In the emerald sway of a hidden glade we find her. Following her path was easy. The land is criss crossed with her casual fury. Singed lines of forest and field blacken the breezy hills, embers fallen from her wings dropping to earth and catching on dry grasses or withered bushes.
Calmer now, her golden feathers glisten in the afternoon soon, softly shimmering all the colours of flame as her body rises and falls with sleeping breaths. Her coal black eyes are shut. Her brass beak lets out puffs of heated air that wavers before her in the wilted patch of grass where her head lies.
There are men with us, with long rifles, and a priest with an ancient sword. Habitual precautions. To kill her now will do us no good. Her rebirth would be furious and catastrophic. This glade and the surrounding leagues would be incinerated in a heartbeat and the wildfires afterwards would consume half the duchy.
Sacrifices are brought forwards. Barrels of grapes, oranges and pomegranates. A cart of salted pork. A barrel full of pitch, for her to chew on. A mechanical, brass owl, that halloos and waddles about, to keep her company.
Sate the phoenix, we say. Keep her content. Ancient and venerable, this is her land long before it was ours. Let us find accord, let us have harmony, rather than mutually assured destruction. Such is the way we choose to live now.
Paddy Dobson
14th February 2021