Phoebe’s Flight
1
She flew above the green and white fields of clover stopping at flower after flower. She gathered nectar that would be carried back to the hive, and she blessed the clover by carrying pollen from blossom to blossom. In a way she was like any other worker bee, but not in every way. The black and yellow of her abdomen seemed to reflect something deeper, as if there were coals of a fire within her.
Also within her were dreams, echoes of memories, and a spirit of sweetness greater than the nectar she carried. She sometimes wondered why she had thoughts of fields in a place called Ireland, or why she felt as though she was related to the wolf that howled from atop the gorsebush-covered hillside. Why did every stalk of clover seem like a friend? What drew her to the gray old rock that sat in the corner of the field?
Thoughts of islands, of Spain, of smoke and fire and ashes. Thoughts of living, of dying, and living again. Thoughts of iron and gold, a king and a wounded princess. These thoughts filled her mind with questions, and her heart with every emotion from longing and pain to peace, and even exuberant joy.
When she was at her best, she would bring in more nectar and pollinate more flowers than almost any worker bee. There were times, however, when the pain inside would overtake the joy, and she would find herself drawn by strange winds from the fields of clover to fields where she would find nectar that took away both pain and joy. As time went on, this happened more and more often, even though she tried to fly against the wind.
Before long the fire within was forgotten, and even her black and yellow stripes seemed to have faded. On one particular day, when her wings seemed to beat in slow motion, she found herself sinking lower and lower toward the earth, dizzy and frightened, as pain coursed through her body and her soul. Her flight ended as she collided with the ground and lay still and nearly unconscious. After a time of struggle, she did lose consciousness and slept without dreams.
2
The compound clung to the cold gray hillside like a barnacle to the hull of a sunken ship. The cold grayness seemed to be brought in by the Rescuers, along with the Broken Ones they delivered. It clung to the Broken, and rose from the ground in a cloud of dust that seemed to hang in the air like a giant question mark. Which of the Broken could be mended? Which ones were beyond healing? Which would rise to do what their Designer intended?
One morning a Rescuer arrived carrying a Broken Tear-Stained Rock. Although it too was gray, it carried hints of reddish brown that suggested a fire trying to break free. The Rescuer placed the rock on the ground and went to search for more of the Broken.
Along with the cracks and hints of color, the Rock was stained with rivulets of liquid that streamed as though they were tears from someone’s eyes. He was living﹘barely﹘and could see and feel, and he spoke in silence.
The gray day passed, soon to be followed by another, but before the dawn broke, a Rescuer came bearing a Little King with a broken crown. The Little King was placed by the Broken Rock. While the Broken Rock shouted silently, the Little King shouted too, and his shouts were heard by the Broken Rock.
Day by day the Rescuers worked, carrying Broken to the compound. The Healers tended to the Broken as Servants scurried to and fro giving instruction to the Broken, but many Healers could not heal, and many Servants did not serve. In due time, the Rescuers came in bearing a Half-Drowned Melter, a Black and Yellow Bee with broken wings, and a No-Leaf Clover. There were others, but the Half-Drowned Melter, the No-Leaf Clover, and the Yellow Bee with broken wings gathered around the Little King next to the Broken Rock.
The sun tried its best to shine through the clouds of dust and ash, to brighten this pitiful tableau, but it could not. Finally, it gave up exhausted, and sank below the horizon in embarrassment and despair. The five sat. The darkness flowed through them and among them. Oddly though, something began to happen. Something that the Rescuers could not do. Something that had stumped the Healers and the Servants and even the sun. In the darkness of night, a small light could be sensed: almost imperceptibly, it flowed out from the five Broken seated there.
The No-Leaf Clover broke the silence. She also broke a rule. It was good to break this rule: the rule that said that broken rocks, bees, kings, Melters, and clover should not speak to one another of such things. The Melter rubbed his hands together and shouted. The Little King peered curiously from under the hood of his jacket, and the broken tear-stained rock sat in silent wonder.
And then, the Yellow Bee with broken wings smiled. From this smile, a new light broke. For a moment the Rock was strong, and the King remembered his crown, and the Melter remembered his fire. The No-Leaf Clover remembered that she once had four leaves. She remembered a field where she had stood with other clover, their flowers turned toward the warm sun, a field of sweetness for bees to make into honey.
A new question hung in the air. In a circle of brightness even the dusty air glowed with light. Could these five accomplish something that could not be done by the Healers?
As the days passed, discoveries were made. The Melter found he had brought some fire with him after all. The Broken Rock found that the streaks of reddish brown contained enough metal to begin repairs on the Little King’s broken crown.
The Bee and the Clover discovered that they had worked together before. The Bee and the Rock found that they both carried something in their hearts that was warm. The Melter had been named for a land with fields of Clover, a land of green hills from which wolves sang.
The meeting on the gray hillside lasted many days, but it did come to an end as each one departed as quietly as they had arrived. Their days together were filled with tears and laughter, with pain and joy, with breaking and healing. The Rock began to see his strength. The Melter who shouted would whisper sometimes. The Little King grew steady on his feet, and wore his crown again. The wings of the Bee seemed to be progressing nicely, and the No-Leaf Clover had begun to grow new leaves. As they departed one by one, the light on the hillside seemed to dim again, and the grayness seemed to miss the color.
3
Time turns ‘round, and the courses of our lives have waves. When the Yellow Bee flew again, she was made of fire and went by name of Phoenix, she still carried the yellow and black, but had added pink and maroon. She was strong and triumphant, but time turns ‘round and the course of her life has waves. She flew higher and higher as the Mended Rock watched in wonder and the Two-Leaf Clover spun around in delight. The Little King with the New Crown went on a journey, and the Refiner wielded fire. But time turns ‘round, and every Phoenix must die and rise yet again.
She sat alone and sipped the nectar from the windy field, until her fire had dimmed. She sat alone but not alone. She was invisible but the Mended Rock saw her. He spoke to her, and told her that she was to be a Messenger of White. She would be Bright and Pure, and because of this he named her Phoebe Iris. She was the sweet Yellow Bee making honey, the Pink and Maroon Phoenix wielding fire, and the Shimmering White Messenger bringing this golden sweetness and fiery truth to others.
She was carried to another hillside to be healed again. In the voice of the Mended Rock, she heard the voice of a higher power, her Stronger Rock. She grew in wisdom and embraced her new name.
This account now ends, but the story does not. Melissa went on and will go on. She will rise at times and she will at other times fly through valleys. Time turns ‘round, and each time it does, Phoebe will turn round and round, and rise each time, flying higher than ever before.
Phoebe’s Flight
Melissa’s flight on pap’ry wing
Drew close to earth, consumed in flame
Bitter ashes, tears that sting,
An end to mirth, a sense of shame.
But not in ashes cold and gray,
Nor in the tears, nor lost in death
Were where the “sweet” and “gold” now lay:
She throws off fears and takes on breath.
Now clothed in flame, she surges high.
Not only sweet, but also strong:
And for a moment treads the sky.
In joy complete her heart gives song.
But not in strong and sweet alone
Could she sustain, nor wings uphold.
The soaring flame fell like a stone,
Returned to shame, extinguished, cold.
But once again, she triumphs, leaps!
To “sweet and strong” adds “pure and bright”.
No longer in despair she creeps:
Melissa! Phoenix! Phoebe-white!
