***
Thus it went until one night when I decided to take a walk alone. I’m not sure why I didn’t spend that evening with Noelia, since being apart from her seemed almost inconceivable. I made my way from the village and rested on a little log near a road of sand. There were maybe three or four palm trees and a tiny house at an arrow’s distance. The stars that came out were twinkling on me, as if they were telling me to watch for something – and then it came, a majestic flight of some unknown comet on wings.
It was a bird, but of fire. I could see its beak and feathers as it flew overhead. I could not help but see it, for if I had not looked up, the noise of its flight would have pulled my attention anyway.
The bird had come from the east, soaring as high as the most prominent mountain, but so unique in its features that I could still see them clearly from the ground. To describe the bird, I could only say that if fire was used as ink, then fire had painted a bird. So indescribable and unique was this creature that I could scarcely convince myself that I wasn’t just imagining it, but actually seeing it before my very eyes. It was as if lightning itself had cracked its whip when it approached, for as fast as it had come, the winds of light had taken it from sight.
It had come and gone so quickly that there was no sure way of knowing exactly what it was I’d seen, except that it was real and alive, a bird of pure fire – alive, and not screaming from pain. If I could not explain it, then what I had just seen could be nothing less than a phoenix, and that simply could not be; not even if my eyes had told me so. A more nerving explanation would have to be that a weather phenomenon had just occurred, and that I had happened to be an eyewitness to it. If that was the case, that poor bird had caught the luck of being struck by several lightning bolts at the same time; but I could not believe that for the bird had not appeared to be damaged as it flew beyond the reach of my sight.
While still caught in the mystery, the question was resolved as the bird reappeared out of the far horizon. This time it flew with its entire splendor in a most majestic dance. This second appearance lasted much longer than the first.
It hovered above me, to let me soak in its splendor – tarrying in the same spot, then left as before. It was as if it were trying to defy my unbelief and impose itself as a new faith in my soul’s cradle. It was an image that could not be withstood, and now that it had given me more time to scrutinize it, it became forever detailed as an effigy, inescapable, to go back to again and again in future dreams and nightmares.
Time seemed to go slower as I gazed upon the spectacle, but in reality the whole ordeal only lasted about four seconds. During those few seconds I saw the most astonishing manifestation as the bird’s wings became fire, roaring like streams of thundering echoes, and cracking like the frost that splits the air in the early winter morning. It was as if fire and ice came from within its wings in a paradoxical confrontation.
I have never seen such colors, or such a spectacle of light, produced by anything that could be called a natural weather pattern. Further, I don’t think I have ever been able to see a bird’s features with such detail, even with a pair of binoculars. Thus it was impossible for me to escape the evidence that affirmed the existence of something paranormal. I know it was real, for it looked down on me, and the stare it gave made my bones feel as if they had been scraped with iron shavings. It’s eyes were the glow of red oven coals. They moved with life upon me and tore through my back, unraveling the stitches of doubt that were neatly sown. But it wasn’t horrible. How could it be? It had the face of a cherub – it was not frightening, but rather stirring, as if to startle a dead man from his deathbed.
I was surprised to find just one feather as an aftermath, since such a revolution of plumage could have easily left the poor bird bald. No, not one other clue, though I looked on for at least an hour more before continuing my walk.
I came to a bar and went in to take another rest. It was delightful that the people there did not laugh at me, for I told them the entire story. Instead, they took my story seriously and listened intently to every word I spoke. This was not like the States. No not at all. And when I showed them the feather, they were amazed and called me “the fortunate one”.
“El pajaro de fuego,” one man said, “Everyone knows what dis feather comes from and what it bring to the one dat hold it.”
“So you do believe me?” I asked.
“Of course, mister... The legend says dat it name is the firebird or Phoenix, and that it roars trough da skies like tunder, and lite. It comes down from “El Tupa oti” in da skies-where it lives. El Tupa, when he is mad so he sends da bir to kill a demon. Den da pajaro flies, but if you can see him you can see the place of his home... And even better if you get one of his feaders it will bring you good luck or stop a curs from a devil. So dis feader you got, ah yes, no one ever has a feader for a long time.” The man then looked at the feather, which was being passed around for all to see, and gave it venerable homage. He was as the poor man watching the coat he cannot buy. So I took back the feather, now at the hands of a lady, and presented it to him.
“Then this is a gift for you, for such a fine story, because I already have found much good luck on your very fine island with some very good poems that bless me.”
“No sir, I can not take it. Not in a thousand years could you hope to get anoder feader like it again. And I have not earned it myself.”
“But you have! It was a very fine story, and I do not need more luck for I am also in love. What better luck can there be than this?” The bar was moved with romance and I felt as if I were in Italy, where all is love and where nothing is more important than love.
“Then this I will take from you, for you are right, and then tonight is my lucky night.” The storyteller snatched the feather and away he went, back to the night to celebrate his good fortune.
The rest of the time I sat there as the people in the bar watched me; and all were astonished at my greatness and generosity. No one thought it stupidity, on my part, to have given up such a find, nor thought me an unlearned fool for what I was forsaking; for all imagined I was some great man that had received much and probably had greater things, than this feather, in my possession.
Perhaps that feather could have helped me after all.
I left that bar and headed off back to my room, as it was now fairly late. As I approached my room, I could have almost guessed what awaited me. Another note was hanging there for me, making it the eighth I’d received thus far.
PHOENIX
Bird in the sky
Watching the night fade
With your glory wings of stormy fire
Tearing into flight
Turning in the air
Fading under beauty
To hear the covered night
Wrapped within a watchful eye
Nothing under heaven sees
No one above earth will know
But path of hollow streak
Burns through me
Heart of bitter hope
Bird in the sky gone by
Watching the night now still