Free Dead Awake: The Last Crossing by hades Page B

from pain. If I could not explain it, then
what I had just seen could be nothing less than a phoenix, and that
simply could not be; not even if my eyes had told me so. A more
nerving explanation would have to be that a weather phenomenon had
just occurred, and that I had happened to be an eyewitness to it.
If that was the case, that poor bird had caught the luck of being
struck by several lightning bolts at the same time; but I could not
believe that for the bird had not appeared to be damaged as it flew
beyond the reach of my sight.
    While still caught in the
mystery, the question was resolved as the bird reappeared out of
the far horizon. This time it flew with its entire splendor in a
most majestic dance. This second appearance lasted much longer than
the first.
    It hovered above me, to let
me soak in its splendor – tarrying in the same spot, then left as
before. It was as if it were trying to defy my unbelief and impose
itself as a new faith in my soul’s cradle. It was an image that
could not be withstood, and now that it had given me more time to
scrutinize it, it became forever detailed as an effigy,
inescapable, to go back to again and again in future dreams and
nightmares.
    Time seemed to go slower as
I gazed upon the spectacle, but in reality the whole ordeal only
lasted about four seconds. During those few seconds I saw the most
astonishing manifestation as the bird’s wings became fire, roaring
like streams of thundering echoes, and cracking like the frost that
splits the air in the early winter morning. It was as if fire and
ice came from within its wings in a paradoxical
confrontation.
    I have never seen such
colors, or such a spectacle of light, produced by anything that
could be called a natural weather pattern. Further, I don’t think I
have ever been able to see a bird’s features with such detail, even
with a pair of binoculars. Thus it was impossible for me to escape
the evidence that affirmed the existence of something paranormal. I
know it was real, for it looked down on me, and the stare it gave
made my bones feel as if they had been scraped with iron shavings.
It’s eyes were the glow of red oven coals. They moved with life
upon me and tore through my back, unraveling the stitches of doubt
that were neatly sown. But it wasn’t horrible. How could it be? It
had the face of a cherub – it was not frightening, but rather
stirring, as if to startle a dead man from his deathbed.
    I was surprised to find just
one feather as an aftermath, since such a revolution of plumage
could have easily left the poor bird bald. No, not one other clue,
though I looked on for at least an hour more before continuing my
walk.
    I came to a bar and went in
to take another rest. It was delightful that the people there did
not laugh at me, for I told them the entire story. Instead, they
took my story seriously and listened intently to every word I
spoke. This was not like the States. No not at all. And when I
showed them the feather, they were amazed and called me “the
fortunate one”.
    “ El pajaro de
fuego, ” one man said, “Everyone knows what dis feather comes
from and what it bring to the one dat hold it.”
    “ So you do believe me?” I
asked.
    “ Of course, mister... The
legend says dat it name is the firebird or Phoenix, and that it
roars trough da skies like tunder, and lite. It comes down from “El
Tupa oti” in da skies-where it lives. El Tupa, when he is mad so he
sends da bir to kill a demon. Den da pajaro flies, but if you can
see him you can see the place of his home... And even better if you
get one of his feaders it will bring you good luck or stop a curs
from a devil. So dis feader you got, ah yes, no one ever has a
feader for a long time.” The man then looked at the feather, which
was being passed around for all to see, and gave it venerable
homage. He was as the poor man watching the coat he cannot buy. So
I took back the feather, now at the hands of a lady, and presented
it to him.
    “