Heart of a Firebird: Chapter 1 - The Girl With No Name

Mark Larson sat on his bed, surrounded by books and paper--mostly homework, but there was his journal, sketchpad, and a few odds and ends of music and poetry. The journal was lying open to his latest entry, but he'd left it unfinished, seemingly having been distracted by a painting on an easel. He was a handsome boy, in a pair of torn jeans and a paint-stained t-shirt, his gold eyes bright and his black hair stubbornly messy. His olive-colored hand moved steadily as he brushed gold paint across the canvas.

The journal entry, however, had an interesting beginning:

-

I heard my parents talking again today--one of those times they don't want me to hear. I sincerely doubt we're American like they say we are. From what I've overheard, it sounds like we're refugees from some kind of terrible war! So, are we from Africa or the Mideast or something? But it doesn't seem to quite fit.

What I heard today scared me. They were going on about that "Rebellion." I've heard it mentioned a couple of times. They were discussing a new form of torture the leader uses, one which attacks the nervous system and makes the body believe it is in excruciating pain. They said most people die and the few who don't can experience the pain over and over, just from trauma or memory triggers. I can't believe anyone would do something so horrible, and yet...I know horrible things happen all the time.

Honestly though, I hope I never meet someone who'd been through something like that. I wouldn't be able to help them. I'd feel so helpless! I really hate feeling helpless.

-

Mark put down his paintbrush with a sigh. he was an extraordinary painter, especially for a fourteen-year-old; he was nearly finished with a beautiful oil painting of the city at night. He was using a photo he'd taken when up on the hill, where he'd caught the setting sun just right so it gleamed off the sides of the buildings and set the glass on fire. He was restless, however; Mark had the oddest sense of anticipation, like something important was about to happen. He was an extremely perceptive boy and his hunches were usually right. Mark had no idea what was about to happen, though, not even if it was good or bad. He'd just have to sit and wait.

He hated waiting.

Abandoning his painting all together, Mark put the lid back on his pallet and marched downstairs to wash off the brush. Glancing out the window as he left, he saw nothing but thick, soupy nighttime fog which had settled on the peaceful suburb.

Mark's parents were in the kitchen doing dishes because Mark had cooked that night; you either cook or clean in the Larson house, not both. His mother, Meri Larson, had the same olive skin and gold eyes as Mark, but her hair was a surprisingly sandy blonde. It wasn't dyed, either. Mark had gotten his messy black hair from his father, Jon, who was otherwise pale and gray-eyed. He grinned at his son.

"Been painting again, Mark? Is it nearly done? You'll never let me see one of your paintings in progress."

Mark smiled half-heartedly. "It's nearly done. I'm too fidgety tonight, though. I'm just cleaning up." He went to the sink, filled a bucket with hot water and soap, and began to gently wash out the oily brush. He found it oddly fascinating, the way the bright colors on the brush turned the water into a dingy gray. Perhaps life was like that too. If anything blended together too much, it became less lovely.

Suddenly, Mark felt as though something in the back of his head had stirred. It was a very odd sensation, and then he was filled with vague tingling. He looked around, dropping the brush in the water, then stared at the door. Jon noticed. "Anything wrong, Mark?"

Mark started to shake his head but stopped. His heart was pounding inexplicably. Someone's outside. He seized a dishrag, toweled off his hands, and rushed to the door. "Someone's hurt outside!" he exclaimed, not knowing where the words had come from but sensing their truth.

Mark would have thought it impossible, but the fog had become even worse since he'd glanced outside. The screen door banged shut behind him and promptly vanished from sight; he could barely see the ground beneath his feet, let alone anything in front of him. For a moment, it seemed as though the entire city had completely vanished and he was alone in some kind of netherworld, waiting for judgement. Swallowing hard, he carefully began to walk forward. Within moments, he nearly tripped over a prone figure; he overcorrected, reeled backwards, caught himself, then dropped to his knees for a better look.

