The Rise of the Phoenix (3 page)

At sunset, people would start to head home. They’d collect their children, turn on the lights and eat their family meals. Yet the boy still walked, stopping only when his legs were too tired to take it another step. Even then, he tried. There were new blisters on the base of his feet each day, bursting with agony by lunchtime, and always by the morning, his feet would be healed again. Free of pain. Like getting a new pair every day. It was bittersweet really. He had hoped he could walk himself to death, envisioning wearing his feet away like the eraser on top of a pencil, until there was nothing left of him.

He huddled in bus shelters at night. Or if he was lucky, he found a building that had been vacated. There were a few of those. Mostly, they belonged to
Humans
, but ready to be sold onto
Others
. “Give the rats derelict cages,” his father used to say. “And hope that one day the roof falls in and kills them. Like God’s hand.” Would he still wish that even now? Yes, maybe he would. Perhaps he would push the roof in himself.

His legs screamed for him to stop, but he wouldn’t permit it. It wasn’t yet dark. “Just a little farther,” he promised himself. His throat was parched and burnt like fire each time he swallowed. Sweat trickled down his forehead and his back, but his skin was cold to the touch. A fever perhaps. Hot liquid seared his stomach, nothing he ate seeming to sate his excruciating hunger. He’d feed on anything he could find or steal. Mostly it had been scraps.

Yesterday, he had plunged his hand into a rubbish bin, where some kids had thrown away half eaten burgers outside a known food chain, and had gulped down the discarded food in two bites. The smell had been too enticing and he had not been able to resist.  He hadn't even chewed really, just practically swallowed it whole.

It hadn’t been enough, though. He had run away before he was tempted to throw the lid from the bin and search inside with ravenous desperation. His w
olf
had pleaded with him. He was so hungry.

It didn’t make sense to him. When the pleading started, it crawled under his skin. He could almost hear the pained whimpers of an animal, but the sounds weren’t in his head, nor were they outside. They came from within. He clutched his head in those moments, trying to force the
wolf
back. He didn’t know how to think of him other than a separate entity. He was in his thoughts, separate, but the same.

He couldn’t decide whether he hated the
wolf
or whether to embrace it. It was part of him now. It would always be part of him. Their blood flowed together. They were the same. Paired creatures entwined in the skin of one thirteen-year-old boy. But he was the reason his mother had died. The reason for the lingering cuts across his face, arms, and back from his father’s attack. They were almost healed now, the
wolf’s
doing of course, but they looked like scars now. One scar ran down his forehead, through his eyebrow, tailing off just at the side of his eye. He wondered if they would ever fully heal. He didn’t think they could. Just like his heart, it was torn in a way he never knew possible. How could it heal fully? How could anything go back to how it was before?

He trudged along, body and mind heavy. Like the echoes of the sea caught in the womb of a seashell, the deafening roar in his head made it impossible to lose himself in his thoughts. They thundered with each step he took until he could no longer bear it. He needed to sleep. He didn’t want to, but he needed to. Sleep brought dreams. Dreams of things he would never have, and dreams of things he didn’t want to see. But whichever they were, they always reminded him of what he had done. Of all the pain that he had caused. The misery, sadness, and the lives he had destroyed. Sometimes, he dreamt that she was holding him and telling him that everything was okay. Perhaps those were the worst ones. They made his heart ache with a longing that cut so deep. Each time he awoke, for just a moment, he could feel the warmth of her embrace. He could feel where she had kissed him on his forehead and told him that it wasn’t his fault. Even the scent of her perfume came through the dreams and lingered in the air. But then that sinking feeling would come in, and his stomach would lurch as the truth of everything filled his mind.

Other times, he dreamt of the day that he had killed her. That memory played over and over again in his mind. It always started and ended at the same place, and each time, there was nothing he could do to stop it.

They had been driving home from the city. She had wanted to pick up some art supplies they didn’t have in the small village where they lived. It wasn’t too far away, but it was far enough that they needed to drive and not take the bus. Halfway back, their car had got a flat tyre. His mother must have hit something, a stray rock maybe. There were plenty of those. They rolled down from the hills in the valley sometimes, especially when the sheep were frolicking along the grassy slopes. She had pulled the car over at the side of the very narrow lane they were driving on. The rain was heavy that day. It lashed down against the windscreen so violently that even the wipers had trouble keeping up. They sat there in silence for a few minutes. He watched the indecision flit across his mother’s features as she sat wondering what best to do. Wait for a car to pass perhaps and some friendly driver to offer help. But the road was empty. No one was foolish enough to drive out in that weather - except for them, of course.

“You stay here,” she finally said. “I’m going to go and change the tyre.”

“Do you know how?” he asked her.

She smiled at him, but he wasn’t too young or too stupid to notice the hesitation in her expression. “I’ve seen your dad do it. It can't be that hard.” It looked as if she were trying to convince herself more than him.

“I know how to use the jack,” the boy said excitedly. “Dad’s let me do it hundreds of times.” He leapt out of the car and into the rain before she could say no. He knew what he was doing. He had done it many times just for fun, too. Watching the small metal support lift such a heavy burden had fascinated him. Sometimes he would make the jack as tall as it would go, wondering if he could make the car roll over onto its side.

His mother opened the boot of the car and pulled back the cover that hid the spare wheel and the kit. The boy grabbed the jack and positioned it just under the car, inserting the arm and twisting until it made contact with the underside of the car. It got a little stiffer, but not too much. He could still work it until the car reached the point where its tyre was barely touching the ground. The arm soon became too hard to turn, so the boy stood on it, using his weight and gravity as he bounced up and down. The car rose and he smiled proudly, despite the cold and wet he was feeling. His fingers were slippery and numb as he fumbled to engage the lock that stopped the jack from dropping down.

