Hello all, so this story has had a bit of a revamp because I've decided to improve it and, excitingly, write a second story. Some chapters have changed quite a bit whereas others just saw some grammatical changes. I'm so pleased at the reception this story received so thank you all so much!
Is it possible that everything is true? The fairy tales and horror stories? Is is possible that there isn't anything sane or normal at all?...people say you only live once; but people are as wrong about that as they are about everything. (New Moon and Bones)
The sky was dark, and the cloud promised thunder; a building across the small square burned when I was born. Perhaps those flames had been a warning. To my parents. To everyone. A warning that the Phoenix was coming and the effects it would have on our lives. Real Phoenix's aren't like their mythical counterpart: beautiful creatures that hold the same sapphire blue eyes that my paternal family had once been famous for. In Mythology, we're taught, that Phoenix's are creatures of the greatest loveliness that create intense excitement and deathless inspiration. That scene I began to describe…? That was 1673. In the home of an Anglican paster and his wife. She screamed in the agony of childbirth, and he battled against the flames threatening to overtake the whole square – our church and livelihood with it. In my life, Maman has seldom spoke of the bird. The bird that flew in the window. The Phoenix. When she does, she describes it as the most terrifyingly beautiful thing that she had even seen. She could do no more than watch, frozen, as the creature let one lone tear streak onto her new-born daughter's head.
She blames this – the single tear – as the reason we are always born, and die, to fire.
I've never been sure if I believed her stories but someone, something, had to explain why we never rest in peace: this, here, in 2008, was the fifth time I had experience a lifetime.
My first, my should have been only, life was simple. It was only when I was born again in 1744 and, again, in 1845, that we knew someone was severely wrong and it continued. I lived in Texas, in Scotland, and in Paris during the Second World War. There were always whispers of others that could remember living before, but never did it connect with own experiences, so we kept our secrets and Maman became certain the Phoenix tears were cursed.
The fine Parisian lady that I grew to be last lifetime was long gone, and now, I embraced the wilderness as well as the city and cherished my father, thanking God there was no war to steal him from us again.
I crawled out of my tent. Still not expecting the lush green forest the greeted me, the towering trees, the rushing of the nearby river, I paused before scanning the area for Dad. He grinned at me broadly, blue eyes that he'd passed onto me sparkling with joy. I had always been my dad's little girl, ever since our first lifetime. I clung to him as my life raft for the world. Seeing him, especially happy likes this, always settled me.
"Morning, Dad," I smiled across at him, scrambling completely out of the tent. The ache of rough sleeping and exercise familiar after two weeks of camping and hiking.
"Good morning, Angel," he wrapped me in a one-armed hug, keeping his other hand around the chair we was attempting to force back into the bag. "Just over two hours to Forks, you up for it?"
Before I could answer my stomach growled and Dad chuckled quietly, quickly rummaging in his pocket for something I could eat. Taking the offered cereal bar that would do for now but not for long, I help him pack up and, donning our rucksacks we set off. After the last couple of weeks walking amongst the beautiful scenery of the Olympic National Park, two hours along the road seemed like a mundane necessity especially when I knew that the Calawah river was running just over 500m from us at the further point. Still, we trudged along until we joined the main road where logging lorries flew past at terrifying speeds. From behind I could see Dad's muscles tensing each time one drove by. Until, almost like a steam train coming to a stop at the station, we approached the "City of Forks" sign and Dad sighed. He threw his arm around my shoulder briefly as we entered, and I glanced around our new surroundings. No matter how many times we visited America, or I saw it on TV, I could never get over how different some of their cities looked compared to England. You'd never find a place that looked even remotely similar to Forks at home.
Not far into the city – nearby a hotel, I noted, though not the inn we were looking for – was a red wooden building declaring it sold food which, though quiet, seemed to be open. Given over two hours of walking on a cereal bar, I drew Dad towards it by the arm though wondering at the American flag, eagle bench that sat out front. Inside, however, we grabbed a table looking out the big windows across the road at the sleepy city. This time it was Dad's stomach that growled, and I averted my eyes – I would bet my life on it that Dad had saved that last cereal bar for me and forgone breakfast himself.
"Sounds like someone's hungry!" a voice at my shoulder laughed and I turned to find a friendly woman standing at my shoulder with two menus in her hand. She handed one to me with a warm smile and crinkled eyes. "Shall we get you some food, sweetheart?"
I laughed quietly, glancing at Dad, but took the menu offered to me and picked the first thing I saw. "Can I have French Toast, please? With sausage."
I saw her eyes widen slightly and could only assume it was at my very English accent, but she didn't comment on it. When she left, taking Dad's order, I held up the back of the menu towards Dad. 'Forks, Washington:' it said at the bottom. 'Logging capital of the world'.