It was a girl, probably the same age he was. His first thought was she had to be dead, because her form was terrifyingly skeletal and bloodstained. Then he thought no, just unconscious. When he realized the truth, it made Mark even more uncomfortable. The girl was curled into such a tight fetal position, being dead or asleep just wasn't possible. Rather, she seemed frozen from fear and pain.

The girl was in a dress so tattered and stained Mark couldn't even fathom a guess at its original color, and she stunk of blood. Mark's stomach clenched as he saw horrible, fresh red stripes over festering and scarred ones, mostly across her back. It was as though she'd been whipped every day for months, maybe even years. She had her arms tucked against her chest and her legs pulled tight against her arms, her face buried in her knees. Her emaciated form shuddered as Mark touched her softly on the shoulder.

"Are you okay?" he asked urgently, and the girl's breath caught in her throat. Her trembling grew more violent. "Hey, come on--we need to get you help!"

The girl's head turned slowly to look at him, one eye peeping out from the dirty, straggly hair. Mark felt his heart pound suddenly, startled by the most vivid shade of neon blue he'd ever seen, touched with faint hint of green. No one had eyes that color! "Are you okay?" he asked again. "Can you say anything?"

She opened her lips as though to speak, but before she had a chance she convulsed violently and began to cough, her spasms wracking her entire frame with ferocious shudders. Blood spewed from her mouth, splattering the ground. "Mom! Dad!" Mark bellowed in panic. "Help!"

The screen door crashed open and his parents scurried out. "I thought you were joking!" Meri cried. She and Jon came to the girl's side and she went limp, not even wiping the blood from her mouth. "We have to call an ambulance, Jon!"

"Right," he rasped, reaching for his phone. A pale, gaunt hand shot out and seized his wrist with surprising speed and strength; the girl was trying to stop him.

"Please...no..." she whispered, sounding absolutely pathetic. "I don't want...to go...to a hospital...."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Mark protested, but Meri held up her hand and he stopped talking immediately, rocking back on his heels.

"Do you know where you're hurt?" Meri asked in a soft voice.

"Yes...two broken ribs...but that's the worst, my other wounds...just superficial...."

She calls those superficial? Mark wondered. It didn't seem like there was an inch of her body not covered with gashes, burns, and bruises, many of which looked infected.

"Why were you coughing blood?" Meri asked.

"Condition..." the girl breathed. "Lungs...not punctured...can breathe fine...except it hurts...."

The girl released Jon's arm, as though the small effort had been more than she could take. She coughed again, weakly this time.

"Who...who did this to you?" Mark asked, somewhere between horror and rage. The girl met his eyes, fear flashing across her face.

"I don't know. I don't remember. I don't--I don't remember anything!" Suppressed panic made her voice shake and she grew tense again, burying her face.

Jon and Meri exchanged glances and agreed on something silently. "Mark, can you carry her in?"

He nodded. "Come on, we'll help you," he told the girl kindly, offering his hand. "Can you stand?" He helped her up, then simply scooped her into his arms; the soles of her feet were bleeding, too. Mark was horrified by the vast collection of wounds she sported, but she only flinched and remained silent as he carried her to the door. She was too light, too, maybe eighty pounds at most. Meri rushed ahead to pour bathwater and start pulling out all the medicine and bandages she owned. Mark carried the girl up the stairs and she clung to him, still shaking. He left her in the bathroom with Meri and went to search the basement for more jars of ointment. Jon busied himself digging out a couple of old sheets and tearing them into more bandages.

"And get me some painkillers!" Meri yelled down the stairs at them, then closed the bathroom door.

Meri Larson helped the girl wash off what seemed to be years of filth and blood. It took nearly an hour of the shower running before she was clean enough to just soak in bathwater, which Meri filled with healing herbs and essential oils. The girl would be beautiful once she filled out, Meri thought, helping her comb through what were actually silvery blonde curls. She was afraid the girl would have terrible scars her whole life, though. Her back was in unspeakable condition, and there was a horrendous gash all the way from her thigh, down the side of her knee, to her ankle. Even her feet were covered in welts and cuts. Meri pursed her lips as she threw in the last of her white willow bark and rosemary in the water to help reduce the girl's pain and fever.

