The Phoenix

         “We’re almost there now.” There is a reluctant tug on my left hand. I kneel down and gather Amelia’s tiny hands in mine. They are soft and pale, water lilies in my large, leathery hands.

         Amelia looks at me beseechingly and I pull her into a tight embrace, unable to meet her eyes. My will wavers when she looks at me like that. That fearful, intense gaze pierces my conscience and makes me want to pick her up and take her as far as I can from this place. She has such expressive eyes, an ethereal emerald that both mesmerizes and intimidates. Silently she puts her arms around me, and I feel her heart thumping; a fast, erratic beat that speaks of her aversion to where I am about to bring her.

         With great effort I blink furiously and steady my voice. “Let’s go.” I say, a little too harshly perhaps, but I do not want her to try dissuading me again. Before either of us can consider going back, I hoist her on my back and continue walking.

         We trudge for a good five minutes along a narrow, winding road that leads up. It is the only road around here, surrounded by rich forestry. An earthy, crisp smell fills the air but the sanctity of the place is marred by the bleakness of our destination. As we approach the end my feet slow, and while I try to reason that it is because of Amelia’s weight, I know otherwise.

         We arrive. Amelia is whimpering, and I feel her lock her arms around my neck, tense and unwilling to let go. She buries her downy head in my back, but I put her down now. She must see the damage. In my head I have barely counted to three when the violent sobs and quaking shoulders begin. It is a picture that breaks me – a piteous, petite silhouette facing the destruction that she personally witnessed two years ago.

         We are standing amidst the ruins of her once-majestic home, an impressive villa set in the privacy and desolation of the mountains. As I gaze at the charred rubble and watch the ashes swirl restlessly with the breeze’s caress I can almost picture the scene. There would be an acrid tang that even the forest would find hard to overcome, thick smog that stung the eyes, and flames, colossal flames that leapt from beam to beam, pillar to pillar.

         I hear it started with an innocuous candle flame on Amelia’s fourth birthday. A box of relighting candles for novelty was not extinguished properly. In the same way cigarette embers can start bush fires, there was a belligerent spark that must have spread to the heavy curtains; thin orange ribbons that weaved itself into the drapery. By the time they discovered the fire it had grown rambunctious, a disorderly and ill-tempered beast that towered terrifyingly, roaring and hissing in hunger. Tendrils of flame reached out and laid siege to the rest of the house; all too eager to claim and seize whatever it could lay hands on. The carefully-papered walls came crashing down but still invisible prisons of heat would hold the helpless residents hostage.

         When calamities of this enormity  happen nobody dares to hope for survivors. They shake their heads grimly and gravely whisper their prayers for the souls of those who perish. But miracles happen even when nobody believes in them. The fire brigade discovered four year-old Amelia, covered in soot and still conscious. The photos were in the news the next day. Her eyebrows and eyelashes were singed off and her emerald eyes were bloodshot and lifeless. Even now she carries that haunted look in her eyes. I am determined to right that today.

         There is nothing quite as devastating as seeing everything you hold close to your heart go up in flames. That was what I told Amelia’s sole surviving kin when he first brought her to me two years ago. Since then the grey old man had passed on and Amelia was entrusted to me, though most people do not understand why I would “burden” myself with a mute child. She has not spoken since the accident. I am determined to right that today.

         I watch Amelia make her way towards where the front gate used to be. Her steps are of defeat – a weary, jerking gait that belies her tender age. From where I am I see her reach out to touch the misshapen remains of the black iron gates, still covered in ashes. During that fire they must have borne great heat just like everything else, but looking around I notice they are the only things that are left standing. If I so desired I could restore them to their former glory, though they would never actually regain their perfect shape. I think of Amelia like that sometimes. She is the misshapen gate who has taken a beating, who has lost her will to remain standing. I am determined to right that today.

         Amelia is coming towards me now. Perhaps it is just in my imagination, but she looks different. Ashes have dusted her hair and her skin, lending her a sickly hue, but she does not look weak. There is a fire I have never seen in her eyes before, and I offer a silent prayer that today was her chance for catharsis. When she firmly grips my hand in hers and says “let’s go”, inexplicable pride and immense relief fills me and I feel tears pricking my eyes again.

         Those are the first words I have ever heard her utter. Today, Amelia has risen from the ashes.

fin.