remained where the firebird had been, and from the top of his family’s tree Ivan heard a bird call. Ivan looked up and saw a considerably smaller phoenix in the uppermost reaches of the tree, and it glared down at Ivan. Far ahead of his master, Ruslan had already packed up most of his materials, stuffed the substitute bird back into his cage, and gathered the corners of the blanket covered in feathers.

“Your highness,” said Ruslan, “we should leave before--”

“Agreed,” said Ivan. The prince strode back towards the palace.

Already laden, Ruslan took off his jacket and swept up as much of the ash as he could, then hurried after his prince.