"Stay in there and just soak," Meri instructed, drying her hands and pulling the curtain over the tub so she could open the bathroom door and let out some of the heavily scented steam. She retrieved the makeshift bandages from Jon and went back upstairs, closing the door behind her.

Down in the living room, even though it was approaching midnight, Mark sat with his dad in silence, waiting. It could hardly be said something like this happened often, thank heavens. Mark didn't know what to think. He'd felt strange when looking at the girl, like something was echoing in the back of his head--that tingling again. He knew there was a memory in there somewhere that would explain what the sensation was, but he couldn't quite grasp it. It was frustrating! There was something important...something important about the girl, something she had...or used to have....

Mark was flipping through a book of herbs when Meri and the girl came down the stairs. The stranger was walking on her won, though gingerly, wearing one of Meri's old nightgowns. He smiled, relieved, closing his book and standing respectfully as he'd been taught. The girl smiled back uncertainly--Meri looked at her with surprise. It was her first smile.

"How do you feel now?" Mark asked, sitting back down after the girl perched herself on the couch.

"Much better, thank you," she replied. Now that it wasn't muffled and fearful, her soft voice had a pleasing, musical lilt to it, and everything was carefully enunciated. It reminded Mark a little of his parent's own speech patterns. "A little sore--and I'm exhausted--but I don't feel much pain."

"I'm so glad!" Mark exclaimed earnestly, his eyes crinkling a little. "You scared me. Do you remember anything yet?"

She shook her head, then paused, seeming to think. "I might," she replied slowly. "I remember a face, but...it frightens me...I think he might be the one who hurt me." She gestured vaguely to the bandages all over her frail body. "I don't really want to remember."

"It's okay, dear, don't try too hard yet," Meri soothed.

"Anyway, you're safe here," Jon added reassuringly. The girl only smiled again when she met Mark's eyes; a soft, shy smile.

"In any case," Mark said boldly, "you should think of a name if you can't remember your own. We have to have something to call you."

She glanced down at her feet. "Yes, I suppose I should," she sighed. "Any ideas?"

There was a moment of silence as they all considered. "How about Lisa?" Jon suggested. The girl shrugged.

"Or Melanie? You could be a Melanie," Meri mused. Once again, they only received a noncommittal shrug.

"We could call you Teri," Mark said casually. It was a name he thought would suit her. Suddenly another smile flashed across the girl's face.

"Teri," she said, testing it. "I like it."

"Teri it is then!" Jon whooped victoriously, as though it had been his idea. He slapped his knees and stood. "Pleased to meet you, Teri." He stuck out his hand and she shook it with another smile.

Mark's heart was hammering, though he tried hard to hide it. He liked those smiles.

Newly named Teri yawned, politely covering her mouth with her hand. Meri stood. "You need rest," she ordered in business-like tones. "I'll make you some chamomile tea to help you relax, and then you're off to bed. Both of you," she added with a pointed look at Mark, then swept out. He rolled his eyes.

"I'd better go to bed too, kiddos," Jon informed them. "I need to be up at five." He walked out, leaving the two children alone. Suddenly and unexpectedly, Mark felt awkward and unsure of what to say. The girl--Teri--just stared at her feet, looking tense and uncomfortable. Teri was something of an enigma, but in spite of that, she seemed familiar. Like a long-lost friend.

Finally, Mark spoke up. He wasn't sure what had inspired him to say it, either, but it popped out of his mouth. "Do you believe in magic, Teri?"

Teri gave him a look as though he were crazy. "Doesn't everyone?" she asked quizzically. Mark grinned.

"Unfortunately, no," he told her, eyes sparkling.

