XV. The Phoenix

As the Ounce led away across the snowy mountain-side Sikander flew and followed as best he could. The snow-leopard moved faster and faster, barely visible from above as he crossed snow-fields and crevasses, moraines, from boulder to boulder, leading ever higher into his mountain kingdom. As they climbed the wind grew ever colder and stronger – its voice was the only sound to be heard in all that vast and icy landscape.

In the late afternoon, as the sun began to sink towards the jagged horizon, the Ounce leapt onto an outcrop of stone which stood out from the mountain-side like a terrace. He lay down and looked out over the mountains as the Sandragon, buffeted by the wind, settled beside him.

Two or three miles away from the two animals, at the far side of a valley as deep and steep as a chasm, there rose a sheer wall of rock, snow and ice. This vast mass seemed to rear up into the belly of the sky above. Far below, ragged clouds were driven straggling down the valley by a strong wind which howled and froze Sikander as he stared up and wondered just how high that mountain range might be, for he could not see the top.

"From here the path is clear and you must proceed alone Sikander. Fimbulgard's Wall rises before you. I have scaled it and survived the Icedragon's attack three times in my youth, but now I carry heavy years on my shoulders and have neither the will nor the energy to attempt it again. You must move fast if you want to cross before night-fall and I would advise you to do so, for the Icedragon is powerful by day, but three times more so by night. It is not an easy game that you have chosen to play. To beat the Icedragon is hard, but to do it you must do something harder still and beat your own self. No time for waiting now, fly on, and fare well, Sandragon."

"Thank you for your guidance Lord Ounce," replied Sikander. "I shall remember your advice and perhaps one day I shall have a chance to repay you or to treat some other traveller as kindly as you treated me. Thank you and good-bye."

Sikander spread his wings – the wind plucked him from the outcrop and whirled him away from the snow-leopard like a leaf in a storm. He banked into the wind and with all his strength began to fly, climbing across the chasm towards the dark wall of rock rising before him.

As he gained height the wind grew stronger and stronger, colder and colder. It howled and screamed across his path as though filled with a thousand demons. But cold and strong as the wind might be, Sikander flew on, climbing higher and higher, and as he came nearer to the far side of the valley he saw that the entire mountainside was glazed in black ice, pierced by black and rust-coloured rock only here and there. The wind shrieked and whistled as Sikander flew on, up and up. It seemed that the rock-face would never end. After an hour of battling against the wind Sikander's wings, shoulders and back all ached with tiredness as they had never done before. But there was nowhere to stop and rest - Sikander could not let off the pressure for a moment or the wind would blast him away like a feather.

As the effort grew heavier and heavier Sikander began to wonder what he was doing there, what sense any of his journey made, whether the Ounce might not have been right all along and it might not be better to just let the Phoenix end his life once and for all. As these thoughts began to erode Sikander's will to struggle on, the sky overhead darkened. Heavy grey clouds closed in on the Sandragon and even before they reached him he was struck by a hail of ice-needles, flung against him like stinging arrows by the raging wind. The cold was becoming unbearable. Sikander could no longer feel his dragon-paws, the frost of the wind was so intense. He struggled on, trying to gain more height, though he could barely control where the wind flung him. His strength was failing and conditions were growing worse and worse. He had never known a storm of such strength and now the clouds were upon him, cutting out his vision completely.

It was worse than darkness. Sheer blank whiteness was all around him whichever way he looked. The wind roared and hurled snow and ice at him so he could barely keep his eyes open, and even when he tried to make out which way he was going, he could see nothing but whirling whiteness. His eyes began to play tricks on him – he thought he could see, yet not see, shadows spinning and flickering past him in the blizzard. He lost all sense of direction and could no longer tell whether he was flying up or down, towards or away from the mountainside. Hopelessness and immense tiredness seemed to strike him down as hard as any avalanche could have done. It seemed to Sikander that he would be lucky to emerge from the snow-storm alive and that any idea of crossing the peaks of Fimbulgard's Wall, that infinitely towering range, was but fool-hardy madness. It was then that Sikander thought that he saw a pale grey shadow-image of himself curling in the wind, twisting towards him through the white-out. For an instant Sikander wondered if he was losing his mind, whether in the nightmare blast of flying ice he was seeing things that were not there. But as the dragon-image drove speeding towards him, its form became more solid. Sikander could see its colours, shades of blue, grey, silver and white, eyes like steel, wings as white as snow. The dragon rolled onto its back as it flashed past Sikander, above him. It opened its jaws and from its mouth came a blast of air so cold and ice-filled that it knocked the breath out of the Sandragon's lungs.

