The pile burns fiercely. The flames that roar up from its summit completely hide what has happened to bird and child. A strange reek fills the clearing, like incense with several elements left out, both sweet and peppery, mingling with the ordinary odours of burning. Myrrh.
The two watchers wait in silence. They wait almost without stirring through the small hours of the night while fire slowly settles into itself and star after star rises steadily above the eastern hills. At one point the young woman bends to connect a fresh set of batteries to the cables that are keeping the bed warm. Apart from that, neither stirs or speaks. Once again, after a centuries-long hiatus, the priests of the Phoenix watch the night through in stillness and in silence.
By the time the stars are beginning to disappear into the paling sky above the eastern hills, the fire has become a smooth mound of embers with, cupped into its summit, a rounded object bigger than a man’s head, glittering with fiery jewels set into a glowing orange background, darker than the embers of the fire. The egg of the Phoenix.
The older woman begins to speak. The younger bends to listen to her whisper.
ʺEllie, my dear, this is something that hundreds of thousands of people of many different faiths, for century after century, have passionately believed in, longed for and prayed for. And now we two are going to see it with our living eyes. We will see our god reborn.ʺ
Ellie smiles at her and turns to watch for the moment of sunrise through the gap she cut last week with her chain-saw.
Only we’ll never be able to tell anyone, she thinks.
HELLHOUND
ROBIN MCKINLEY
Miri had been the sort of child who believed that every pony with a star on its forehead had been born a unicorn and had agreed to give up its horn to become a pony and bring happiness into some child’s life.
ʺAfter Tamari, I don’t see how you kept that one up,ʺ her mother said. Tamari was an exquisitely beautiful half-Welsh pony, dark dappled brown, with four white socks and a perfect four-pointed white star on his forehead. He also had the temperament of a back-alley mugger. ʺDo you remember the time Tamari cornered that poor little sap Trudy behind the manure pile and you had to rescue her?ʺ
ʺOr the time Jojo jumped out of the paddock next to Tamari because a single fence between them wasn’t enough?ʺ added her father helpfully.
ʺLovely form too. Nobody knew Jojo had it in her. We started entering her in hunter classes after that,ʺ her mother said.
Miri smiled faintly. ʺSome unicorns mind more than others, after the change.ʺ
Her brother Mal guffawed. ʺDon’t forget Peggy.ʺ
Peggy had been one of their mother’s reclamation projects. ʺJane, I really think—ʺ Miri’s father had begun, as they watched the poor bony thing totter down the ramp of the horse trailer. They were used to her coming home from the horse-rescue with a new four-legged adventure, but this one looked beyond what food and love could rehabilitate. ʺShe came up and put her nose under my arm,ʺ Jane said defensively. ʺWhat was I going to do?ʺ Peggy had become a stalwart of the lesson program and the weekend trail rides, and while most of her welts and weals healed without trace, there was a peculiarly matched pair of marks behind her shoulders that Miri said were wing scars, and named her Pegasus.
It was an old family routine, trotted out for old friends and relatives rarely seen; after the friends or relatives had exclaimed over how grown-up the children had become since they’d last seen them, her father told the unicorn story and her mother brought up Tamari, and if the visitors were still enjoying themselves, Mal said, ʺDon’t forget Peggy.ʺ
There were lots of animal stories in their family. Her father’s fish tanks were scattered all over the downstairs (and terrariums full of invisible chameleons and tree frogs upstairs); her brother had an African grey parrot who said things like, ʺAre you sure you locked the stables?ʺ and ʺHave you cleaned the tack yet?ʺ with deadly accuracy; and her mother usually had two or three (or four or five) cats underfoot in the house (the tanks and terrariums all had cat-proof lids; the African grey had a permanent ʺmake my dayʺ look in her eye) as well as several generations of mousers patrolling the barns.
And then there were the horses. Jane ran a riding stable. She gave lessons on her own horses and boarded other people’s. Tamari had been a boarder. When Jane had finally told his very nice owner that he had to go, the owner had sighed and said, ʺHe’s been here almost a year. That’s almost twice as long as he’s ever been anywhere else. I was beginning to hope . . . oh, well.ʺ Tamari was a show pony; his manners were always as perfect as his looks at shows, and he had the trophies and ribbons to prove it. It was only when he was home again that he turned into something out of a bad creature feature.
Miri wanted a dog. When she’d been very young and they had first moved to the then-derelict farm, there had been a man who came several weekends in a row with what seemed to Miri, at six, to be at least forty terriers—ferocious ratters, who had dealt implacably with the resident population. Twelve years later the man was still coming occasionally (her mother refused to put down poison, and there are always rats around a barn), although he had less hair than he’d had and more waistline, and the number of terriers had dwindled to three. Miri had been fascinated from the first by the gallant, indomitable little dogs, even though she couldn’t bear to watch them at their grisly business for long. And the boarders often had dogs; her mother occasionally permitted barn privileges for these on a case by case basis—and on the understanding that any dog caught misbehaving was instantly banned.
Miri’s favorite was a border collie named Fay. Fay’s owner Nora had once told Fay to lie down at some little distance from where she was hosing her horse off, so she wouldn’t hose Fay too. But the hose and tap were at the edge of the driveway, and Fay was lying in the middle of it. Miri and her mother were coming back from a show with two tired, eager-to-be-home horses in the trailer when her mother had to stop because Fay was lying in the way. Her mother tried a gentle toot on the horn. Fay raised her head long enough to direct a withering glare in their direction, and then laid her head back on her paws.
Her mother laughed. ʺWell, that put us in our place. Go tell Nora to call her dratted dog, will you please? She’s got that radio turned up so loud she can’t hear us.ʺ
But Miri liked Oscar too, and Sammy, and Bramble. Miri liked dogs.
ʺI want a dog,ʺ Miri often said.
ʺNo,ʺ her mother equally often replied. ʺThere are enough animals around the place already.ʺ
ʺEnough of your animals,ʺ Miri said.
ʺWhat is Balthazar, then?ʺ said her mother. ʺChopped liver?ʺ
Balthazar was Miri’s horse. He could do anything, including nod, count, and lie down on request, but his chief virtue in her mother’s eyes was that he and Miri led the weekend trail rides and, with Miri on his back, nothing ever bothered him: rabbits, raccoons, frisky ownerless dogs appearing as if by magic, plastic bags left by careless picnickers fluttering threateningly from the undergrowth, horses and riders who behaved rationally and competently in the outdoor arena having sudden inexplicable meltdowns without a fence around them: all the standard trail hazards. Unflappability had a price above rubies at a stable that needed weekend trail rides to make ends meet, and for this he was forgiven anything, including how much he ate. He had been—and for that matter still was—the best birthday present Miri had ever had.
She still wanted a dog.
ʺA stable needs a dog,ʺ she said. ʺThe next time somebody tries to break into the tack room, it would bark.ʺ