By Michael Dolan

Brad clutched his rooster, Leopold, by the neck as he trudged up the steep mountain path. As a farm boy, he was used to long days of hard work under the elements. But the trek up Flaimen Peak always winded him, and he wasn’t looking forward to his reason for this visit. Leopold, one twitch away from being strangled, had it comparatively easy.

The pair reached the peak, and Brad saw his destination. Perched on a large rock was a nest of branches, moss, and other detritus. Inside, barely visible over the edge of the nest, was a young, unkindled phoenix.

“Gary!” Brad called.

No response.

“Gary, time to get up!”

Still nothing.

Brad muttered, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” and chucked Leopold toward the nest. The rooster halfheartedly flapped his wings before tumbling to the rock. He side-eyed Brad then loosed an ear-shattering cock-a-doodle doooo!

“Hnngh… mup… imup.” The shape in the nest stirred.

“He’ll do it again. Don’t think he won’t,” warned Brad.

“I’m up!” Gary the phoenix pushed his head over the side of the nest. “Oh. Hey, Brad.”

“Don’t ‘hey’ me, Gary. It’s been a month. Why haven’t you lit yet?”

The phoenix rolled his eyes. “I’ll get to it when I’m ready.”

“You told elder Duncan that last week.”

“Yeah.” Gary brought his head back inside his nest. “I still mean it.”

“Come on, man.” Brad caught Leopold by the neck in a single smooth movement as he strode up to the nest. He crossed his arms and leaned on its edge. “Oh. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Inside Gary’s nest was a whole ‘nother mess. Crumpled scrolls, talon clippings, and other sundries littered the space. Things were even worse than the townspeople had thought. “What the frittata is this?”

Gary’s tail slumped as his annoyance turned to embarrassment. “I’m sorry. It’s just… I haven’t been very motivated lately.”

Brad bit back comments about clearly being motivated to read scrolls by his favorite author, Chip O. Griff. “I understand,” he said, trying to adopt a calmer tone. “But sometimes, when you have a job to do, it’s not about motivation. You just have to do it.”

“But why me?”

Brad gingerly set a hand on his friend’s unlit wing and looked him in his beady eyes. Gently, he said “Because literally no one else can set themself on fire and live.”

“Ugghhhh.” Gary hurled himself backward into his nest. “I just don’t get why it’s such a big deal.”

“Look over there,” Brad said, gesturing toward the mountain on the eastern horizon. “The dwarves may still be mining, but they’re not whistling while they work anymore.” Next, he motioned toward the northern forest. “Over there, the will-o-wisps are starting to call themselves the won’t-o-wisps.” He turned west and pointed to a small fleet of ships at harbor. “And the elves are talking about bailing and going on some cruise for who knows how long.”

“What does this have to do with me?”

“You’re a phoenix, Gary!” Brad took a calming breath before continuing. “You’re supposed to be a symbol of hope and perseverance, no matter the trials we all face. When you rekindle your flames, it reminds us to, I don’t know, keep our spirits high and burning bright. You—”

Gary squawked, “Stop!” and a tiny spark ran along his feathers. “You know, I expected this from the older ones. But you, Brad? Do you get this kind of pressure on the farm?”

“I…” Brad paused. Yes, the days were long and work strenuous. But he didn’t have an entire realm counting on him for what amounted to cheap therapy. “Maybe not exactly.”

Gary cocked an avian eyebrow.

“Okay, maybe not at all.”

“Yeah, didn’t think so.” The two of them sat in silence for a moment. The sun was nearing the horizon, settling over a sparkling sea.

“Want to play pick-up sticks?” asked Gary.

Brad smiled. “That sounds fun.”

It wasn’t fun. Brad learned that playing pick-up sticks in a nest largely made of sticks is a fool’s errand. The two of them muttered under their breaths during each turn, and even though the game started with twenty sticks, it somehow ended with twenty-four. Gary reached out a wing and burned them all out of spite.

Brad gulped before saying, “Is it hard?”

The phoenix sighed. “No. Not physically.” He shrugged his wings. “I know it’s what I’m supposed to do. But don’t tell me you haven’t had days where you’ve slept in or skipped milking the pigs.”

“That’s not—”

“I just need some ‘me time.’ To recharge, you know?”

Brad nodded. “I know.” He had grown up on a farm. He understood how seasons worked.

The pair sat in silence as dusk fell. At one point Brad started shivering, and Gary started a low smolder to shield Brad from the cold.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Brad nodded and snatched away a Chip O. Griff scroll just in time to keep it from getting singed. “How was the latest story?” he asked.

Gary regaled him with a poorly told synopsis of a plucky young hero on part fifteen of a forty-six-part quest. The phoenix had to keep explaining different elements of earlier books to make sense, essentially telling the story in reverse order. But Brad listened to it all as stars started twinkling in the darkening sky.

“…so of course we’ll have to wait another year for yet another cliffhanger,” Gary finished. “But that’s the price of fandom.”

Brad barely stifled a yawn. “That’s wild,” he said. “Well, it’s getting late, so I’ll get out of your hair… er, feathers.”

Gary chuckled. “Typical southlands goodbye. Be safe walking home. And… thanks, Brad.”

“For what?”

“You know exactly what. Don’t play dumb.”

Brad nodded and hoisted himself out of the nest. Still clutching Leopold in a chokehold that kept him perpetually on death’s doorstep, he started down the mountain. The fire blazing above illuminated his path all the way down.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Michael Dolan’s short stories have appeared in Splickety, Havok, and The Norwegian American. When he’s not writing marketing materials, he can be found hiking, reading, gaming, or writing some more. He and his family live in the Pacific Northwest.

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