“Done it.” He grinned at his mother.

“Go and sit in the car before you catch a chill,” she said to him. She was just as soaked through as he was, her long, dark hair sticking to the front of her thin jacket. The jacket was of little use in this weather. She put the tyre iron onto one of the bolts of the wheel and tried to twist it. It wouldn’t budge. Her hands were red and they had to be as cold as his were. She manoeuvred herself to get a better grip. “Get in the car,” she ground out through gritted teeth as she tried to make the bolt move. “I’m not kidding.”

He didn’t want to get in. He half walked around the car as if he was going to, but then stopped and watched her. She was huffing and puffing, but the iron wouldn’t move. She tried standing on it just as he had done with the jack, but her shoes were thin and the bar hurt her feet. She couldn’t force it to turn.

“I’ll do it,” the boy said enthusiastically. He didn’t give her time to get mad about not being in the car like she had said. He ran over and stood on the side of the iron. It bore all of his weight with no effort.

It didn’t move. Not even a millimetre. He jumped on it. Bounced. But still nothing.

His mother looked left and right along the lane, searching hopefully for some form of help. Rain lashed down on her already red face. It was cold, each droplet stinging like tiny whips. “Maybe we can find somewhere to call your dad. He put these wheels on. He can come and take it off.”

“There was a house that way,” the boy said and pointed. “Maybe they have a phone we can use.” They didn’t use these roads often. One side was thick with woodlands, lakes, and places he was forbidden from going to. On the tops of the stone walls were signs. Each of them issued warnings to
Humans
, ‘Keep out’ or ‘Enter at your own risk after dark.’ He knew what those meant. At night, these places were used by
Others
to run and hunt. He didn’t think there were any out there now. Not in the light. But he watched and hoped all the same. Like a kid looking for Bigfoot in the woods.

He had seen
Others
before, but never up close. His dad wouldn’t allow it. Said they were dangerous. “They should be eradicated,” his father had spat. “They’re like bacteria germinating and wanting to just destroy us.” The boy wasn’t sure about that. Maybe they just wanted to be happy. Whatever it was they wanted, he thought many times how great it must be to be able to turn into an animal, or to use magic. His dad had told him stories about
Other
children, and how they never lived very long. Especially not if the
Humans
could help it. That had made the boy sad, not happy like his father wanted. They were just children. With mums and dads.

“We should walk,” his mother said. She lifted the spare tyre back into the boot and locked it, but she didn’t take the jack away.

“It’s just this way,” he told his mother, and she followed him.

It turned out that it wasn’t as far as she had thought. Maybe fifteen minutes. Her shoulders had slumped in relief at seeing the gate and the driveway to an old farmhouse. There were chickens in the front on one side and a goat on the other. Other than that, it didn’t look like it was a working farm. His mother unlatched the gate and lifted it from its muddy pit to swing it open.

The house was set far enough back so that if the residents were looking, they’d have had time to inspect their uninvited visitors. But perhaps they weren’t looking and didn’t care.

His mother knocked on the door. She lifted the knocker and banged it down three times. For some reason, the boy had expected to hear the yapping of a dog on the other side. There was none, but he heard movement from within. Yet no one came to the door.

“Maybe they’re ignoring us,” the boy whispered after a minute or so.

“Maybe,” his mother said. “We’ll try once more.” She raised her hand to the knocker again, but just then the locks on the other side engaged and the door opened a crack. A man scowled at them through the opening. He must have been in his forties, at most. He stared at them, not saying a word. The boy’s mother stepped back and instinctively took the boy with her. She rested a hand on his shoulder and encouraged him to back away.

“I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to disturb you,” she said, hastily turning to walk away.

The boy didn’t follow. The man at the door, he was
Other
, that was the problem. But he wasn’t afraid of them.

“Our car broke down,” he said.

His mother turned on her heel, eyes wide, hissing his name in reprimand.

“Would we be able to use your phone to call my dad? We can't get the bolts off.”

The man stood straighter then and opened the door properly. Just behind him stood a boy. He was young, maybe around the same age, or just a little older. He had the beginnings of his first moustache. It made the boy jealous. His own hair was blonde and all he managed was a few wisps of hair that no one could see. But the boy in the house had dark hair and a distinct line above his upper lip.

“I can come and take it off for you,” the man said. “Change the tyre?”

“That would be great,” the boy said on his mother’s behalf.

“If you want to go in and call your dad, Robert there will show you where the phone is. I’ll go help your mother.” He looked at the boy waiting for a nod, and then he looked at his mother.

“Sure,” the boy said.

“I don’t think that’s…”

“It’s fine,” the boy said to his mother. “I’m just here.”

She twisted her hands together in uncertainty. The boy nodded to his mother that he was okay. Reluctantly, she left, but he noticed how she made the man walk in front of her as they did.

He stepped into the house. It smelt musty, but warm. Kind of like an old leather sofa in front of a fire.

“I’ve never had a
Human
in here before,” Robert said.

“You’re really
Other
?” He hesitated before the word
Other,
in case it was insulting.

“I’m
Wolf
,” Robert replied.

This just made the boy grin. His first real
Other
right in front of him. “Can I see?” he asked without thinking.

“See?”

“You change into a wolf. I’ve never seen it before.”

Robert’s face darkened. “We’re not a freak show, you know.”

The boy frowned. “But you’re not
Human,
either.”