A cool wind ripped at Tristan’s clothes. Waves crashed on the cliff below barely drowning out the beating of his heart. The abandoned house loomed high above, back lit by the stormy sky. Its mansard roof formed a brow over the broken windows. The wrap-around porch cast the ground floor into deep shadow. Even on this bright day, a heavy mist swirled around it. It had something to do with lake effect, elevation and exposure, yet that did not explain the disappearances.
The boards creaked as he crossed the porch. Tristan froze. Deep gouges scarred the door’s edges and claw marks surrounded the knob. Something desperately had wanted in. Tristan squared his shoulders and pushed. The door groaned in protest as he forced it open.
Dust hung heavy in the air, coating the floor. A bizarre path of footprints and animal tracks led to a small room off the main hallway. Light filtered in from the shattered windows and illuminated an elaborate scene on the wall before him.
At first glance, the mural appeared to be a forest, full of exotic plants and flowers. But the vines twisting around the trees were serpents, the branches were mixed with the antlers of stags, and in the shadows, glowed the eyes of all manner of mythical beasts.
As he followed the scene around the room, the forest thinned to a rocky shore and then stretched out to the sea, filled with leaping fish and brilliant phoenixes, soaring high above.
Tristan stepped closer. There were names on the wall. People had written on the backs of the beasts and on the scales of the fish. Ella + Dean. Matt was here. A shiver ran down his spine. Wasn’t Ella the girl who ran off after her boyfriend died? Matt was the kid who went missing last summer. His friends had dared him to come here. The house was searched. He was never found.
The air around him was charged, watching and waiting for his next move. Tristan needed to do this. He was tired of being treated differently. His grief was all everyone saw. He wanted to be brave. Daring. Cool. He had to prove that he was here. He grabbed an old feather quill from a dusty desk and started to scratch his name on the back of a phoenix. The quill grew warm in his hand. His arm prickled with heat. This place was getting to his head. Write it, photo it and get out.
With his name complete, searing pain brought him to his knees. Fire coursed through his body. His fingers stretched, thinned and multiplied into a fan of feathers.
The quill clattered to the floor.
In panic, Tristan ran to the window and jumped. His feet never landed on the ground. He burst out of the house in flight.
Gone were the sparse pines shrouded in mist. Deep jungle surrounded him. The distant sparkle of turquoise sea was barely visible through the foliage. He flew between the branches. Iridescent scales and brilliant plumage glimmered among the lush green vines. Warm humid air filled his lungs.
Crash. A white horse leapt from the shrubbery. Sunlight rippled oddly down its back. Tristan gasped as it spread wings and flew right at him. Their eyes met. He could see the amused challenge as it called, “Come. Race.”
Tristan followed as it flew at amazing speed between the trees. He dove. Banked hard. His focus narrowed to its blinding white flank in the blur of green. The wind in his face. Pure freedom.
Hours passed. Tristan grew tired. They headed towards an emerald clearing. As he circled to land, he spotted the abandoned house through the trees, a dark blight on the vibrant green. His grief came rushing back. He ignored the clatter of hooves and the call from his new friend. As the light bled from the sky, Tristan returned to the house.
He perched on the desk staring at the names on the wall. Ella and Dean were written in the same handwriting. Could this work? Please. Trembling he took the quill in his beak and scratched a name on the other phoenix.
A majestic red bird flew in through the window and landed beside him.
“Mom?”
“Tristan.” The phoenix sang softly.
“You left me. And everything’s been awful.” He glared at her.
“I am so sorry. You know I didn’t want to.” She approached cautiously until she was inches away.
He bristled. “But you did. You missed all my soccer games. All the other moms were there. It’s not fair.” He continued to list every transgression, a year’s worth of bitterness.
His voice grew hoarse. His complaints trickled out. He sagged against her warm comforting weight. He spoke about his upcoming game. They had finally made the playoffs. The room darkened around them. The shadows no longer threatened.
As the first tendrils of dawn trickled in, his mother moved away. “It’s time for you to go, my love. You don’t want to miss your game.”
“I don’t care. I want to stay here with you.”
“I am just a memory. This isn’t how to live, trapped in a dream world. There is so much more.” She reached out a wing and softly stroked his feathered back.
“But we will be together.”
“I will always be with you.” Her feather tapped his downy chest above his heart.
Tristan sighed and glanced away. His mother spread her glorious wings and flew off into the fading night.
Taking the quill in his beak, he scratched his name off the wall. His feathers fell away. He hesitated over his mother’s name and dropped the quill.
Tristan left the house and began his way back. Golden sunlight filtered between the trees. The difficult path was manageable. He took a deep breath of cool fresh air and smiled.
He picked up his discarded backpack. Underneath he found a brilliant red feather. He held the feather close, as he walked towards the rising sun.
Jennifer Anderson is an architect living in Toronto, Canada. Her passion for art, travel and architecture has given her the desire to capture memories and sense of place in her writing.
Help us keep the daily stories coming with Patreon.