"That's very strange," she mused. "Isn't it better to believe in magic?"

"Well, I certainly think so," Mark laughed. The girl smiled again, her big blue eyes crinkling.

Inside the kitchen, Meri knelt on the ground, leaning against the counter for support: her eyes were wide with fear. Has he found out? Will she make him...?

But Meri quickly composed herself and continued preparing tea and leftover stew for Teri. The stew was a thick, savory beef with carrots, potatoes, turnips, celery, and dumplings. The tea was chamomile but Meri added just a hint of mint to soothe. She brought a tray into the living room. "Teri? I have some food. I know you might not feel like it, but I want you to eat as much as you can," she said. Teri nodded, looking Meri in the eyes.

"Thank you so much for all you've done for me," she said earnestly.

"We're so glad to help. Frankly, things like this just don't happen often, so it's all very interesting. Tomorrow we'll take you to the police station and see if they can't help figure out who you are." Teri found the woman's smile reassuring and accepted the food. She didn't feel hungry, although her better sense told her she should. She forced herself to start eating, however, and it was like a dam broke; suddenly she couldn't stop. She hadn't had food this good for so long! A dim memory of all she'd had the previous years entered her mind; a small bowl of cold, watery, slimy cabbage broth once daily, with a cup of lukewarm metallic water. The tea was a relief too, soothing her dry throat. Despite somehow knowing it wasn't good for her to eat so much after months of starving, she polished it all off.

"I'm impressed," Meri said, taking the dirty dishes back. "I didn't think you could eat it all. Let's just hope you don't regret it later, hmm?"

"No kidding," Teri replied, rubbing her stomach gingerly.

"Come on Mark, bed," Meri commanded as she left the room. "I'll help Teri. You're getting up in the morning to work in the garden, remember?"

He sighed. "Yeah, I suppose." He stood and met Teri's eyes. "You'll be okay, right?"

Her cheeks began to flush, unnerved by his steady and concerned attention. "Y-yes," she stammered.

"Get someone if you need anything, okay? Even if it's just for company."

She ducked her head. "Okay."

Mark smiled and left, his head spinning a little. Those eyes really were something; they had a way of drawing you in and making the rest of the room disappear.

Meri spread sheets out on the couch and retrieved a couple of blankets in case Teri needed them. She fluffed up a pillow and tucked Teri in. "Now, if you want anything to eat or drink anytime, feel free to anything in the fridge, freezer, or pantry--it's the sliding closet doors in the dining area. There are more blankets upstairs and there's a fan behind the sofa if you're too hot. Feel free to leave a light on if you want. Do you think you'll be all right alone?"

Teri nodded. "Thank you...."

Meri smiled. "I'm happy to help," she assured the girl gently. "Sleep. You look like you need it. Like Mark said; if you need anything, come get any of us."

"Thank you so much," Teri whispered again. Her eyelids began to sag. "I'm sorry for being such a nuisance."

"You aren't," Meri replied sternly. "Go to sleep now. I'm going to go bug my hubby."

Teri smiled as she drifted off.

-

"Is she asleep?" Jon asked as his wife entered the bedroom.

"Nearly," she yawned. Her forehead furrowed. "That girl...did you get the same feeling I did?"

"Magic? Definitely," Jon replied. "She's magical--or was. Either she tapped herself out or gave it up."

"Which would explain her amnesia," Meri mused. "How do you think she ended up here?"

Jon ran a hand through his ruffled black hair. "Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe she escaped from the Rebellion. It would make sense. If they wanted something from her, they wouldn't have any qualms with such torture. Even though she's a child." His voice was bitter.

Meri sat on the bed, some amount of horror finally sinking in. "Jon, she's probably Mark's age," she whispered. "How could anyone inflict such wounds on a fourteen-year-old? I've never seen someone beaten so badly...and those scars and cuts on her back..it looks as though she's been whipped and burned and stabbed and who knows what else...is the Rebellion really full of such monsters?"

