I have an ancient bag filled with phoenix bones and ashes. A single charred, but radiant, feather.
What am I supposed to do with this?
Do I shake them until something gets loose and leaps up from the deep chasm of lifeless limbo?
Do I lay them out in a pattern on the longest day of the year and recite a prayer?
How do I figure out the pattern? The prayer? The peak timing? I can’t find any pertinent info on the internet.
Should I plant the ashes and bones in my backyard by the rose bush and water them?
Should I mix them with eggs and butter and cream and stir the hell out of it and hope a carefree gingerbread phoenix rises in my oven?
What essential fire first forged this ill-fated phoenix (for why else would it end up in my hands)? Which fundamental force wove the phoenix’s lifeline into an eternal loop of death and rebirth?
Why were we left out?
I wish the phoenix had left clear instructions. In case of emergency. A fire-proof scroll securely furled in a remote celestial nest. And a shining pin on a map.
I’d be game. Let’s quest!
But my bones are unlike these—
My flesh, easily burned—
I wonder. Did an even more powerful mythical beast destroy this creature and eat the map?
Will it come after me next?
Will I get in trouble if I do nothing?
Maybe it’s best if—
I think I’ll put this bag away.
I have enough to worry about.
…
It keeps me awake. There has been no mention on the news. No generous reward offered. No gray wizards have knocked on my door with a decree from the secret council of immortal beings.
Why not?
Are my flesh and bones in fact not that different from these?
Accidentally forgotten—
Tragically incomplete—
Right this moment definitely not coming alive by any ancient fiery power.
Despite being ready.