Now fear gripped Sikander and he would have given the Dreamdesert itself to have been out of the infernal torment. He looped around in the storm just in time to see the Icedragon swinging back in for a second attack. But this time Sikander knew what was coming and as the Icedragon closed in Sikander unleashed a blast of fire at the creature. Flames flared blazing blue through air at the approaching dragon, who seemed to leap away in shock when they struck him. The blizzard closed in and the Icedragon vanished into the whirling whiteness.

The cold sapped the Sandragon's strength. The wish to get out, to get away, rose in his mind like a wave that would sweep him away as fast and as sure as the snow-storm gale-winds. He was on the point of giving up, turning his back to the wind and riding the storm down and out, when the snow-leopard's words came back to him and he realised that this was what the Ounce had meant when he had said that Sikander must beat his own self if he was ever to get past Fimbulgard's Wall. The memory of those words spurred him and filled him with determination. Once again he began fighting the storm, trying to make his way forward and up through the flying ice.

The Icedragon hit him by surprise. He came in from above and behind and his cold blast lashed across Sikander's wings and back like a whip. The Sandragon rolled over and with all his strength blew a stream of blue flame at his opponent vanishing into the storm. The Icedragon twisted out of the line of fire and came roaring back at Sikander hurling snow and ice at him. A fierce fight began between the two creatures. Heat and fire against ice and frost. Again and again they flew at each other, leapt and dodged out of the enemy's blast. The duel went on and on but Sikander could not hold his own for ever. The freezing conditions were too heavily against him and seemed to only favour his opponent. The Icedragon was clearly afraid of Sikander's fire, but Sikander had no respite from the freezing cold which was the Icedragon's prime weapon and drained Sikander's energy away.

Suddenly, with a tremendous impact the Sandragon smashed into unseen solid rock. He felt himself falling, tumbling, sliding away, one of his wings hurting, deep deadly cold all around him.

"But... but... I am not asleep. Who is it? Where am I?"

Sikander's head span as he regained consciousness and these thoughts flashed through his mind. As his surroundings came into focus Sikander found himself lying crumpled and hurting in a kind of nest of boulders. A steep, bare, rocky slope soared away above him to one side, white snow gleaming far away on the skyline. The endless cold wind kept blowing.

"Wake up Dragon! Wake up! There is no time! Wake up!"

Sikander could hear these urgent words in his mind, but his ears heard a cry like an eagle's shrieking. Slowly he lifted his throbbing head and turned to see what was making all the noise. Standing beside him, perched on the edge of a big stone Sikander saw a bird more imposing, splendid and wonderful than any he had seen in all his travels. True to its voice, the bird's shape was that of an eagle. But it was twice the size of any normal eagle and its colours were such as no eagle has ever had, or is ever likely to have. It was bent over him with its wings spread and its tail-feathers flared so as not to be carried away by the gusting wind. As Sikander's eyes focused on the great bird he felt dazzled by the beauty of the creature - its feathers were all the colours of the sun, from a deep sheen of copper on its back, through a blaze of orange and red across its outspread wings, flecked with gold and purple around its head and shoulders. Its breast was the pale grey colour of dawn, turning to coral pink at its throat. The bird's eyes were a deep golden yellow, as were its hooked beak and its claws.

"Who... what... who are you?"

"The dragon awakes, at last," came back the eagle's harsh cry. "Dragon! Move! There is no time!"

At the eagle's imperious urging Sikander came fully back to his senses. He felt battered all over and one of his wings hurt him badly, but the feeling of dazed confusion now left him and could see and think clearly. He rose onto his fore-legs, wincing as the movement hurt his wing, and faced the eagle.

"Who are you? And where am I?"

"Who am I? Can you not see? I am the Phoenix, the Sun Bird, the Firebird. Are you blind? As for where you are, look around, see, you are at the foot of Fimbulgard's Rampart, at the edge of the Roof of the World. Wake up dragon! Time is too short."

"The Phoenix," Sikander said more to himself than to the fantastic bird. "So the Lady's words were true. I did not find you, but you found me. Am I too late? Have I come too late to bring you my fire?"

"No, not too late, not yet, but you must hurry. Your fire is vital, but not for me. I must go now, Omber will wait no longer to carry me away. Make haste dragon. The Pole Star is your guide. Pass through a gateless gateway watched by four-faced guardians. Press on until you find the fire-nest. Then make fire. Now go, make haste!"

Sikander turned to look over his shoulder and saw that there, perched behind him on a rock, stood Omber the Shadowhawk, black and silver, staring in silence at the Phoenix, as though the Sandragon were not there and had never existed. Sikander felt bitter and confused. He turned back to face the Phoenix.

"If you are to fly away with the Shadowhawk now, then what good is my fire? What good all my searching for you? What good all my struggles? How am I to save you with my fire? What need for me at the fire-nest at all? How will you ever find life again in that fire?"