"Merixyn, you know as well as I they aren't all monsters. Just like not all Loyalists are good; some are pure evil."

"Looking at it that way, maybe she's part of the Rebellion."

"Are you sure she's even from the Kingdom?" Jon asked. "She speaks English fluently. Maybe she's the daughter of another escapee."

"No, I doubt it," Meri said slowly. "After you went downstairs, Mark asked her if she believed in magic."

The news seemed to alarm Jon. "What? That--that's not good! If he starts to realize he's an elf, he could become a target!"

"I know that, Jon! But she thought he was crazy. She said, 'Doesn't everybody?' like he was asking something weird."

Jon bit his lip. "I wonder who she is. I wonder if we could find her family--if she has a family."

"Even if we could, would it be the right thing to do? The Rebellion has won. The Phoenix is dead, according to reports. No one knows what happened to her brother and sister. The king and queen are imprisoned, and who knows when Emberon will decide to have them executed?"

"Meri, we can't keep a fourteen-year-old girl from her family!"

"I know, I know!" She started pacing, frustrated. "But think about it. She'll be a lot safer living here on Earth with a human family and knowing nothing about her own magic."

"We should still make an attempt to find out who she is, shouldn't we? If we could find out more than we already know, then we could more accurately decide whether keeping her in the dark is the best thing to do."

"Jon, don't you think it's a bit too dangerous to be asking around now Emberon has taken the throne? Don't forget, he knows who we are. He could catch our spies and find out where we are. Everything we've done, all the lives we've told, are for Mark's safety. Could we risk him now? After what happened to Lenora?" Her words seemed to trigger a painful reaction in Jon; his eyes popped a little and his face sagged with despair.

“Meri!” he snapped, mouth twisting with pain. “You promised never to talk about that!”

Her face softened. “I know. I’m sorry. But I can’t lose another child to Emberon.”

Jon buried his face in his hands. “You’re right,” he muttered, voice muffled. “We can’t risk it. We’ll let them find a human family for the girl…Teri.”

Meri was nearly crying. “Let’s go to bed, Jon. We’ll take her to the police tomorrow.”

“Right,” Jon sighed, complying by climbing into the bed. Meri changed into another one of her nightgowns and crawled in beside him, feeling strange. She wasn’t sure why, but Meri felt this girl was vital somehow, for good or for bad.

She just didn’t know which.

-

Teri’s dreams were dark and indistinct that night. She could hear someone calling out to her, pleading with her, but she couldn’t make out her name or any other words. Faceless figures wandered at the edges of her vision and a voice that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up kept saying, “Murderer, murderer!”

Then her dream changed. She was standing in the middle of a sandstorm so dense nothing else was visible—but the wind was dying, the sand settling. Teri found suddenly she didn’t want it to clear; she didn’t want to see what it was hiding. But it kept settling. She couldn’t so much as close her eyes and block it out.

A shadowy figure was being unveiled before her. Panic flared in Teri as a faint flash of blue pierced through—panic turned to terror—

Then she awoke. A strangled cry burst from her, leaving her breathless and sobbing with fear. She didn’t even know why, entirely, but she knew she didn’t want to see…didn’t want to remember. She stifled her cries in the pillow, sucking in her breath and holding it in. Her entire body ached and stung, and the pain in her ribcage was intense. Her sobs quickly died, however; she couldn’t show weakness! Habit built up from months of barely remembered trauma taught her not to make a sound, no matter how much it hurt.

No crying, she told herself.

She held still, carefully regulating her breath and balling her hands into fists, willing her mind to go blank. She listened to see if she’d disturbed anyone, but the house was dark and quiet. Despite her best efforts, memory seemed to leak through the walls of her mind; she saw a vague, blurry image of a dark cell. The floor and three of the walls were solid stone, the fourth wall iron bars. She could see a blurry face—an impression—of a person; chiseled features, bulky build, angry frame and wiry, cloudy hair. In his hand was a horrid whip—she remembered clearly; the thorns and glass and chains….

