KUJUR
My legs feel rubbery as I walk through the dark desert in the Flame Bird’s tracks. She’s tired, too. She started to stagger a while ago, but just on occasion. Mostly, she resolutely marches in a straight line, heading for the odd rim of light on the southern horizon. She hasn’t stopped to rest for even a few moments. It’s as though she’s afraid to pause for fear that she won’t make it to our destination.
Breathing hard, I frown at the rim of light. It’s like a hoarfrost glitter of purple ice crystals blowing across a vast plain. But this place is so warm, it can’t be ice.
“What is that?” I call.
Threshold.
The Flame Bird stumbles sideways, rights herself, and heaves a shuddering breath.
“You’re very tired. Why don’t we rest?”
She turns to look at me, and my soul is overwhelmed with visions frightening and wonderful: turquoise lakes covered with crystal spiders that have lived on sunlit reflections since before the Beginning Time, twin mountains of gold so bright every tree and rock casts double shadows, and dancing fox skins that yip. Flame Bird memories . . . miracles she has seen in her long life.
When she blinks, water shimmers in her silver eyes, and I’m suddenly afraid. Do Flame Birds weep?
“You’re completely exhausted! You need to sleep. Lie down! It will be all right for a little while.”
Can’t. No more . . . coordinates.
She starts forward, but one knee gives out, and she falls. Weakly, she shoves up again, and stands with her legs trembling, gazing longingly at the brilliant rim on the horizon.
Running forward, I hug her leg. “What’s wrong? Can I help you?”
Those who never live at the right time can never die at the right time. That’s all this is.
The Flame Bird rests her snout on the top of my head, and her breath smells like wormwood in the air.
“Are you dyin’?” Panic fills me. “You can’t die! What will happen to me?”
Affectionately, she nuzzles my hair with her snout, then steps away and plods onward toward the rim of light that grows more luminous with each step.
Trotting along behind, I look up and see the campfires of the dead melting down from the cobalt sky, thousands of them, raining upon us like bright tears.
“Do you see that?”
Land of the Dead falling.
“But why?”
The Flame Bird halts and cranes her neck to watch the heavenly conflagration. She’s breathing very hard, panting as though she can’t get enough air.
Shadows need light. Must find the place where no shadows fall.
She forces her shaking legs onward.
It isn’t until I place my feet in her tracks that I see the glittering trail of scales she’s leaving behind. Is this normal? Is she shedding?
I race to catch up.
Like silver petals, her falling scales light my path.