"My time is no more, dragon. The Shadowhawk carries me away where all go and whence none return. My fire is almost burnt out and you are not here just for me. Your task is far greater. You are to save The Phoenix: not one sole Phoenix, but the entire line, all Phoenixes, past and future. They all depend upon you now, on the fire you bring.

At the heart of the fire-nest lie three eggs and none can hatch without the heat of your fire. Fail, and Phoenixes are no more. Fire, and the Phoenix lives again. Make haste dragon, fare well and fire well."

With these words the Phoenix turned, spread its broad wings and swept into the air. Omber the Shadowhawk never said a word to Sikander but flew away, a little above and a little before the Phoenix, a dark shadow leading the splendid firebird away. Sikander watched as the two birds flew off, until they shrunk to pin-pricks on the mountainous horizon. Alone again, Sikander thought over his short exchange with the Phoenix and looked out from his rocky landing-place at his surroundings.

He saw that he must have fallen a long way down the sloping hill-face which lead from jagged peaks far, far above, down to a vast, rolling, empty plain some long way below him. Many miles away the range of mountains which made up Fimbulgard's bastions curved round, enclosing part of the plain, then marched away over the horizon, crowned in glittering bands of gleaming snow.

The Roof of the World was a desert. There were no plants and no sign of any water anywhere. But it was a cold desert and that cold was eating into the Sandragon.

When he tried to move he felt weak as a damp cloth and pain shot through his wing. He looked down and saw that it was badly cut and hurt. It must have happened, he thought, when he crashed into the rim of Fimbulgard's Wall, or when he fell senseless down the inner slopes. He tried to spread the wing out but the pain was too intense to bear. There was no question of flying. He must walk.

The Phoenix had spoken of using the Pole Star as a guide, so Sikander set off down the slope towards the broad plain while there was still daylight. Come nightfall he would be able to find the right direction. It was a long, hard, painful climb down for the Sandragon. Even though he kept his hurt wing folded and held it in place with the other, still he could not avoid jolting it or bumping against rocks now and then as he made his way slowly down. By the time he had reached the foot of the slope Sikander felt faint and weak with cold and hunger. His legs trembled with fatigue, yet the last stage of his search had not yet begun.

Darkness had fallen by then and it was a little relief to the Sandragon that there were no clouds to hide the face of the sky. In his youth he had learnt the names of the brightest and most important stars from his old father-dragon during lessons on navigation and now those lessons bore their fruit. Sikander had no trouble finding the Pole Star and knew that it alone stood still in the sky as the earth turned below. Chance and the Phoenix could have chosen no easier or surer guide to follow.

It is impossible to describe in just a few lines how hard and harsh the Sandragon's journey grew from there on, but you must know that crawling across that stony freezing dry desert seemed to Sikander harder still than his battle with the snow-storm and the Icedragon. There, there had at least been something to fight against, either the force of the storm or the dreadful Icedragon himself. But here on the lonely Roof of the World there was nothing to fight other than tiredness and pain. And as he headed on and on, finding nothing but endless rolling hills, he had to fight a growing feeling of weakness, hopelessness and despair. Sikander began to think there was no end to his ordeal and that he might never find the fire-nest.

He walked on through the night, trying to keep the glittering Pole Star always before him. The wind never let up, blowing dust and grit into his eyes, his mouth and nose. There was no relief from the cold, the wind, the endless desert plain. Sikander did not stop. One step after another he dragged himself forward, though he felt himself growing weaker at every step. After many hours there came a time when the Sandragon wanted nothing more than to curl up wherever he was and fall asleep for a thousand years. But as that wish became stronger the words of the Phoenix kept echoing back in his mind, "Make haste! There is no time! Make haste!" So he forced himself to go on.

The stones under his feet seemed to grow darker and sharper as he got further and further away from the mountains. His head swam and his thoughts soared away onto all kinds of pointless matters as his feet kept dragging him on and on. Sikander fell and lost his senses. Time passed. He had no sense of it, or of anything else at all. When he came back to his senses it was deep night, but he had no way of knowing if it was the same night or another. He struggled to his feet and slowly set off again. On and on across the black face of the desert at the Roof of the World.

After what seemed an endless journey, at long last Sikander saw two shadowy shapes standing tall on the desert in the moonlight. Coming nearer he saw that they were two square pillars of white stone, each as tall as a man, the two standing a few yards apart in the empty desert. At the head of each pillar four bearded men's faces were sculpted from the stone, one facing south, one north, one east and one west. Sikander stood before these silent pillars in the windy wasteland and saw that they marked a gateway, a point of passage, though there was no gate hinged between them. Those stone guardians brought him joy. Though silent they spoke, and told him he was on the right path.

