So he continues, climbing up sharp-rocked cliffs
Cutting his hands, watched by swifts
Who laugh and wonder why he wanted
To go to the Jeweled Tree.

Up he goes, determined, a stoic warrior –
Nay, just a man who suddenly confronts a woman
With a golden diadem like a queen, a queen
Who stares at him with diamond eyes, her face
Beautiful, cold and fierce.

“Why are you here?” She sings and her diadem gleams.
“Why are you taking my gold?”

Darius gasps and almost loses his footing, scrambling.
But the distant queen grabs him, her skin brazen hot
And saves him from certain death.
Oh how she saves him from certain death.

Now Darius leaves the Jeweled Tree, holding
Something close to his chest: a queen’s promise
And her quiet vow to fiercely protect her precious nest.
He never climbs again.

It was her kimono that had attracted envious glances. Crafted by the finest Heian kimono maker, it shimmered in many colors, like the tail feathers of the peacock. Her long sleeves flared out, arranged beautifully by her maids. Beneath the rich garment were the layers of inner kimonos, subtler in shade and bringing the vividness of the peacock feather hues most startlingly.

“Oh look, a wonder in the sky!” One of the maids exclaimed, manicured hand on trembling lips. Hitomi craned her neck slightly, catching sight of something bright and flying in the spring sky.

“A Ho-Ho!” Another maid joined in the exultation. The appearance of a Ho-Ho was an auspicious omen. It was the harbinger of good news. Soon, the news arrived on running feet: the birth of the Emperor’s son.

Hitomi cringed inwardly. She did not want to be a concubine. Her father, a minor samurai, had sent her to the palace in the hope that she – and her family – would win favor with the Emperor. No. She did not want to spend her youth bearing children, year after year. She was above such drudgery.

“I want to go to the gardens,” she declared and the maids obeyed, helping her up to her feet because the kimono was heavy. Her heart, however, was light.

Once there, in the garden and surrounded by the pink cherry-blossom trees, she dismissed the maids. They went away, muttering about “that strange concubine”.

She laughed merrily and spread her arms, the peacock feather colors flashing in the sun. She would fly away, like her sister the Ho-Ho.

When she speaks, things crackle, burn and incinerate into black ashes. Words emerge, spark into flame and then fizzle away, as the spite eats away like fire with fragile paper.

Fire-tongue, flame-tongue.

“You turn the sky to gold, but your tongue burns.”

“Your songs are heavenly, but your words sting.”

“Tame thy tongue, ol’ great bird of fire.”

She tastes the cinder and the spite. Like cordite. Like ash. Like burnt paper ashes reduced to nothing. She knows that her words have power and spiteful as they are, they serve a purpose. There is Life. There is Death. Words are never honey sweet. Not all the time.

She speaks and cities grow, only to fall and grow again.

She speaks and great men rise to power, only to plummet down in shame.

She speaks and funeral pyres burn, for the young and the old, only to send the bright spirits skywards.

She has a tongue of cinder and spite, a fire-tongue.

She had prepared the beds of spices and herbs. Frankincense, myrrh, sandalwood, willow. Lit with fire, they had begun burning and the intense fragrances wafted skywards.

A bright flash of light, like the sun coming down to land. A bird-shape soared in the sky, gradually spiraling down in lazy circles, until it landed gracefully: a long-legged bird, like a purple heron, crowned with two long feathers. The eyes gleamed with a star-like quality. The feathers were tipped with sun-fire.

“I am here,” the Bennu said in a sweet fluting voice. “Have you prepared the beds?”

The woman bowed, touched by the Bennu’s beauty.

The Bennu stepped elegantly to the beds of spices still smoldering away with ruby-red embers. Without a sound, she hopped onto the beds and promptly sat down, as if to roost. The smoke grew thick, the fragrances stronger. The feathers sparked and soon, the Bennu was engulfed in a fast-burning white fire. The woman shielded her eyes and when she opened them again, the Bennu was gone. In its place was a young woman, smooth of skin, bright eyes like stars at night. She wore only a plain chemise and was already dusting the ashes off her body fastidiously with a look of gentle distaste on her sharp face.

“And we repeat this every year,” the young woman said dryly when the other woman approached her with a cotton veil. She wore it quietly, draping it around her head. The piles of spices sent puffs of aromatic smoke. She sneezed.

“The people demand it,” the other woman explained matter-of-factly, helping the young woman up to her feet. “They want the continuity of legends.”

“Ah, I see, I see.”

The two women walked away from the funerary pyre. The young woman, the former Bennu, glanced at her companion and said archly, “Next time you do it.”

Then, one day, the cockerel has to help someone put out a huge fire. He runs into the burning house, looking for people trapped within the burning furnace… and he finds himself trapped by flaming beams. Closer and closer the fiery tongues draw near. The chicken feels himself burning up and he closes his eyes, praying for death…

… and he finds himself changing, his ordinary feathers turning a burnished gold… He is surprised…

A beautiful bird emerges from the fire, his wings brilliant opalescence.

The chicken has been transformed.

Extremely surprised, the ex-chicken looks at his magnificent new body. Just then, the beautiful bird, one of the celestial phoenixes, the one he had seen earlier, appears. It is a ‘she’ and she greets him warmly. Together, they fly towards the sunrise.

In the end, she had only herself for comfort and for love. Her bloodline was rare. Most men would shy away from her brilliance. The prince did not. He was an exception. Her future looked bleak, un-bright like her feathers. She felt as if the sun was leaving her body. When she knew that the prince and his bride had already left the area, probably to a happy marriage, she changed.

Where the glorious flame-feathered Firebird once stood was a woman, dark of hair and chiseled cheekbones. She hailed from the borderlands, between China and Russia. Self-consciously, she touched her robes, woven with her clan’s patterns. Perhaps, it was just a journey back to her clan village and face a silent night, alone.

She began to pick her way through the forest. It was safe for her, because the animals knew what she was and dared not approach her. She sighed softly and sang:

Alone, I walk-
My wings clipped, my soul
Gone.
Alone, I walk-
My eyes weep, my voice
Gone.
Alone, I walk-
My steps drag, my joy
Gone.

A twig snapped, breaking her semi-trance. She raised her right hand now wreathed in a swirling ball of sun-fire. “Who goes there?” She snapped, feeling braver than she was inside.

A handsome man, older than the prince, but still patrician in his features, appeared. He was dressed in hunting leathers and he held an elegant crossbow.

“I am sorry, my lady. I seem to have startled you.” His voice was warm, like sun-warmed honey. Amber and rich. She savored it.

“I am Prince Albard,” he introduced himself and bowed deep. The Firebird woman smiled warmly. She could look forward to the future now.