Teri shut that out, too, searching for a more pleasant memory.

But none came.

-

Morning broke, beaming through a light mist, all that was left from the thick fog of the night before. Teri wasn’t asleep—she hadn’t been able to rest after her nightmare. She just laid still and listened as the world began to wake up; dogs barking, the sound of cars, a lawn mower, Jon and Meri murmuring to each other. Somewhere in the house, she’d heard the faint jingling of what sounded like a cat collar, but it hadn’t come where she could see it. She hoped the little family would get up soon. She’d hated spending the night alone, feeling her heart pound with fear every time there was noise in the house. Why did she have to be so scared?

Teri’s whole body twitched violently as something upstairs went thud! and for a moment her chest was heaving with accelerated breaths. Then she heard Mark bellow, “Cat, I’ll get you for that!” Laughter suddenly swelling inside, Teri heard quick, soft thumps and the tinkling of a bell as a cat streaked down the stairs, followed by the heavier footsteps of Mark. The cat raced into the living room and leapt onto Teri’s chest, looking her squarely in the eyes. It was a pretty thing, somewhere between a tabby and a calico, and it had striking gold eyes and long fur. However, it was holding what looked like a button between its teeth. Sure enough, Mark followed it in with an air of exasperation and the top button of his nightshirt missing.

“Zoë!” he exclaimed. “Give it back!”

Teri laughed, ignoring the fresh pain of six pounds on her broken and cracked ribs. “What’d you do, Cat, tear out his button?”

Zoë blinked smugly.

“That’s exactly what she did!” Mark growled, making a grab for the cat. She leapt deftly onto the headrest and Mark had to catch himself before he landed on top of Teri. “She’s obsessed with buttons!”

Teri laughed again; she couldn’t help it, even though it hurt. She reached up and stroked the cat under the chin. “Are you going to give it back?” she asked. The cat fixed her with another stare and then dropped the button into the palm of her hand. “Good kitty,” she said, handing the slobbery button to Mark. Zoë slinked down onto her shoulder and settled down, purring.

“Good kitty my foot,” Mark muttered, straightening and wiping off the button. “She seems to like you, anyway. I’ll be back down in a moment—I need to sew this back on.” He walked off and Teri tucked her cheek against Zoë’s silky fur.

“You should have kept me company last night,” she murmured, thinking of how hard being alone had been.

“Mrrow,” came the non-committal reply.

Mark came back down in a t-shirt and jeans, holding his nightshirt, a needle, and a spool of thread. He sat on a chair opposite of the couch and started securing the button while Zoë watched with intense interest. “Did you sleep all right?” he asked, breaking off a piece of thread.

“Not too bad,” Teri lied. “It was nice having somewhere soft.”

Mark’s face was earnest and concerned. “How could anyone…anyone hurt you like that?”

Teri’s eyes widened as flashes raced through her mind—her hands dripping with scarlet blood, bodies strewn at her feet—

“I-I don’t remember,” she whispered, trying to convince herself. I don’t want to remember.

“He bit his lip. It seemed to really be bothering him. Teri sighed. “Look, don’t worry about it. Obviously I’ve been through something awful…my body is evidence of that…but I can’t even remember, Mark. It really doesn’t matter—at least not now.”

“My parents are planning on taking you to the police station today though. I think that’s for the best. If you live your entire life not knowing who you are, it’ll just haunt you.”

“That’s true enough.” She closed her eyes for a moment—they were itchy and dry—and then heard Mark stand.

“I’m going to go get my mom so we can have breakfast. I’m hungry! Besides, you probably need to go to the hospital, too.”

“Look,” Teri protested, “I don’t want you guys doing things at my expense! I don’t want to be a bother….”

“You aren’t,” Mark answered as he left the room. Inexplicably, Teri felt her cheeks flush.