Sikander passed between them and headed onwards, wondering how far the fire-nest could be now. Little by little his pleasure at finding the gate weakened as he walked on and on and found no sign of anything at all.
The moon set and the sun rose.
Sikander walked.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Weakly.
He walked on and on and never stopped.

Night fell again and Sikander still put one foot before another, walked slowly on. He wondered if that gateway had ever meant anything at all, or if it had merely been left there at the whim of a caravan-master who decided the stone guardians were too heavy for his beasts to carry a single step further.

On the third night something told Sikander he must be getting near to his final goal. The hope came from a mere trace of scent borne to him on a gust of bone-dry desert wind. It was the scent of sandalwood.

He knew that no such tree could ever grow in the merciless harshness of this desert. That rare wood could not be far away, and the most reason to find sandalwood deep in this desert was the fire-nest. As he crawled on the scent came again, then again. Then, mixed with that fragrance, he smelt another: camphor-wood. The smells seemed as sweet as music, as fresh as stream-water. The further he went, the richer the tapestry of wood-scents grew. Borne on the wind came the smell of resins of pine and cedar, the biscuit-fragrance of dry birch-bark, the piercing cold scent of gum-tree leaves, the tang of old oak wood, spice-scent of cinnamon bark and many more. Now he was sure that his destination could not be far away.

At last from the brow of a tall ridge he finally saw, standing in the moonlight, what he knew must be the fire-nest. From a distance it looked like any bird's nest. But as Sikander came nearer he saw that it was built the size of a house. Where a sparrow or hoopoe might have used twigs, the Phoenix had used great tree branches. But the pattern and skill where the same as those displayed by all nest-builders. Sikander saw that all the different kinds of fragrant woods had been woven together into a single strong unit, built to stand unmoved in the wind, but to burn with a rage once lit. The weave of the branches was loose enough to let plenty of wind blast through and feed the flames. At the base of the nest the branches and twigs grew smaller and smaller and the entire structure rested on a base of driftwood kindling, white as a marooned man's bones, dry as tinder from a box. Sikander hauled himself painfully around the nest, admiring the skill used in building it and wondering if the baby Phoenixes would be able to break out of their eggs once the fire blazed hot enough.

The Sandragon lay down on the sharp black stones, his long slim body forming a ring around the base of the fire-nest. Exhaustion nearly sent him to sleep there and then, but again the Phoenix's voice echoed in his memory "Make haste, make fire." The image of a sun-burnt afternoon in the Dreamdesert came to Sikander's mind, and of a sheet of blue flame which had turned a streak of sand to glass down the face of a tall dune. It all seemed so far away and so long ago, almost like someone else's life.

Make haste, make fire. No time for idle memories. Time to finish what had been started such a long time before. Sikander turned to face the kindling at the base of the fire-nest. He drew a deep breath and blew.

In that moment a wave of shock, rage, horror, despair and defeat flooded though him. Not a twist of flame came forth. Never in his life had such a thing happened, nor had he ever in his life heard of a Sandragon losing his fire. His head spinning with awful surprise, Sikander drew a second deep breath, and blew with all his might and main. Nothing came of it at all. No heat, no smoke, not a flicker of flame. Now Sikander felt that his whole world, his whole existence, all that he had struggled for over such distances and for so long, was falling apart, dissolving into terrible ghastly defeat. Sikander dropped his head and panted in exhaustion. No sound but the wind howling in the dry branches of the fire-nest in the darkness. For a third time Sikander drew in the cold mountain desert air and filled his lungs. For the third time he blew, hard enough to blast flames from the fire-nest to Fimbulgard's mountains. Sikander put all his last remaining drops of energy into this attempt, but it yielded not the smallest sign of fire to reward him.

In frustration and disappointment the Sandragon threw himself down and twisted round upon himself in sheer desperate, helpless fury.

As the tip of the Sandragon's tail flicked around and lashed down onto the ground it slammed two small sharp black stones together and from the corner of his eye Sikander saw a shower of incandescent gold-bright sparks spray into the kindling. The desert wind howled and in the bat a dragon's eyelid a twist of sweet smoke from the kindling reddened into a blazing wind-blasted sprite of flame. The dancing spirit of fire spread, grew, filled out, spread from branch to branch, roared through the fire-nest. In moments the weave of the nest turned into a flaring crown of heat and light. Huge tongues of golden-red flame leapt into the sky, twisting and roaring through billows of smoke driven by the wind.

Sikander's heart had been overwhelmed with fear and anger, shock and disappointment, but when he saw the fire-nest ablaze the sight filled him with relief. He could not understand why his Sandragon-flame had failed him in his moment of greatest need, but whatever the reason, now he could consider his task completed.

Pure tiredness, relief and satisfaction washed over him. He laid his head down on his outstretched paws and closed his eyes.