And then, like she stopped feeling eyes upon her, she stopped wondering. She did not wonder if the moth watched the sunrise from the dark of the trees. She did not wonder if she chased the flame because she longed to feel the sun’s touch upon her back. She did not wonder how much time she had left. She did not wonder anything.
The sky crawled from black to indigo, from indigo to royal blue. She watched it. Inexplicably, though it was far from bright enough to hurt her, her eyes began to burn. She felt wetness on her cheek and reached up to brush it away, confused. It wasn’t raining; had dew fallen upon her from the leaves? More water came, and more burning. She touchedher cheek again, then her eyes. Her forehead wrinkled. The water. It was leaking from her eyes. What was this water leaking from her eyes?
Then, like lightning, it seized her – all of it. Fury, fear, wondering, wanting. Desperation – the desperate yearning only seeing a sunrise could make.
Johanna, she thought, frantic, wild with that yearning, and desperate, desperate to keep it.Old mother, rowan, wind from every side. You sheltered me; you grew me. If you ever loved me–
“Aid me in this,” she whispered, urgently. “Do not leave me alone.”
No – that wasn’t what she meant.
She opened her mouth to speak, to correct, to ask instead for cunning, for luck, for aim true as the stars. But no sound would come. Her tongue had been taken.
Before she could mourn it, the phoenix appeared.
Gold and orange as dawn, even in the dim light, it picked its way through the grass, bending and pecking at the trail of roots she had laid. Closer and closer it drew, stopping to peck and swallow each crushed root.
She crouched lower, mindful of the rope in her grip. If she moved it too early, the phoenix would see it, assume it was a snake, flee. If she pulled it too soon, her chance was ruined.
The first white claws of morning ripped through the deep blue. Something shifted in the brush behind her. Her grip tightened on the rope; her wrist ached from the strain of not pulling.
The phoenix continued its slow creep forward, oblivious to midsummer’s imminent passing in the sky, oblivious to the danger lurking in the trees.
The danger’s heart was ramming against her ribs, her hands slick with sweat and sticky slime.Patience, she cautioned herself. She had only moments; she had only one chance.
Her prey approached the piled roots and turned its head from side to side, bewildered by this unexpected bounty. It cocked its head to the trees, its beady eyes unreadable. She held her breath.
The phoenix scratched the ground with its claws, then moved away from the pile, toward the water. Anya’s grip tightened on the rope, her knuckles aching. It appeared to examine the water, then peered through the trap, into the thicket, beyond the border of trees. It looked right at her.
But, satisfied, it turned, picking around the stakes, in the dirt around the edge of the pile. It crept closer, gripping one of the roots in its beak. She gripped the rope even tighter, her fingernails digging into the skin of her palm. Her pulse felt as if it would pour out of her ears.
And then, clucking happily, the bird pecked its way to the center of the pile.
With all her might, she yanked the rope. The net fell.
As it landed, the bird let out a frightened squawk. It thrashed and struggled, wings flailing, tangling its feathers in the holes of the net. It scratched at the ground, trying to propel itself under the edge, but her frame held it fast.
Anya released a breath. Her heart did not slow. Quickly, she raised her bow. Nocked the enchanted arrow, the cursed arrow, her freedom.
Aimed it. Watched the captured creature, no longer struggling, but still straining, panting beneath the confines of the net. Was it the body or the spirit that kept it panting? Which gave up first?
The solstice drew nearer. She felt it; in the stars’ summer song, in the ever-tilting earth reaching its hungry mouth toward the sun. She adjusted her grip; her sticky fingers clung to the end of the arrow. She fixed her aim, straight for the bird’s heaving chest.
All she had to do was shoot, and it was over. All of it. Again, she adjusted her grip.Just one shot. If she had something to steady her grip.
The gloves. The gloves in her pocket. The bird was frightened, was suffering. All she had to do was put on the gloves.
Put them on, take the shot, end this hunt, this game, once and for all.
But the hunt never ended. None of it would end. Scrabbling for crumbs. Returning to her house in the woods, alone, under the thumb of a woman who would crush her like a bug for stepping one foot in the wrong direction.
Knowing – the moldable meat of her body, the measure of what she had been missing. The malignant ache of certainty, the certainty that she could not ever have it. The remorse, the weight of all she had stolen from another. From him. He, who could see a future. Who could find beauty where she saw onlymean survival, onlyshouldorshould not, neverI will have more, and I will have it anyway.
Despite herself – despite her pounding heart – she lowered her bow. Loosened her grip on the arrow.
She could wait, only minutes from now, for the sun and the earth to get as close to touching as they ever would. Let their unrequited reach seal her fate for her.
Or she could prick herself with the arrow. End this now, for herself at least. Then the phoenix would be here, waiting for some other hunter. Some other fate.
